We buried two pucks in the net in the first ten minutes of the third, got one more garbage goal two minutes later, then spent the rest of the period grinding on that four-to-four stalemate.

Thorn was the frickin’ Rock of Gibraltar in net. Josky shut down every shot, stood against every rush, and held her ground like the lives of a million starving orphan kids relied on it.

She was big, fast, and smooth. Even when the game rolled right into overtime.

We were hungry, angry, and desperate to rub defeat into the Brimstones’ wounds.

At speed.

We’d already played a full game. Taking it to them in overtime meant working harder than the ’Stones. They hit hard, we hit harder. They scrambled, we blocked, picked pockets. They skated, we flew on jet engine wings.

Every player out there was running on fumes. Beasts were a claw’s edge away from digging free. From finishing the game off with blood instead of points.

Still, we hit overtime with everything we had. Hell, we borrowed from the future and hit it with that too.

Any play could be the one that scored. Any shot could be the one to end this.

To win this.

Hold the offensive zone and shoot and shoot and shoot.

Shift after shift we blasted off the bench. Tagged out on the fly, jumped the boards like there were drowning babies to save.

On the bench we shouted at our teammates, giving them our voice, our heart. We shouted at our foes too, giving them the finger.

“Looking tired, there, Smitty,” I yelled at the defenseman who had been up my ass for most of the game. “You need a nice long nappy?”

“How old are you, kid?” he asked. “Your parents let you swear yet?”

“Oh, fuck yourself with a toad, asshole,” I replied cheerily.

He grinned. Okay, so he was my enemy and fucking kept getting his damn fucking stick in between me and the fucking puck, but he was a hockey player. He loved this game just as much as I did.

A brother of the other.

Hockey, man. At the end of the day, we were one big happy, angry, funny, weird, dysfunctional family.

Some of us would never get along. Some of us would be friends for life. But all of us ate this, drank this, breathed it in and out.

Hockey was life. And we were living the hell out of it.

I shot out onto the ice for my shift.

Graves won the face-off and cleared it back to the boards. Hazard plucked it up and took off. Insanely quick. JJ and I dug hard and pushed, catching up to slide into position on either side of Hazard like the Blue frickin’ Angels.

Everything burned: my muscles, my lungs, my skin.

We soared across that ice: fighter jets in tight formation arcing down for the kill.

Graves must have spit out his mouth guard. He whistled, breathy snatches of the other Decemberists song about butchers coming into town on a wicked wind to kill.

That song did more than remind me of his position on the ice. It laced us all together, all the players on the team, tight. Somehow we fit together as if we’d never been separate, as if we’d been here, practicing this split-second play a million times.

And that play was pure beauty. Perfect snap of the stick, slap of the puck, catch and return. And then Graves, big, tall, lanky Graves, who the other team had forgotten had a shot like a heat seeking missile, gripped it and ripped it.

Corner pocket.

High blocker.

Nothing but net.

The crowd did not go wild. This was an away game, and we hadn’t had a lot of our hometown fans show up. The exhaled groan was loud, as was the general snarling.

But that didn’t stop us from going crazy.

I shouted, JJ yelled, and Hazard threw both hands up in the air. We all piled on top of Graves, knocking him into the boards, and smacked at his helmet and shoulders and back in celebration, in gratitude, in pride.

The bench unloaded and we all broke free to go jump on Josky. It was sweaty, messy, and jubilant.

We crowded in a ragged line, touching helmets with Thorn, a tradition, a superstition, a benediction. Thanking her for holding the line. Trusting her with our home territory, and wanting all her luck to rub off on us, and whatever luck we had to rub off on her.

It was amazing.

It was a win.

And we had earned the hell out of it.

The celebratory high hadn’t worn off by the time we packed our gear and headed out of the arena for the bus. Team rules meant we dressed nice whenever entering or exiting a game, but it was late enough the press and crowds were long gone. Since we won, Coach gave us the go-ahead for sweats so we could get some sleep. It was a long drive home.

Hazard had rolled his eyes and left the locker room while Watson and I were acting out the last play for the sixth time.

But as I jogged out of the building, every instinct sharpened. Coach and Hazard stood a little to one side of the bus.

Coach’s hand rested on Hazard’s shoulder. My brother stood shock-straight and too fucking still. He looked like he’d just seen his own death.

I wasn’t a sensitive, I couldn’t feel magic worth squat.

But I knew my brother. He was about to lose his grip on that bottomless pit of magic inside of him.

