A wolf knocked at the door. Little pig, little pig, let me come in.

Okay, it wasn’t quite like that. It was more like, a second-marked strolled into the locker room early, because he’d seen a tiger and mountain lion swagger in there like they owned the place.

Paski and Zima were, in my estimation, the only two on the team who would actively try to kill me on the ice.

Which meant it was time to deal with a little pecking order on this team.

I could smell the other players who were there, could hear their heartbeats if I concentrated with the wolf in me. I knew Big D was in the locker room, and so were the four other wolves.

A couple cats, too, though I didn’t think the entire team was here. I didn’t smell the coyote, anyway.

Not that it mattered who witnessed this confrontation.

Paski and Zima’s lockers were side-by-side and they were talking to each other in that muted tone everyone on this team used. I’d been in plenty of rooms full of hockey players and quiet wasn’t really the first description that came to mind.

Big D’s back was to the wall, wolves on either side. Busk stood at his left, and our second line defenseman, well, defensewoman, Sava at his right. Big D’s cold ice eyes tracked me as I strode across the distance separating me from the felines.

The other wolves were watching every move I made too, interested in what they could sense in me, and what I was going to do about it.

I reached into that place deep in my chest, deep in my brain, where I was more than just Duncan the man, more than just Duncan the wolf. Where I was strong and calm and…

…alpha.

It was unfamiliar to pull that awareness around me and to stand there in a confidence that outstripped all the ego and confidence I’d known before. I could be a cocky bastard.

But this was different. This was solid. Unbreakable. As if being this thing, standing in this frame of mind and actually letting this slow, smoking fire burn through me, was new. And at the same time, it was so right that I felt like I was waking up, opening my eyes and really seeing the world for the first time.

“Paski, Zima. How about we go outside and talk about how much I’m going to make you hurt?”

They turned in tandem. That was the most teamwork I’d seen out of them.

Paski was the bigger of the two, heavily muscled, bristling for a fight.

Zima wasn’t a pushover. He and I were of comparable build except I was way less asshole.

“Fuck off, dog.” Paski turned back to his locker.

I laughed. “Paski, Paski, Paski. You big dumb kitten. I’m not here to listen to you. I will fight you, but I don’t give a crap what you say.”

Paski shoved right up in my face. “Wanna go? You don’t have the balls to take me—”

I slammed a fist into his stomach.

His breath came out hard, and he bent, but Kitty Two was already swinging at my head. I ducked, came up, grabbed the shoulder of his shirt like we were on the ice, held him at arm’s length and punched him in the face.

Physical contact had never felt so good.

He got in a few hits, I got in more, and then Paski joined the fun.

Everything in me was laughter and hot, angry delight. I loved this. A fight. A clear way to make my point with muscle, body, brain. I was made for these kinds of heart-to-hearts, and thrilled that I could have my say.

And I planned to have the last word.

Kitty Two backed off when the tiger decided he was gonna lead the dance.

Every word out of his mouth was a curse, but only some of them were in English. He was just out of arm’s reach, so we circled the center of the locker room like boxers in the world’s smallest ring.

He was bleeding. I was bleeding. Everybody was just having a marvelous time.

For real. Most of the team was here now. Watching.

No one was jumping in to break it up. Not that I cared. All the more fun for me.

I led with a hard left and then I rushed the bastard, picked him up and slammed him to the floor, face first.

He groaned, and didn’t move.

“All right.” I spit blood and wiped my mouth. “Anyone else want to tell me I don’t belong on this fucking team?”

I stared at Zima. He just crossed his arms and scowled at me. Then he dropped his gaze.

Damn right he dropped his gaze.

I looked over at the wolves. Five second-marked gathered on one side of the room tracking me with curious, almost hungry eyes.

Big D was closest to me. If he wanted a piece of the Dunc, things were going to get interesting. As in, I’d have to shift to wolf, because there was no way I’d be able to take him down in man form. He was a mountain.

“Problem?” I squared off to him.

Was that an actual smile?

“Nyet.” His voice was low and rough. “No problem.”

He tipped his chin up and sideways. It could have been mistaken as a greeting, that broski chin tip that was a visual “hey” from across the room.

But I knew what it was. Submission, wolf-to-alpha. His gaze slid sideways and then focused on the floor.

“Okay,” I said, less uncomfortable with that acknowledgment of my dominance than I expected. “Okay.” I straightened out of the slightly crouched fighting stance I’d still been in. Looked over at the wolves next to him.

