Page 95 of Pucking Feral: Part Two

"He okay?" I ask Whiskey under my breath.

Whiskey winks, but there's none of his usual humor there. "Got some wildcat magic. Ivy worked her omega voodoo and pulled him back from the edge."

I manage to breathe again.

"I got some too," Whiskey adds, and despite everything, a genuine grin cracks across his face.

Plague's eyes narrow. "Surely you weren't fucking before the game."

"Shit, Plague, no!" Whiskey holds up both hands. "It wasn't like that. She was just thanking me for texting her."

"With what?" Plague demands.

"A kiss, dude!"

I don't have time to mediate their eternal pissing contest. The Demons are already warming up on their side of the ice, and we're falling behind schedule.

Coach is going to have an aneurysm.

I step closer to Wraith.

You good? I sign, silently, so no one overhears.

He hesitates, still not looking at me. Then he gives a single, brief nod. Not a convincing nod at all, but I'll take it. It's clear he isn't in the mood for a conversation.

During warmups, our side of the rink stays ours. That's the rule. Teams don't interact. No trash talk, no alphahole posturing, no "accidental" collisions. We stay in our half, they stay in theirs, and the refs patrol the neutral zone.

The entire time, I can't fucking help but glance into the crowd, searching for those ocean eyes that saw right through me the moment we met.

And Wraith is doing the same thing. I catch him mid-search, his head turning toward a section of lower bowl seats, and I nudge his arm before anyone notices.

Subtle, I sign. Stay subtle.

His blue eyes meet mine, and for a moment, I see all the fear and hope and desperate longing fighting behind them. Then he nods, his shoulders sinking, and returns to his warm-up routine, sending pucks at the practice net with enough force to dent steel.

I watch Whiskey glide up beside him, bumping shoulders and rattling off a steady stream of commentary I'm pretty sure is designed more for distraction than actual communication. Like he's Wraith's emotional support alpha.

An exhausted smile tugs at my lips.

More drills. More shots. I try to let myself get lost in it all while keeping an eye on the team across the ice.

Wade is the center of it all. His teammates orbit around him, drawn in by whatever charisma makes people overlook the rot underneath.

All except for Nikolai and Raven, two players who are notoriously vicious on the ice even though the latter is the most pretty-boy alpha I've ever seen in my life. The only thing that differentiates Raven from an omega is his height.

They're avoiding each other, but they're also avoiding Wade as if they despise him as much as they despise each other.

Interesting.

Wade catches me watching and his smile widens.

I don't give him the satisfaction of looking away. Instead, I hold his gaze until he's the one who breaks, turning back to his teammates with a laugh that carries across the rink.

That's right, I think. I see you, fucking asshole.

My eyes drift to the crowd again.

The arena is nearly full now, a sea of black and gray Ghosts jerseys mixed with pockets of Demons red. And somewhere in that chaos, Ivy is watching. I'm sure she's worried about Wraith. Maybe even wishing she could be down here with us instead of up there in the crowd.