I charged up into their space and dropped my hand on his other shoulder before he tried to turn the world inside out.

“What’s going on?” I asked.

Random’s muscles tightened under my hold as magic rolled beneath his skin. It was an earthquake in his bones. Like something big was tearing apart and rearranging everything about him.

“I got you,” I said quietly. “Just breathe, okay. Just breathe. I’m here, Ran. I got you.”

Hazard hadn’t said a word. Hadn’t even acknowledged I was there. That scared the crap out of me. But he breathed along with me, slow and shaking as more tremors rumbled through him.

“Coach. What’s going on?”

Coach released Hazard’s shoulder but didn’t step back. I thought that was for the best. Coach radiated that Zen vibe and I could feel Hazard reaching for it, trying to breathe it in and use it to ground himself.

“It’s not something I can tell you,” Coach said. “But you can ask Hazard. He can tell you if he wants.”

Hazard focused on Coach as soon as he said his name. My brother was pale. Much too pale. Shocky. But he nodded. “I’m f-fine,” he said even though he very much was not. “Thanks, Coach.”

“You remember what I told you,” he said. “Think it over. We’ll talk after you get some sleep.”

Coach met my glower. He nodded, more cat and killer in his gaze than coach.

He wasn’t sad or apologetic. He was furious.

He turned and walked to the bus, silent as only a snow cat can be.

I wrapped my arm around Random’s shoulder, not quite a choke hold. Letting him know I was there. Really there. Letting him know I had his back. “What do you need? Want to walk?”

He shook his head in little jerks. His breathing was coming in and out labored now, like he was still back on the ice playing that last grueling shift.

“Want to sit? Need water? You gonna pass out? You’re totally gonna pass out. Random, talk to me.”

He exhaled a thin stream of air, dragged one hand back through his hair, then wiped at his mouth. His body rolled through a full shudder. All of that boiling, pressing, storming magic under his skin went still.

Hazard one, magic zero.

Boy was a badass.

“Okay,” he said. “It’s okay. It’s going to be okay.”

“Damn right it is. It’s all going to be okay. We’ll make it okay. What are we talking about, dude?”

Fear knocked on my brainstep. I didn’t know what would shake Hazard to the bone like this. The only thing I could come up with was his mom was hurt or dead, or Gen was hurt or dead, or someone he’d done magic on was hurt or dead.

Nothing else made sense. It wouldn’t be my parents were hurt or dead, because even though they were Random’s parents in everything but blood, I was their actual biological kid. If they’d been hurt, Coach would have told me first.

“Who’s hurt, Random?” I shifted my weight to stand in front of him. I gripped his upper arm like I was trying to keep him from blowing away in a wild wind.

“No.” He swallowed. “No, it’s not that, Duncan. Everyone’s okay. No one’s hurt.”

“All right. Good. Okay. But you are sweating wounded vibes, Ran, like…like you’re dying. It’s starting to freak me. Talk more. You need to tell me more.”

“I don’t want…I n-need to think first,” he said. “Just. Just give me the bus ride, okay? I’ll tell you everything when we get home. I can’t…” He shook his head and the magic in him rose like a tidal wave.

The wolf in me pushed.

Protect.

Hunt.

Run.

Kill.

Yeah, not helping.

Random inhaled through his nose, exhaled through his mouth. Swallowed again. The magic receded, back and back and back.

“I got this, Duncan.” His eyes flashed with impossible colors. “Give me a little time.”

“Dude, you should see your eyes right now.”

He frowned.

“Crazy eyes. All the colors. It’s like staring at two Technicolor disco balls.”

He smiled. It was a weak thing, but a bloom of real color finally spread under his egg-white skin. His heartbeat steadied, and the pain-shock stiffness faded.

“We gotta talk about this obsession you have with my balls, Dunc.”

I barked a laugh and pulled him into a rough hug.

The air sort of woofed out of him.

“You seriously need to learn boundaries, idiot,” he mumbled against my shoulder. “Like, giving me a little space will not kill you. Jesus, Duncan.”

I squeezed him harder. “But I’m so loooonely,” I whined. “You know wolves are pack animals and I might diiiie without you, Randoms.”

He squeezed back once, then leaned out of my arms.

We walked to the bus, shoulders bumping.

“Shut up,” he said. “You’ll be fine without me.”

That stopped me dead in my tracks. Random kept walking like he hadn’t just told me his secret. Like he hadn’t just told me what was freaking him out.

Holy shit.

He was the Dead Man.

