What’s Up With All These Wolves
ELI
“What the hellis up with all this fog?”
I leaned forward against my steering wheel as if I’d just aged up by forty years and had left my bifocals at home. The bright lights of the arena’s parking lot had been keeping this fog at bay, but now that I was out on the tree-lined roads, the fog had fallen on me like a thick gray curtain. I slowed down. These roads were unfamiliar to me, and I already wasn’t the world’s greatest driver. The last thing I needed was another insurance rate bump.
From my early research, Burlington appeared to be the perfect city. It sat on the shores of Lake Champlain, tucked between beautifully scenic mountain ranges and bordering the birthplace of modern hockey: Canada. It had a small-town, community-focused feel while having all the amenities and draw of a much larger city.
But nowhere in my research did it mention the ethereal brick wall of fog that was set on killing you.
And if not killing you, then at least raising your premiums by five percent.
The house I rented (thank God for a family friend whohad a last-minute rental available) wasn’t too far from the arena. Typically, it was a straight shot and a quick ten-minute drive, except that I had gone the opposite way today in hopes of exploring my new hometown.
I slowed to a stop at a red light. I grabbed my phone and set the destination back to my house. I just had to make a U-turn and head straight, except that according to my map, I was currently walking distance away from Church Street Marketplace. That was the downtown area and likely to have some good places to eat. Maybe I could wait out this fog with a juicy burger and a cool beer.
Parking wasn’t too difficult to find, even with the visual impairment. I got out of the car, stuffed my hands in the warm pockets of my coat, and walked in the direction of Church Street. Soon, the dense fog was fought back by bright streetlamps and Christmas lights. The sound of laughter and conversation mingled with the jingles of a holiday carol playing through invisible speakers. I turned down a narrow street that opened up directly into the center of Church Street.
I wasn’t entirely sure what I expected to find, but I certainly wasn’t disappointed by the bright energy and busy night that greeted me. Even though it was pushing into bedtime territory for many, there were still tons of people out. Christmas lights were strung up between lampposts, bushes and trees were decorated with glittering ornaments, and fake icicles hung above the entrances to the different stores and restaurants, a good handful of them still open. No cars were allowed to drive through here, so the entire road had been bricked over and turned into a walking path. The fog that had been so dense on the way here all but vanished as I strolled down the street. The scent of oven-baked pizza drifted in my direction. My mouthwatered, and my stomach growled. I could use a cheesy cheat meal.
I tried to follow the scent but couldn’t find the pizza place. I grabbed my phone and opened up the map, typing in “pizza” and seeing what popped up.
“Okay…” I muttered to myself. “I think it’s this way?—”
“Need help?”
The deep voice from behind me nearly made me jump out of my skin. I pocketed my phone and turned, expecting to offer a polite smile and a shake of the head.
Instead, I was turned to solid stone, as if I’d just volunteered for a staring contest with none other than Medusa herself.
Well, at least that’s how it felt when I locked eyes with one of the most handsome men I’d ever seen in my entire twenty-seven years of existence.
He was tall—a couple of inches taller than me—with shoulders that were broad enough to serve as a dinner table at a family gathering. He had a strong jaw and short, cropped, raven-black hair. A scar ran across the center of his left eyebrow, and his nose was just crooked enough to add an interesting edge to his otherwise perfect face. He had big lips, big ears, big… what else?
And also, why the hell did he look so familiar—oh shit. Oh fuck, oh fuck, ohhh shit.
Realization hit me as hard as this man’s chiseled jaw did.
I’d seen him before. I’d watched videos of this man before. I’d practicallystudiedthis guy before ever seeing him in person.
Gabriel Ricardo Sanderson, the team’s front-line force of nature, a terror on the ice and a mystery off it.
“Don’t worry, newbie. After a few weeks here, you’ll know where everything is.”
Oh shit, so he recognized me. Had he been looking me up the same way I’d done to him?
He held his hand out. “Gabe. Good to finally meet you.”
“Eli,” I said, although I figured he already knew. I returned the shake. His hand closed around mine. I wasn’t a small guy by any means, but his grip still completely eclipsed my hand. Heat from where his skin met mine spread outward like a brush fire being kicked up by a dry and angry wind.
The warmth drew a sharp contrast to the chill in the air. There was a flicker of that same heat somewhere down in my gut, a tendril of flame inching toward a part of me that had been completely frozen over. I licked my lips—only because they were chapped, no other reason, none at all.
His nostrils flared. His eyes narrowed to near slits. The grip around my fingers tightened to a near painful degree.
Fucking hell. Was he trying to “out-man” me on this handshake? Was this some sort of dominance thing? I didn’t like to play along with all those toxic masculinity games. I’d put up with—and shut down—plenty of stupid, overly masculine men who said some dumb shit in the locker rooms over my years playing as an out gay man. It took a couple of pointed and angry “what the fuck, bro?” whenever a shitty f-bomb was dropped to stop them from saying it at all, or at least to stop them from saying it around me. I liked to think that my teammates had all loved and respected me enough to just completely eradicate that trash word from their vocabulary.
I looked down at our still-joined hands. This skin on the back of my hand turned paper pale from the sudden pressure being applied. “Uh…”