Busk lifted his chin, grinned at me and slid his gaze to the floor.

The rest, to a man, did the chin tip, glanced at the floor, then when I said okay, went back to getting ready for practice.

Only one wolf didn’t chin tip. Sava. She was second-line defense, for a reason. An inch taller than me, with ten extra pounds of muscle she was a force to be reckoned with on the ice. Maybe off the ice too.

“Sava,” I said. “We cool?”

She pursed her lips like she’d bit on a lemon. “Like I give one damn which male is pissing on boots around here?”

Oooh. I instantly liked her. “Maybe you do. Things might change if I have any say about it.”

“Good. Change that we keep fucking falling asleep in the damn neutral zone and can’t keep the fucking puck in our O-zone.” She tipped her chin, but her gaze did not waver. “Then you and me got no problems.”

“I’ll do my best.”

“Do better than that.”

“Okay.”

She nodded and just like the other second-marked, went back to getting ready for practice.

Well, that went better than I hoped. One of my eyes was swelling shut and my throat felt coppery hot from swallowing blood and my fists hurt, but otherwise, everything was coming up Donuts.

I turned to the other people in the room. All the rest of were fourth-marked Felidae shifters except for Nadreau, the coyote.

The cats were mostly ignoring me.

“Anyone else have a problem?” I faced Nadreau.

He wiped a towel over his hair, and smirked. “Naw, boss. I got no problem with you. You teach Paski the rules, I’m smart enough to know how this wind blows.” He lifted his chin, eyes averted.

One of the cats, Ledes, a leopard, sniffed. “C’mon, Spark. We’ve been waiting for you to step up since you got here. Took you forever. Asshole.” He threw a roll of tape at my head, which I caught.

Tabor Steele strolled into the room. “For fuck, people. Who the fuck is fighting? Why the fuck is Paski sleeping in the middle of the room?” His eyes, the very angry eyes of our captain zeroed in on me.

He cataloged me from head to foot, then grunted. “About damn time.”

“What, that someone take Paski down?” I asked.

“That you got your head out of your ass and alphaed up.”

“Why the hell didn’t you say something?” I yelled, throwing my hands in the air. “It has been weeks of utter misery since I got here. I blame you.” I stabbed a finger at Steele.

Steele sneered. “Not my fault you’re an idiot.”

“I’m an idiot? You’re the captain!”

“I bet you didn’t even figure out you were an alpha until today.”

“No. That’s not true.” It was almost true. I’d only figured it out when Kudrar had been hurt.

“So, what? Back when Kudrar got hurt?”

I didn’t like his tone. It was mocking. He was also correct.

“Yes,” I mumbled.

That got a huge smile out of him. “You suck so bad, Spark.”

I rocked one hand back and forth. Fifty-fifty agreement on that one. “I refuse to captain this team.”

He leaned back and squinted. “Good. Because I’m the only captain on this team. You want to take my position, you’re gonna have to take me out.”

“I just said I don’t want your position.”

“Good.”

“Good.”

“I’m serious, Spark. This C…” he tapped at his chest where there would be a C if he were wearing his jersey, but right now was nothing but green T-shirt with a hot dog on it, “…isn’t up for grabs.”

“I don’t want to be captain,” I said slowly. Clearly. “But I’m the only alpha here, hot dog.”

“Good,” he said, a little more quietly. “We’ve needed that, I think. The centering.”

“Sure. Right.” I had no idea what he was talking about. I nodded wisely. “Centering.”

He gave me a weird look, then stepped past me. “Suit up, Spark. No one on this team gets out of practice. Not even goons with three game suspensions.”

The rest of the players laughed and jeered. Another roll of tape flew at my head and a random glove hit me in the chest because I wasn’t fast enough to catch it.

It was all so very juvenile. It was the first fragile strings of a new beginning, a knot just beginning to pull tight.

And I stood there grinning like an idiot, loving every minute of it.

I was sidelined for the next three games.

Game one against the Calgary Rustlers was a loss from the first period. Down four to zero, we never climbed out of that hole. They sent us off the ice with a six-zero on our record.

I waited for the team in the locker room after the game. Gave them a little shit, then told them we’d pull it together in the next game. A lot of eyes were on me, either trying to read how much oil I was selling, or wanting to believe in a miracle cure.

Since I believed what I was saying, a few of the players gave me short nods.