Random chose a seat near the back and propped his wadded up coat against the window. His eyes snapped shut before the driver had even started the engine.

I sat next to him, my legs stretched out, taking up space. I crossed my arms over my chest and stared down anyone who came near us.

They scowled or rolled their eyes, and found other places to sit.

Which left me a lot of space and time to stew on the problem.

Random could take care of himself. With or without magic, he could hold his own and come out on top. I knew that. But playing on the Tide, a team that hated him? Trying to click with a line that didn’t want to have anything to do with him?

He’d spend half his time watching out for hits from his own players.

It would only take a few well-placed shots, too many minutes on the ice, a few injuries, and the first wizard in West Hell would become a footnote in hockey history.

Coach Nowak could tank Hazard’s career.

I scrubbed fingers over my scalp, and chewed on the inside of my cheek.

It was hard to think when I just wanted to bite something.

Graves shifted in the seat behind us. He’d walked right past my glare like I didn’t even exist. Something metal shifted in his bag or coat as he leaned forward, and then the metal thing tapped my armrest.

I glanced down. It was a flask.

Well, hello there.

Coach didn’t let us smuggle booze on the bus. If we opened it, every wolf shifter in the place would smell it. Probably the cat shifters too.

Which meant Graves had either cleared this contraband with Coach or just didn’t give a fuck.

I was betting it was the second thing. I, for one, was one-hundred percent behind his poor choices.

Hazard was really sleeping this time instead of pretend-sleeping. No one on the bus was going to bother him since I’d sort of erected a huge “fuck off” sign.

Everyone was asleep, except for the driver and Assistant Coach Beauchamp who was up in the cab with her.

I eased out of my seat and sat next to Graves.

He handed me the flask. I opened it, took a swig. It was whiskey, or maybe bourbon. I couldn’t tell the difference.

It burned almost as hot as my anger and worry and fear, and that made it taste really, really good. I took a second gulp before the first one had scorched my stomach, and handed it back.

I licked my lips, chasing the burn.

Graves tipped it, just one swallow, corked the flask and tossed it in the bag at his feet.

“It’s just one drink, El,” Graves said.

I blinked. Coach Clay was standing in the aisle looking at us. He had a crease across his cheek, so must have been asleep. But he looked fully awake now.

Also, El? Graves had his own nickname for Coach?

Curious.

“Touch it again,” Coach said, “I’ll know, Haws.”

There it was again, a first name nickname. Just how long and well had these two known each other?

Graves grunted. Coach’s eyes burned ice fire in the dark, pinning me in my place. If Hazard’s eyes had been disco ball lights, Coach’s were the cold burning flame of stars. I swallowed and kept my mouth shut.

Coach seemed to think that was good enough answer. He melted back into the shadows of the bus.

I exhaled. “Damn, he’s…quiet.”

“Or you’re distracted,” Graves said. “Want to talk about it?”

“About what?”

He nodded toward the seat where Hazard was sleeping.

“I don’t think he’d want me to.”

Graves remained quiet. Waiting. Just staring at the empty air in front of us.

“I might not even be right,” I said. “I think I am, but I’m going on gut. It’s not like anyone has talked to me. About anything.”

Graves continued to stare. Continued to wait. I leaned back in the chair, the two gulps of booze finally easing the knots in my shoulders.

“I think the Tide took him. Picked him as Dead Man.”

Silence.

“If Hazard goes to that team, they’ll end his career. He’s good, Graves. Better than most of us. He’s worked hard for this.”

I didn’t go into his childhood, the neglect he’d suffered, the lack of food, the lack of heat in his house, the lack of an adult who cared if he existed or not.

I had always seen him. From that moment on the playground when he lined up a bunch of little dirt clods and pebbles, and made them “race” by whacking each one in turn with a stick he’d found. It baffled the shit out of me to think that anyone could overlook someone as good and steady and…real as him.

And I hated, hated the idea of the world losing a great player who hadn’t even had the chance to show what he could do yet. What he could be.

I didn’t want to live in a world where I was playing hockey without him somewhere out there playing it too.

That was my great fear. That someone or something would take my brother away from me. Someone like Coach Nowak who wanted to use Hazard for revenge against Clay, the Thunderheads, or maybe just Hazard himself.

“It’s not fair.”

“Life isn’t fair, Spark.”

“I know.”

“Just because you work hard doesn’t mean you’ll win.”

“I know. I’m angry that there’s nothing I can do about it.”

He was my brother. My pack. It was my job to protect him.

