His eyes flick toward our bench.
“Must be hard,” he continues. “Leading a team when your captain can’t even finish a season whole. Half a man on the ice. Half an alpha off it.”
I don’t rise to it. I think of my dad again, and of how stillness is power.
The winger leans in closer, mouth near my ear now.
“Bet it pisses you off,” he murmurs, “watching him pretend he’s fine. Playing hero for that little omega of his.”
My vision sharpens, but he isn’t done.
“Bet he’s real useless in bed like that, too. All bark, no—”
My glove is off before the thought finishes forming.
Heat floods my head so fast it feels like the ice tilts under my skates. The calm I cling to—years of discipline, of restraint—fractures in a single, blinding second, and I see red.
I step into him and drive my fist straight into the side of his helmet, knuckles jarring hard enough to sting through the padding. He doesn’t expect it—no one does—and he goes back a step before swinging wildly in return. His punch catches me across the cheek, white flashing behind my eyes.
And then it’s bodies.
Connor’s there instantly, with Marco, Benny, and Gordo. Gloves, helmets, arms,everywhere. The linesmen pile in, whistles shrieking, refs shouting numbers as they drag us apart. I’m hauled back by the shoulders, skates scraping, breath coming too fast.
The crowd is on its feet, and then I’m shaking with the sudden, disorienting realization of what I’ve just done.
I don’t start fights.Ever.
And everyone on the ice knows it.
Connor stares at me like he’s seeing a ghost. Marco’s mouth hangs open. Even Coach looks stunned, half-risen from the bench, eyes locked on me like he’s recalculating everything he thought he knew.
The refs sort it out quickly, and the game moves on, but the shock lingers, heavy and undeniable.
Because fights happen all the time in ice hockey. It's standard.Expected, even.
What doesn’t happen… ismethrowing the first punch.
“Wolfe,” I hear Coach bark from near the bench. “You're up.”
My stomach drops, and every alpha on the ice stiffens at once.
Technically, he shouldn’t be out here; but practically, Beau listens to his instincts first, pain second, and logic ninth. He pulls on his helmet, and I feel it—the pack tension winding tight, and protectiveness thick enough to choke on.
We may not be a formal pack, but our instincts sync anyway.
“No hits, and no scrums,” I hear Coach tell him. “You touch the boards wrong and I’ll murder you myself.”
Beau snorts like that’s adorable, and then he’s over the boards.
He takes the ice like he always does: with a quiet presence and heavy gravity. Even the crowd’s booing changes, as though they know what he can still do, even injured.
And yeah, his shoulder is tight and his stride’s a hair stiff, but he’s not reckless.
At least, not tonight.
The puck drops on a defensive zone faceoff, and I tie up my man, digging in with everything I’ve got. Beau reads it instantly and picks up the loose puck, snapping it up the boards to Marco who rockets out of the zone like his skates are jet engines. We cycle twice, but the Reapers get it back, the shot on net blocked.
The clock’s ticking down fast when Marco intercepts a pass and shoots it off the glass where it ricochets perfectly. Gordo chases it down and buries it in the empty net with six seconds left, and the benchexplodes.
