The news of the Tide picking Hazard as Dead Man cannonballed through the league. The casual but emphatic refusal of Coach Clay to agree to that pick, and his counterplay of me taking Hazard’s place, went off like a nuclear blast.

Coach Nowak was livid.

He challenged the substitution. The commissioner weighed in on it. Nowak lost. We won.

Nowak was furious.

The press wanted to know why the Tide had chosen Hazard. They assumed it was because he was a wizard and might bring a new fire and energy as the Tide dug their way out of the bottom position.

Some reporters thought it was just a marketing ploy by the Tide to sell more tickets. After all, Thunderheads’ sales were up ever since Coach Clay had drafted Hazard.

Others argued maybe Hazard had hockey skills and potential coaches wanted to foster. He had been, briefly, a part of the NHL.

Only a few, a very few, floated the idea that maybe it was just because of the old bad blood between Clay and Nowak, and that Nowak was using this pick to hamstring his old rival.

But the one thing I’d always remember from those press conferences was the look on Random’s face: utter betrayal.

The day after the commissioner’s ruling, I checked into a hotel that had a kitchen and a living room and wasn’t too far from the arena. Tacoma was only about three hours drive north of Portland. It wasn’t the drive that had been bad.

I was still licking my wounds from my departure. I’d been a complete coward and hadn’t told the team goodbye. I wouldn’t have been able to handle it, and didn’t want to put the other wolf shifters through that broken-bone feeling of losing family.

Hazard was somewhere a few planets past rage. After yelling and shoving, he’d gone stone silent.

And when the ruling had come down, he had stormed out of the house and hadn’t returned. I’d left him texts. All of them apologies. Okay, a few jokes, and a few jabs.

He hadn’t replied.

He was gone. I thought maybe he had holed up with Genevieve, and that was good. She’d look after him. She might even be on my side and tell him I’d done the right thing.

Or she’d write some rage metal song about setting my car on fire.

Not that she’d set my car on fire.

Yeah, I wasn’t actually sure about that.

The old Vega was back at my parents’ house. Dad had pulled off a miracle and gotten a friend of his to sell his used, but only two-year-old, car to me so I had something reliable on the freeway.

“So you can visit any chance you get, son,” Dad had said as he handed me the keys. “Your mom and I will be up to help you find a new place. You let us know your first game as soon as you find out, okay? One of us or both of us will catch it.”

He was he best person on Earth. I hugged him and told him that. He patted my back and told me he’d keep an eye on Random for me.

So everything was good.

Except everything sucked hard.

It was Monday morning. I was nervous. I drank too much coffee at the continental breakfast that came from whichever country made stale donuts and room-temperature orange juice.

I’d tossed and turned all night, so I’d splurged on a soda.

Then I’d worried about not being hydrated enough if we were going to have a hard skate and I’d guzzled down a bunch of water.

Too much coffee, too much water, I was bloated and jittery, but I looked sharp in my suit, slacks, and tie.

I knew this was just practice, but it was also the first time I would meet Coach Nowak face-to-face as the newest member of his team.

The unwanted volunteer.

The loophole.

My recent life decisions had pissed off my defenseman, my brother, probably his girlfriend, and my new coach.

So, basically everything was coming up Duncan.

Of course, I still had to meet my new teammates. I squared my shoulders and walked across the wet, dark parking lot toward the players’ entrance.

I nodded to the people I passed, some of them support staff for the hockey franchise, some of them support staff for the arena and the other sports and events that used the space.

I didn’t need directions to the locker room. I heard them long before I saw them, a sort of low, short muttering. No one was laughing, no one was shooting off snipes and chirps. It was Monday morning and they’d just lost out on bagging a wizard.

This was going to be a less-than-friendly welcome.

I also smelled them before I reached the locker room. I paused in the hallway.

Cat, wolf. No sensitives. There was another scent in there. Coyote? Maybe more than one strange scent.