The rumble of the road beneath the bus’s tires blended with the snores of the sleeping team around us. It was a string of motion and clasp of sound tying us together, peaceful, safe. Like nothing was wrong. Like nothing was about to change. It made my head hurt. Made me want to punch something.

“Tide chose Thunderheads for the Dead Man,” Graves said. “That won’t change. Can’t change. Nothing any of us can do about that.”

“You knew?”

He gave half a shrug.

My stomach knotted. I clenched my fists. The wolf in me pushed, wanting to protect, to defend. I breathed and breathed.

“It’s an old rule.” Graves’s words rolled low, softened by his southern upbringing. “You know why it’s there?”

“Johnny Morton got killed on the ice.”

“He was their golden boy,” Graves agreed. “The Boilers’ ticket into the playoffs. They were playing as good as any NHL team. They were going to take the cup that year. Everyone thought so. Just so long as they had Johnny Morton on their first line.”

“August Carlisle killed him,” I said.

Everyone knew about it. Hockey—even the freak leagues—wasn’t supposed to be deadly.

I mean, it happened. Even in the NHL. But those deaths were accidental, mourned, regretted. This one, Johnny Morton’s death, was brutally public, gruesomely bloody.

It was murder.

August Carlisle had shifted into his lion form in the third, and then he tore Johnny apart: skin, bones, lungs.

And ate him.

The cameras that were recording the game were under court order to never release the footage.

It didn’t take a great imagination to picture just how a lion shifter might tear apart a sensitive.

That year, the Boilers lost.

It took five more heartbreaking years of the Boilers coming in last place in the league before they made the rule.

It was a heavy-handed attempt to try to balance the scales.

“August Carlisle murdered him,” Graves agreed. “But when they made the Dead Man rule, they added an escape clause.”

“What?” This was news to me. “How?”

He shifted his boot—he was wearing a pair of old, thread-worn jeans—and the things in his bag settled with a soft clank. It was almost quiet enough I didn’t hear it. But what I could hear, even over the tires, even over the snoring, was Coach Clay’s breathing. It changed. Then stopped. Waiting.

“The escape clause in the Dead Man contract is voluntary.”

Coach Clay started breathing again. He was awake and listening. I figured Graves had kicked the bag to get his attention. So he would know Graves was telling me this.

I didn’t know why.

“I volunteer,” I said.

“You don’t even know what you’re volunteering for.”

“I don’t care.”

He made a small noise, somewhere between a grunt and a sigh, then turned and looked at me.

I could see him clearly in the darkness. If he were a wolf shifter, he could see me as well. But I had my doubts about him being second-marked. I was beginning to wonder if he was something else entirely. A monster in wolf’s clothing.

His eyes remained human enough, but he studied me as if he could see me perfectly.

“It’s a volunteer clause,” he said.

“You said that. What does it mean?”

“Someone on his team must volunteer to take his place.”

“I can do that. Of course I can do that. I’ll take his place.” The relief was immense, filling me with helium and lifting away my anger.

“It’s not that easy. The volunteer has to be equal to the player chosen for Dead Man.”

Coach Clay stopped breathing over that too. Graves’s mouth curved in a small smile though the corners of his eyes tightened as if he were in pain.

Whatever conversation was going on between Coach and him, it was between the lines. I had no idea what they were saying. I was a wolf shifter and a hockey player, but I was not stupid. That other conversation playing out in halting breaths and sad smiles had something to do with more than just the Dead Man.

“You’ve never played for the Tide, have you Graves?” I was going with my gut.

“That’s true.”

“There some reason why you’ve never ended up on their team? All those years, all those teams, but never them?”

“Luck, I suppose.” Easy words, hard eyes.

Total lie.

“You have history with Nowak, don’t you?”

Like maybe he hates you as much as he hates Coach Clay?

“Nothing comes to mind.”

Lie number two. “If this “nothing” gets my brother broken? You and I are going to have a situation that ends in blood.”

He blinked, once, slowly. Unimpressed with my threat. I showed him teeth.

“And if I take his place?”

I frowned. “You’re not like him.”

“Oh?”

“If the volunteer has to be equal to the player, I’m a better fit.”

“You think?”

“Am I wrong?”

Graves’s head lifted so slowly, it was like watching a cobra draw itself up.

I just plowed on. “You’re a defenseman with a lot of miles on your skates. You’re not a hot, fast, rookie center. Unless you have some other abilities you want to tell me about?”

“Such as?” The words were coiled lightning waiting to strike, poison dripping from a razor fang, the silence before the boom.

