The hum doesn’t stop.
Practice is loud and fast,the scratch of blades on fresh ice cutting through the arena, and I should be focused entirely on the play.
I’m not.
It’s been a hectic week. Early morning runs, brutal practices, and tolerating Ethan’s temper tantrums ever since I told him he can’t go to the park to play again. Getting recognized is dangerous. I was careless that first time, and I recognize that. Taking him out to eat is a different story. I choose timings when the restaurants won’t be crowded and make sure we stay discreet.
My eyes flit to where Miranda is standing. She’s wearing a baseball cap. It’s not the one I signed for her. That one is in Ethan’s room. She’s wearing those damn shorts again that show her long legs that just go on and on. The T-shirt she’s wearing is fitted and shows off her generous chest.
Fuck.
Couldn’t she find anything else to wear? The arena is cold. She’s not even wearing a jacket. She’s standing at the boards with her clipboard, her first real session on the job, and half my team has already found reasons to skate within her eyeline since Coach finished introductions twenty minutes ago.
She’s not smiling at them, not encouraging it, just standing there doing her job. But nobody cares. The first time she had been here with me, so no one had dared to look at her. But now that our alpha has approved of her, these fuckers are acting like vultures.
“Wolfe! Set up!”
I push off hard, legs driving, and take the pass from Samuel at the blue line. The puck connects with my stick cleanly. I read the defense, fake left, cut right, and fire a snap shot that catches the top corner before Eric can react.
The net ripples.
“Finally,” Brody calls out. “He’s awake.”
I’m already looping back for the next line change when I catch Josh breaking from the formation. Not toward the goal. Toward the boards. He skids to a stop right in front of Miranda, spraying ice up against the barrier, and leans in with that grin he thinks works on women.
I cut across the ice before he can open his mouth.
I grab him by the back of his collar and haul him backward two full steps.
“Hey!”
“You’re supposed to be on the left wing,” I say. “Not chatting up the pretty nurse.”
“I was just saying hello.”
“Say hello on your own time.” I release him and look at Miranda. Her cheeks are pink. When her eyes meet mine, she looks away immediately and frowns down at her clipboard.
The frown is too fast. Like she slapped it on over something else.
I skate back to center and try not to feel so smug.
“Smooth,” Samuel says, pulling up alongside me.
“Run the drill.”
Coach blows the whistle, and we go again. This time I lose myself in it. The next twenty minutes are hard and physical, the kind of skating that burns through the thighs and demands full attention. We run a power play unit, cycling the puck down low, working the corners. I take a pass off the half wall and thread it through traffic to Samuel cutting to the net. He buries it.
“That’s the one,” Coach calls from the bench. “Again.”
We reset. Same play, sharper execution. The puck moves faster this time. I’m reading the ice better, anticipating the gaps. Samuel takes a hit and still manages to get the pass off. Eric barely moves.
“Run it back,” Coach says.
On the fourth rep, Brody goes down.
No collision. No contact. He clips his own skate, loses an edge, and hits the ice in a crash that echoes through the whole building. He lies flat on his back, one arm thrown wide, staring up at the ceiling like a man who has accepted death.
“Oh no,” he says loudly. “My ankle.”
