Page 101 of Pucking Feral: Part Two

Fuck, this is so unfair.

Valek scores and Wade's face is the color of raw steak as his eyes sweep the audience again. I check my own mask like Wraith does to make sure it's in place.

My mate is still bleeding. Still fighting to breathe through that soaked mask like a wounded dark god.

The Demons' winger targets Plague out of nowhere. The hit rattles the boards hard enough to shake ice flecks from the glass. Plague gets up slowly, one hand pressed to his ribs, and Whiskey's already hunting.

No one sees Whiskey coming until it's too late. The impact sounds like a car crash and both players go down in a tangle of limbs and sticks, and when they separate, Whiskey's laughing. Actually laughing while blood drips from a cut above his eye.

The refs let them go at it.

That's when I notice Nikolai and Raven.

They're the Demons' deadliest combination. Tonight they're barely on the same planet. Raven keeps drifting toward Nikolai's zone, and Nikolai keeps bodychecking him away from the play entirely. Not opponents. His own teammate.

"What the hell?" The woman beside me leans forward. "Did you see that? Nikolai just checked his own guy!"

Raven recovers, golden hair whipping as he spins to glare at Nikolai. Even from here, I can see him mouthing “fuck you.” A few minutes later, he retaliates by stealing the puck Nikolai was about to receive and showboating it around himself, leaving Nikolai stranded and furious.

They're sabotaging each other.

Wade screams something at both of them, face purple with rage, and Nikolai flips him off and yells something that looks a hell of a lot like "speak English" on his lips before skating off after Raven.

Freshly enraged, Wade gets possession near center ice and starts charging toward our zone. He's not even looking for passes anymore, just bulldozing forward like he thinks rage alone will get him past our defense.

Yeah. Good luck with Thane.

Plague steps into his path.

The collision is brutal. Both players go flying, but Wade comes up swinging. His fist catches Plague's jaw, snapping his head back. Plague staggers but doesn't go down, and suddenly Whiskey's there, grabbing Wade's jersey, yanking him backward.

Wade spins and throws an elbow that catches Whiskey in the throat.

Whiskey drops to one knee, choking.

The refs blow their whistles but Wade's not done. He's completely lost it, throwing wild punches at anyone in a Ghosts jersey. One of our rookies tries to intervene and gets a stick to the face for his trouble as Whiskey hauls himself to his feet, popping his neck and knuckles, his usually lackadaisical expression darkening into absolute fucking murder.

The JumboTron finds Wraith again.

He's just… standing there, stick dangling from one hand as he stares at Wade from across the ice.

The fabric clings to every contour of his face now as blood drips between his skates. Every breath sucks the drenched fabric harder against his sharp teeth, the screen ruthlessly displaying every detail as his massive frame shakes.

And then he lifts his eyes.

Somehow, they meet mine.

I know it's impossible. I know he can't actually see me from there. But somehow, somehow, we're looking at each other.

The exhaustion in his eyes breaks my heart.

Get off the ice, I think desperately. Please. Just go to the bench. You don't have to do this. Not for me. I don't care if you win or not.

But he's not moving toward the bench.

He's not moving at all.

He drops a glove.