“You a wizard, Graves?”

There was a pause. Then: “No, I am not.”

And that was truth wrapped up in relief, as if he’d expected me to ask something else.

“Then I don’t see why they’d want you instead of me.”

“That so.”

“I’m faster than you, younger than you, and I gotta say my hits on goal score a fair amount more than you.”

“Go on,” he drawled. “You could listen to yourself talk all day.”

I smiled at him, happy for a moment at that chirp. Just a moment. Because this was life or death we were talking about here. Life or death of Hazard’s career.

It probably made sense to ask Random what he thought about me volunteering to take his place. Ask him if he wanted to stay with the Thunderheads where he belonged.

But he’d just go on about fighting his own fights and knowing how to take a punch and standing on his own two feet.

I knew he could do that. He’d been doing it all his life.

And me? What had I been doing? Coasting.

This was something that would be easy for me. I made friends anywhere I went. I could keep my head down and do my work. Be one more wolf shifter left winger in a league full of them.

And if it got nasty I could get nasty right back. Unlike Random, I’d enjoy using my magic—fang and claw and muscle and speed—to shut that shit right the hell down.

I had no qualms about making people bleed.

“I’m doing it,” I said. “No one stands in his place but me.”

“You don’t know what you’re saying, Spark.”

“I know he’s my family, Graves. Mine. That means something to me.”

The thing in him—whatever it was—recognized the wolf in me. For several heartbeats, one full inhale and exhale, I knew without a doubt that it was wolf behind his eyes.

And then…and then it wasn’t.

Which confused the hell out of me. A cold chill shuddered over my skin. What the hell was he?

“Nice speech. Now you listen to me, kid,” he said evenly.

Kid? Seriously?

“Yes?” I asked sweetly, batting my eyes.

“Don’t use your agreeableness on me,” he grumbled. “It won’t make me change my mind.”

“All right, Mr. Graves, sir. You’re totally right, sir. I should respect my elders, golly gee whiz.”

He pressed his eyes closed and shook his head. “I’m just going to ignore how annoying you are for the moment so I can tell you this straight.” He opened his eyes. All human, as far as I could tell.

“I am going to take Random’s place,” he said. “When they call him tomorrow, I’m going to be the one who answers. I’m going to be the one who packs up skates and gear, and I’m going to play on the Tide. You,” he jabbed a finger toward me, “are going to keep your mouth shut until then.”

“What if it doesn’t work?”

“It will.”

“What if they say no?”

“They won’t.”

“You think they’re gonna take a graybeard like you when they can have a fresh stud with years—good solid years—and a hell of a lot of points ahead of him?”

He sucked air through his teeth. “They’ll take me.”

“Give me one good reason why you think they’d want you. One I can hang Random’s career on.”

Time just sort of stretched out between us.

I could read between the lines too. Volunteering was a huge risk for him. Something both he and Coach were hoping I wouldn’t pick up on. But if I could smell something fishy going on, so would Coach Nowak.

What were they trying to get away with?

“I think we should all get some sleep and think on it.” Coach Clay was standing there again, right in front of me. I had not heard him—not his footsteps, not his breathing.

I hadn’t caught the motion of his approach.

It was frickin’ unnatural, man.

Cats.

“I’ve decided,” I said, rubbing at the back of my neck. “I’m taking his place.”

Coach wrapped his arms across his chest and gave me the look. The coach look. “Get some sleep Spark. We’re tabling this until tomorrow.”

Graves tipped his chin up and met Coach glare for glare, but finally, even Graves looked away. “All right then,” Graves said. “We’ll take it up tomorrow, Coach.”

No more “El” huh? It was all “Coach” now?

Coach leveled his boss-of-the-world glare at me. “You hear me, Spark?”

“Yes, Coach. We talk tomorrow.” I was going to hold him to it.

Coach moved aside so I could return to my seat. Which I did.

I was suddenly so tired, I could sleep on a pile of rocks in an avalanche.

Hazard dozed curled toward the window, a frown on his face. Dreaming. Hopefully not nightmares. If he dreamed too darkly, his magic took over and threw knives around.

Having Hazard for a brother now that he was done hiding his magic was a little like having a hair-trigger bomb for a family member.

It was totally awesome.

I moved around until I could rest and still have one hand on his arm—just in case he went nuclear.

Usually, I had a pillow to hit a couple times and some sheets to thrash around in before I could even think of sleeping. Not this time. This time I just closed my eyes and fell to the bottom of a deep, deep sea.