I’d never felt so damn handled in my entire life.
Stand here.
Pose this way.
Smile.
Don’t smile.
Look angry.
Look happy to be here.
Turn.
Spin.
Let’s see you take a shot.
“Come on,” David, the Hammer, James yelled from across the ice. “Can we get this shit on the road? I have plans tonight and don’t need our resident prima donna interfering.”
“Yeah, I’m with the Hammer,” Kane, the Buzzkill, Canyon said as he shifted back and forth on his skates while remaining in front of the goal.
I took a deep breath, furious that Ansley had put me in this position. I’d gotten an icy reception when I’d walked into the arena for practice. Maybe because there’d been a couple of reporters outside and they’d wanted nothing to do with the rest of the team.
It seemed it was huge news that a big, bad shifter had finally made it into town. No other sports team here had yet to secure one. Not football. Not baseball. Definitely not basketball. Some of our pack elders warned us against playing certain sports. We wouldn’t be able to hold back the level of adrenaline. When it mixed with our natural bloodline, often it was a toxic combination where our abilities couldn’t be masked.
At least with hockey the aggression played well with our natural tendencies.
“Alright. That’s enough,” Coach Wagner yelled across the ice. “Let’s see what you’ve got, Beast. Show us why we hired you. And the rest of you. We do it like we practiced before only this time, do it right.”
As we moved into position I could feel several of the teammates tossing me shade. I reminded myself I wasn’t here to make friends. I was the quarterback of the field at the moment and needed to set the tone.
I glanced over my shoulder, reading the play as I anticipated where my teammates were going.
By the time the practice started, I was already in motion. Gliding down the ice, the rush of adrenaline was as raw as it wasexciting. I was alive and on fire, blocking out everything else but the moment.
Acting as a pivot in a three-man weave, I dished a crisp pass to the wing before cutting up the middle. This being a five on five scrimmage, I couldn’t stay in one place. I owned the ice, constantly scanning the area to keep up with the puck and the activities of everyone else.
While moving into the dirty areas of the ice, I battled with the defenders in calling for the puck.
I was the one to set the pace, urging the others to be faster. Cleaner.
To press harder.
The sound as the puck slapped against the stick was sweet music. With every move, I felt as one with the ice and the puck. I was fluent, more so than I had been, easily finding a shot seconds later.
The Buzzkill was one of the best goalies in the NHL, at least in my opinion, but he was no match for me today.
I was more energized than I could remember being in a long time. When I stole the puck from Nick, I didn’t need to see his expression of fury. I could feel it whipping through his tense body.
He chased me down the ice, trying to return the favor, but I was too quick. Maybe the truth was that I’d allowed just enough of my wolf to surface to outpace him by twice what I should.
When I scored the second goal without breaking a sweat and threw up my arms in a grandstanding moment, Coach Wagner finally blew the whistle.
“What the fuck was that?” Nick was on me in a flash, offering a hard shove that almost tumbled me to the ice.
I reacted on instinct, throwing myself at him, only the force I used pitched him back by several feet, the man coming down on his ass with a brutal thud. He skidded several feet before coming to a stop.