It was rare when a shifter deviated from Felidae or Canidae. I tried to remember who was what and drew a blank.

This was not my team. I’d walked away from my entire hockey family. I was alone here.

Holy shit.

It hit me hard enough I doubled over. I needed to breathe, but the realization of what I’d done roared down like an avalanche and squeezed everything out of me.

I’d lost them. I’d walked away. They would never be my family. They would never be my pack.

A knot clogged my throat and I swallowed hard. There was no spit in my mouth and things had gone fuzzy at the edges.

How could I have been so stupid?

The image of Random, anxious when he was just a little guy, but so much stronger now, plenty strong enough to take the hits on his own, flashed behind spots peppering my vision.

Yes, he could take the hits, but I was his big brother. His protector. I’d chosen to do this because it was the one hit I could take for him.

We were both adults now. There would be so many things in his life I wouldn’t be there for. So many hits he’d have to take that I wouldn’t be there to catch.

I knew he was strong enough. It was just this one thing, this one particular runaway freight train, was the thing I could stop.

Nowak hated him. Hated.

I’d like to think any coach would keep it professional no matter what his personal feelings were about a player, but I wasn’t stupid.

Hazard was good enough he should be in the pro leagues. Maybe in the next decade the NHL would change its policy and allow marked to join the league. If that happened, I wanted Hazard to get that chance.

Which meant he had to be developed by a coach invested in him becoming the best player he could be.

I knew that was Coach Clay.

I took a few steady breaths and pushed all those feelings to the side. Going into the locker room grieving would be like shaking a baby seal at a pool full of hungry sharks.

I straightened, adjusted the gear slung over one shoulder, and strode into the room.

“Hey boys,” I called out. Not too loud, since they were all so quiet. Not too friendly, not too aggressive. I needed to get a read on the room before I gifted them with the full Spark charisma.

Silence.

A few of them stared, but most of the team didn’t even look over at me.

Nice.

The All-American blond football-type Captain stepped away from his locker and held out his hand. “Spark.”

Tabor Steele. Center, known for his physical play, panther shifter. I didn’t like him because he’d tried to hurt Hazard at the beginning of the season.

I knew this would be part of the deal of signing up with the Tide. I’d have to make nice with a lot of guys for whom I had no nice left.

I shook his hand, and gritted my teeth around a smile. “Captain. Where do you want me?”

He bit the inside of his lip and narrowed his eyes, trying to keep this professional, pushing down the cat in him that sensed the wolf in me.

We let go of the handshake almost as quickly as it started and squared off like we were ready to drop gloves and grab sweaters.

He gave me a nod. “Empty stall right there. Next to Slade.”

I flicked a quick glance at Slade, got the basics: red hair, sharp features, all attitude, then looked back to my captain. “Just so you know, I’m not here to be a problem. I’m here to play hockey.”

He blinked, all cool cat and disbelief on a face that didn’t look like it was used to hosting many expressions. He didn’t believe my bullshit for a second.

Too bad. This time the bullshit was true.

The silence of the other players lacquered the air and made every breath heavy and thick.

“Sure, Spark,” he said. “The game is all this is about.”

A player sniffed, another made noise taping his stick, someone in the back got busy slamming things around in a locker.

Steele turned his back on me like I wasn’t his problem. Like I wasn’t enough to be worried about in the first place.

Neat.

I waded through the hostility and indifference and dropped my duffle where I’d been pointed. “Spark.” I stuck my hand out at the ginger.

His skin was pale as a diner coffee cup, and dusted with freckles like someone had held a cinnamon shaker over his face when he’d been made. He rubbed a finger under his nose and sniffed. “You stink like wolf.”

“I should.” I let my hand drop. “You got a problem, butterpup?”

His chin jerked, tipping his head so quickly his expression would be comical if it wasn’t so…sharp.

Those eyes, too. So hazel they were more yellow than brown.

That wasn’t cat behind his eyes. It wasn’t wolf either.

I took another quick sniff and finally placed it.