Steele paused in stripping off his gear. “I expect everyone at practice tomorrow morning early. Because that shit on the ice will not stand. You too, Spark.”

“Like I’d miss it.” I drank down the last of my cola. “Someone has to score all the goals.”

This time they threw jock straps at me.

Early practice was better. We were settling in with the kind of plays we could create, who had speed, who had ice sense that could pull a line together. We had all shown up an hour early to run some easy drills, and Steele called the shots.

He really knew how to put the dick in dictator. But it was good. It was what a captain should be doing.

The Tide was starting to feel like a team. A little too quick to lash out, a little too slow to forgive, but still a team. It wasn’t anywhere close to the genuine family loyalty and close-knit esprit de corps of the Thunderheads, but maybe it would get there someday.

Or maybe this was as close to a family as this team could be under a coach like Nowak.

At the end of practice, before Coach Nowak and the assistant coaches showed up, everyone skated past me and tapped my skate, my ankle, my leg.

Next game? We lost. But we lost it in the third after being ahead by one for most of the game.

It wasn’t much, but it was improvement.

The last game was on the road and I was not allowed to travel with the team.

So I bought a six-pack of beer and knocked on a door.

“Kill me now,” Slade said, when he found me loitering on his doorstep. “You and I are not friends.”

“Sure we aren’t. Wink, wink.”

He scowled and gripped the door, ready to slam it in my face.

“I brought beer. And ordered pizza. You don’t have to be my friend to be hungry.”

The door paused. He heaved a mighty sigh. “Why did I ever talk to you? Why was I so nice to you?”

“That was nice?”

“I’m never getting rid of you am I?”

I held up the beer. Jiggled it. “Extra cheese, extra meat on the way.”

I could see he was trying hard not to tell me how much he loved and admired me.

“Fucker.” He stepped aside and once I scuttled in, he slammed the door behind him.

It was set up like most apartments, with the kitchen open to the living room. I didn’t bother stopping off at the refrigerator since the beer was cold, and instead made my way straight toward the couch.

Correction, couches. As in three. Or at least I thought there were three pieces of furniture under the heaping piles and piles of pillows. All kinds of pillows. A smorgasbord of colors and fluff and size. Mountains of colorful, squishy accents.

“Uh…this is…”

“Shut up.”

“…cozy.” I grinned at him.

He narrowed his eyes. “You know what?”

“No,” I said. “Wait. Don’t throw me out. I love pillows too. I mean maybe not as much as you do, because, dang, Slade. This is some pillow collection. What are we up to here? A hundred. Hundred fifty?”

“Screw you. I like pillows.”

“Yeah, I can see that buddy. But maybe it’s more than like. Maybe you should just admit that you like-like pillows. You love-love pillows. You maybe want to marry pillows.”

“Shut up and give me a damn beer.”

I pulled a beer out of the cardboard carrier.

“What do you call a metric ton of pillows anyway?” I asked as I pulled a beer for myself. “A Stay Puft of pillows? A System of the Down? A pillow kilo?”

“It’s called a shut up or get the hell out of my house.” He twisted the cap, took a long swallow. “Why are you even here?”

“Game tonight.”

“So?” The sneer was spot on.

“So, I wanted to watch it with someone.”

“We are not friends. We are not hockey watching buddies.”

The doorbell rang and I shoved the rest of the beer into his chest, then moved quickly so he had to grab it before it fell to the carpet.

“Sure,” I said, over my shoulder. “We are not friends.” I opened the door, took both pizza boxes from the guy on the stoop, and strolled back into the living room. I deposited the boxes onto the coffee table which was, surprisingly, pillow free.

The scent of crust and cheese and various meats and garlic wafted into the room. My mouth watered. “Can you smell this? Oh, my god. Better than sex.”

Slade dropped his head back and closed his eyes, face toward the ceiling. “If I eat the pizza and drink the beer, will you leave?”

“Yes.” I pushed a couple dozen pillows onto the floor so I could wedge myself into the corner of the couch. “After we watch the game and braid each other’s hair.”

Slade groaned. “You suck.”

“What?” I said with mock offense. “Just for that, no hair braiding for you, buddy.” I leaned in, grabbed two slices from the top box, folded them together goo-to-goo and took a bite. “Sit down. The game’s about to start. Oh, my god, this is amazing. I’m a genius. Gimme my beer.”

Slade grumbled something that might have been “asshole” but was probably “classroll” as in I was classy and he liked how I rolled.

