Shit.
“Like I said, we have three guys here below the goal line. Who’s covering the slot, Eli?”
“Sorry, should have been me.”
“Should have.”
My cheeks burned a cherry red. I hated being put on the spot like this, but I also deserved it.
I hadn’t been paying a lick of attention since this video session started this morning. Hell, I hadn’t been paying much attention to anything over these last couple of weeks. Not since finding out that nearly half of the men inside this very room could shift into wolves at will and rip our throats out if they wanted to.
Coach continued the video, shifting his attention to Soren, who had let a puck through his legs and into the goal behind him. Twice.
We sat in a media room with tiered, semicircular seating. It reminded me of a small college classroom. The walls were painted black with baby blue and white stripes, our “Bobcats” name scrawled on the side of the walls. Gabe sat two rows below me. I wasn’t sure if it was part of this whole “fated mates” thing, but even if I closed my eyes, I could still sense pretty much exactly where he was in the room.
Fated mates… what the fuck.
The entire thing sent me for a damned loop. It didn’t make sense, and yet somehow, I understood exactly what was happening.
I was losing my mind.
That obviously had to be what was happening. Because the alternative was that it was all true, and I was really meant to tie my entire future together with a man I’d met a few months ago.
A man who made my heart skip multiple beats just by looking in my direction. A man who was kind and protective and funny. A man who fucked me in a way that made me a trembling, melted mess of a human, begging for more.
No, not a man. A shifter.
My mate?
Gabe stretched his arms over his head before he turned in his seat, stretching his lower back. He looked at me for a brief moment and smiled before turning back to the video.
I swallowed. God, he was so handsome. But also, did anyone else in the room notice? That was another dynamic to this situation that I couldn’t fully wrap my head around. If we really were wrapped up together by fate, then how the hell was it going to work with Gabe still being in the closet?
And his reason—after learning about the secret society of shifters living right underneath my nose—made sense. I understood why he didn’t want to draw any unnecessary attention his way, but that didn’t mean I was okay with it, either. I didn’t want to be pushed back into the closet with someone. I didn’t want to hide a relationship, especially not with someone who made me feel this good. I wasn’t huge on PDA and didn’t want to blast my social media with an endless stream of corny posts and kissing photos, but goddamn, I at least wanted to be able to hold his hand or rub his back in public without feeling like I was going to expose him and the rest of the shifters, kicking off some kind of ruthless and vicious war.
I nervously bit at my thumbnail, tasting a drop of blood on my tongue. He mentioned the ceremony needing to take place to make things “official,” but what the fuck did that entail? And what happened when it was over? I’d experienced the start of a great relationship and the death of its rotted form years later. What if history repeated itself? Would there be a way to break the bond?
A waning moon divorce? A waxing moon prenup?
It was a shitty thought, but I was scarred from my last relationship, and that led me down many different anxiety-laced outcomes. I’d been working on reframing those, recognizing that they didn’t have the weight I thought theydid and that I did not, in fact, own any sort of crystal ball, regardless of what my fight-or-flight instinct was telling me, but that kind of inner work was difficult.
And it wasn’t like I had the wavelength now to even focus on myself.
The screen paused before it blinked off. The video coach (one of the true stars of the team, responsible for cutting together all the footage after the game and having it ready for the next morning) got up from his seat and went over to the computer, turning it all off. The energy in the room shifted. Guys started grabbing their bags, stretching and moving in their seats, starting to warm up their bodies before practice today. As Coach wrapped up the session, our GM walked into the room. He was dressed down in a plain white T-shirt and jeans, and he looked stressed as fuck.
The guys who were getting up to go all sat back down. Harrison didn’t usually come to our video sessions unless it was a big game or he had a message to give us.
Today, it seemed to be the latter. “Guys, sit down, we have to talk about something.” His voice wasn’t loud, but it still commanded the room. The team sat their asses back in their chairs. Coach looked at him with a confused look but gave him the floor, moving to sit down in the front row.
“Listen, I’m going to be up-front with you all: an anonymous threat was called in this morning, threatening to bomb the arena on game night this Friday.”
A chill spread through the room, followed by a current of worried whispers.
“I have police investigating the situation and am working to get federal agents involved as well. I want you all to know that your safety is my number one priority. That’s why we’re postponing the game next week, alongwith every other game we have scheduled with the Sharks.”
“Do you think it’s them?” Dylan asked.
Harrison kept still. “I don’t know, but I have strong suspicions someone on their side is involved. I’m going to be upping security around the arena and will be sending armed security with you all on your away games.”