Fox.

Right. He’d been brought up to cover for one of their injured guys. Ginger was Icarus Slade. Weird name. Wondered if he was a weird guy. I hoped so.

“If you live long enough,” he said, “I’ll let you know if I have a problem.” Those yellow eyes slid to the side and I followed his gaze.

Sergei Drozdov, the Big Dog, the Big D. He was a defenseman, brutal, old school, fast and hard. He was also a wolf shifter.

Okay, not just a wolf shifter, there were five wolves on the team, four men and one woman. Six wolves in all, including me. He was pretty much the wolf shifter on the team. The big boy to whom everyone exposed belly and bared throat.

Yeah, this might be a problem.

I refused to go belly up for him. I also didn’t want to be torn apart by him. Literally.

This guy had accidentally-on-purpose killed a couple players on his way to dominating the field.

Oops. So sorry you’re dead.

Welcome to West Hell, folks. Hockey with a heaping side of blood and guts.

Last year someone had accidentally-on-purpose given him a lower body injury that had him out for the season. There were even rumors that this would be his last year. That he was going to retire.

Looked like his healing ability outstripped the doctor’s doom and gloom. The cold dead look in his eyes told me it wasn’t the end of his playing days.

When I was a kid, my dad told me to make friends before I assumed someone was my enemy.

My mom had told me that was good advice, but that I shouldn’t be afraid to hit first and ask questions later when needed.

My parents. Like, how lucky was I?

This first wolf-meet-wolf could go either way.

I nodded to the Big D and slid my gaze to the side. I was not challenging his authority or position on the team. I was not starting a fight. But I was not tipping my neck to offer him any of my squishy bits either.

This was an offer to live and let live. To ignore each other. I knew I was just passing through.

Coach Nowak would drop me the first chance he got.

There was no need for me to get tangled up here. No need for me to stake claim to anything.

Someone snarled. One of the other wolves.

Big D sniffed derisively. “Leave it alone,” he said in his low, heavy accent. “It is nothing.”

It. He wasn’t even going to acknowledge I was a wolf.

I stared at the floor, clenching my teeth and my fists. Like hell I was nothing. But if I argued that here, if I proved myself to the other second-marked on the team, there would be bloodshed. His. Mine.

I could give as good as I got, but it would be stupid to think I wouldn’t end up broken and bloody on a stretcher. He was a proven killer.

I inhaled through my teeth, exhaled the same way, trying to keep a hard hand on the beast inside me. Trying to ignore the howling in me to fight, fight, fight.

Big D slammed his stick against the bench, a gavel making his word law, then heaved up and lumbered out of the room.

The wolves—three men and one woman named Sava who played second line defense—close behind him.

I took another deep breath, the wolf in me twisting, simultaneously wanting to be in that pack, and wanting to tear it apart, teeth, gristle, bone.

“Looks like my problem’s solved,” Slade said. “’Cause you’re gonna be dead before the day’s over, Sparkle.”

Strangely, that was good. That was normal, him giving me shit for how spectacularly bad that had gone.

It was almost like being home.

“You love me, Slade. I can see it in your eyes. You like what you see. And who wouldn’t?” I held my arms out wide, displaying myself with a bright smile. “I’m just so very lovable.”

He held up his middle finger and twisted his wrist back and forth like he was screwing in an obscene lightbulb. His mouth tightened against a grin trying to knife its way out.

Yeah, he liked this shit too.

Good enough.

“Get on with it, Spark,” Steele said from where he was acting like he hadn’t seen all that go down.

“Yes, Captain.”

I dropped down onto the bench next to Slade and got busy keeping to myself.

No one else said anything. No shit-talk, no jokes, no bad metal music. An ice age slowly rolled through the room crushing everything in its path.

I hadn’t seen so many cold shoulders since I walked through a butcher’s freezer.

But there was more to the silence than everyone hating the new guy—because if nothing else, that came through loud and clear.

I was not welcome here.