Then he sort of wriggled his way down into the pillows by first lying on top of the pile and then turning and flipping them until he was not only covered, he was practically iglooed into them.

He still, amazingly, had enough mobility and reach to snatch a piece of pizza.

I got my own beer off the table where he’d left it.

The TV mounted on the wall clicked to life. It was already tuned to the hockey game. I didn’t point out that he’d been watching it before I’d arrived.

We sat there in silence that became more comfortable the longer it stretched out. The game was on, and the Tide weren’t doing too badly so far. Of course only a few minutes into the first had passed.

“Fucking Steele,” the pillows known as Slade grumbled. “Thinks he can just wait for someone to give him the puck. Sniper punk ass. You’re not fucking Ovechkin in his fucking office. Move!”

I laughed, then grabbed a second beer and third slice of pizza.

End of the first and the game was tied zero-zero. Not an exciting score, but it meant the Tide hadn’t given up goals.

“You call Coach Clay?” I asked as I looked for the perfect combination of pillows to prop up my arm so I didn’t have to lift the beer to my mouth.

“No,” he grumbled.

“Slade. Don’t be that guy.”

“What guy?”

“The dumb guy.”

“Did you show anyone that video of Coach Nowak?”

There was a stretch of silence where we watched the Tide totally blow puck possession in the neutral zone and have to chase back to defend the net.

“No,” I finally admitted.

“Who’s the dumb guy now?”

I grunted. “I will. I’ll do it. I’ll show what he did to me.”

“When?”

“When it’s right. When it’s smart.”

“It’s always smart to report abuse, dumbass.”

I shifted my arm so the beer tipped into my mouth. “You think Lundqvist will ever figure out that back pass?”

“Which one? Husband Lundqvist or wife Lundqvist?”

The husband and wife were hell on fire when they were in sync. But right now they were out of step, just a half second off with every pass, every play. It was frustrating because it was so clear that they were good together out there, great together out there.

“Husband,” I said.

“It’s not just him. Everybody’s off out there.”

I made a sound of agreement.

“You stand up and make yourself known yet?”

I looked over at him. Nothing but two bright eyes twinkling out from the shadows of the pillows.

“Something like that.”

“Something?”

“Exactly that,” I clarified.

“So you told them you were going to be the alpha of the team.”

“Nope. I just told them what I was. Alpha. They could do with that what they wanted.”

“How did Paski and Zima take it?”

“On the jaw, on the nose, on the eye.”

“Lots of head shots there.”

I shrugged, which jiggled the beer. But since it was only half-full, I caught it before it rolled into disaster. “They took it in the ribs and gut too.”

“Wish I’d seen it. They are a pair of asses.”

I lifted my beer in a toast, and took a drink.

We both turned just as the announcer yelled out, “Goal!”

And there it was, on the screen. The first line of the Tide on the ice, whooping up a celebration. We’d scored a goal.

“About damn time,” Slade muttered. “Now let’s see if they can finally win one of these.”

I raised my beer in another toast, and he did the same.

They did not win. But they pushed it into overtime to a shootout, so that was something. That was almost, almost the team they could be.

I was back in my apartment, that homey little room close enough to the arena Mom and Dad were happy about, with the sounds of my nice neighbors moving around on the floor above me. Even though I had my own space, people who knew me were nearby. People who had invited me to watch a movie with them anytime I had a free evening. It was nice.

I had just crawled into bed when Random sent a text.

Bullshit call in the third. Good game. U would have made that shootout goal.

I grinned and texted back: Damn right I would have.

U good?

All good.

Miss you.

Same.

And that was that. But that was perfect. He was there, reaching out to me, I was reaching out to him. I no longer felt so alone. Even though we weren’t on the same team, we were still teammates. Still brothers.

I pressed my palm over the tattoo that had finished the itchy phase and healing phase and was now in the cool new tattoo phase.

His number was there. The stupid 42 that my dad had told him was his favorite number when six-year-old Hazard had asked. Hazard thought 42 stood for the four of us and then the two of us, as in he and me: brothers, Mom and Dad: parents.

It was, when I thought about it, kind of sweet in that lost-boy way that Hazard used to have.

It had been several years later that we’d both asked Dad why his favorite number was 42. He told us because it was the meaning of life.

Yep. My dad had made a Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy joke. Because he was a total nerd.

Hazard kept the number. And hey, maybe that was also the meaning of life: hockey, brotherhood, family.