They didn’t ask for me, they didn’t need me, they didn’t want me.

I didn’t belong.

I could understand that, but the silence got my hackles up. A locker room was never silent. Someone was always mouthing off, playing music, even if it was just overly loud through a pair of Earbuds.

The only sounds among these teammates who spent more time together than they did with their own families, was the tug of laces through skates, the shush of clothing being pulled on, the clack and rattle of equipment checked and shuffled as it was made ready for practice.

If not for those sounds, those very normal, familiar sounds of hockey about to happen, I wouldn’t even know where I was.

Weird. As. Hell.

I shucked out of my street clothes and kitted up. Everyone was gearing up for a skate, I did the same.

Head down. Play my position. Play my game. Work hard. No matter where Coach threw me. Mouth shut. Sealed. Silent.

I snuck glances at the other players as they suited up. None of them were wolves. Cats though. A lot of cats. Remembering Big D writing me off as nothing made me flush with heat. What had I wanted him to do? Fight?

Yes, I realized. Just the idea of teeth and claw and blood showing what I was, proving I was stronger than him, plucked at the inside of my chest, a dull pain like a heavy wire snapping somewhere between my lungs and my heart.

I wasn’t here to fight anyone for alpha status.

I’d never wanted to do that before.

And no matter the weird urges, I wasn’t alpha of any team. Especially not this team. I didn’t want that.

The dull pain plucked against my ribs again. The idea of being alpha turned a hard circle in me, pacing, wanting. Something I’d been trying to ignore for the last couple years pressed, stretched. Something I had no hesitation pushing away.

Nope. No. No way.

So we had five wolves on the team plus me.

The cats were pretty obvious. Anyone with eyes could tell who was a cat shifter. They moved a little like they were more tendon than bone, all fluid and dancer-like.

I counted ten cats. The husband-wife lion shifters were sort of a fascination in the league. She played left wing, he played center, both on the third line. I’d expected them to look alike, but he had dark, almost black hair, a strong hooked nose, and a hard face that was too wide at the cheek. She was tall, long-armed and thin, her hair straw colored and chopped shaggy on one side, buzzed up the other.

They sat next to each other as they got ready. They might not look alike, but they moved alike, in sync, each piece of gear going on in tandem, as if they were two bodies operated by the same puppet strings.

When they glanced up to meet my stare, they were mirror-twins, eyes burning with challenge.

I looked away. All the wolves were ignoring me, and all the cats hated me.

Terrific.

Ginger next to me was a fox, which explained that scent I hadn’t recognized. I knew one of the other D-men was a coyote, he’d been the one who had sent the refs on a chase during the first game Hazard and I had ever played against the Tide. I couldn’t smell any sensitives on the team.

No humans either. It wasn’t strange to have more Felidae or Canidae on a team, but all the teams had at least one sensitive, and most had a few humans.

Humans didn’t have physical advantages over the marked, but that didn’t mean they couldn’t out-hockey the marked.

Plus, some humans liked playing down in the Hell leagues where shit got the realest of the real. More blood and bruises than any of the other leagues, it was still hockey.

Hard, competitive, fierce, and rewarding.

For a certain kind of player, for a certain kind of person, this league was everything they could want and more.

I knew there were no wizards on the team since my man Haz was the one-and-only.

A wash of sadness threatened to overflow the banks of my brain, so I sandbagged that shit before it got anywhere near my tear ducts.

I pulled out my phone and texted Random.

I miss your smell, jerk.

It was dumb. It would be embarrassing if anyone read it. But it made me smile, so hey, win.

“Gonna be last on the ice first day, Sparkle?”

Slade stood, helmet in his hand, stick in the other, ready to go. Only two or three other players lingered, silent and sour.

“Jesus,” I muttered. “This place.”

Slade glanced over his shoulder, checking who was in the room, then leaned a little toward me. “Keep your head down. Don’t do cute. Show what you got on the ice, and keep your damn mouth shut.”

The last two players walked past us, acting as if they couldn’t hear us, which was a load of crap. They were marked, and had enhanced hearing.

Slade took a couple steps as if to follow them, and I stood.

He slowed his pace to give us a little more privacy from the guys in front of us.

“No talking at all? No yelling? Can we grunt? Growl? If we bleed do we have to make sure the drops of blood aren’t too loud?”

He huffed a short, small laugh. I thought maybe it was only a tiny portion of his usual laugh and I found myself wanting to know what the rest of it sounded like.

Did he laugh like a rusty wheel? Like a donkey? Did he have that stupid “yuck, yuck, yuck” we all gave JJ shit for while also doing everything we could to keep him laughing?

“Go ahead. Be an ass,” he said.

“I don’t want to make waves.”

He tipped his chin real quick and the tip of his tongue flicked the corner of his mouth then disappeared. “Yeah, you do. I’ve seen you play. I know what you’ve got in you.”

“What do I have in me?” I hadn’t meant it to come out as a challenge, but I was off my footing here. Unmoored.

“So much bullshit.”

My grin made my jaw hurt. I would have laughed but he closed the distance to the ice with a few strides that should not have gotten him that far that fast, then darted across it like an arrow, a flash of red swallowed up as he fastened his helmet mid-stride.

The rink was quiet, no music, no people in the seats. Just the team moving, the timpani and snare of our sport. The slap of pucks popping the boards, the punch of pucks smacking goalie blocker and pads. Skates scraped and sliced fresh ice, hissed in quick stops, sprayed snow in gusty exhales.

Hung between all that was the breathing of the players, the grunts, the calls.

Compared to the noise of a normal Thunderheads practice, this was grave-side silent.

I would lose my mind if my teammates never talked to each other. I could keep my mouth shut. But not forever, and not on the ice. Never on the ice.

It was a Pavlovian response: skates touch ice, mouth starts running.

I pressed my lips hard together and studied my teammates.

Thirty-one was slower on the ice than off it. Twenty was pulling a pre-game Crosby, tracing every line, every advertisement, every graphic under the ice with a puck, and doing it so well I was a little hypnotized.

Eleven and Seventy-one liked bashing the puck against the glass at about head-height. Repeatedly.

Our goalie… Holy mountain. No, holy entire mountain range.

Playing against the six foot six Paul Johnson, was one thing: he was fast, limber, and didn’t give up on a puck until he had it in his fist.

He also liked to break his stick and throw his blocker at his players when he was mad at them.

He was mad a lot.

That had played to my advantage when we were opponents. Get the goalie worked up, wait for the flying glove, then snap every damn shot as hard and fast as you could at his bare hand.

Here on his own ice, he came off as even more intimidating.

I scuffed a puck around just skating, limbering up, getting a feel for the team, how they moved, how they clicked, but I couldn’t get a read on it.

Even in practice, maybe especially in practice, the team seemed disjointed.

The wolves circled the boards, passing pucks tape to tape. But only to each other. The cats lined up to take shots on goal.

It was like there were two different teams on the ice.

No, three. The outcasts, which apparently included me, Slade and the coyote, Nadreau.

I had thought Nowak forced his team to throw those last few games so he could take his shot at Hazard. But after looking at this non-functional, non-integrated, non-team team trying to get through practice made me think I’d overestimated Nowak’s evil.

The players didn’t want anything to do with each other. From the shit effort they were putting into warm-ups, they didn’t want anything to do with the game either. And the assistant coach and special coaches weren’t much better.

What the hell had I gotten myself into?

A whistle broke the silence and players gathered at the bench where Coach Nowak stood glaring out at his domain. I followed along at the back of the pack.

Coach Nowak was a hard-faced man with a puckered scar down one side of his craggy face. He had dark hair and angry eyes and was in combat shape. Everything about him waved the militant flag. The black pants and jacket, cut tight enough to show he had all the muscle he needed to take us down if he wanted.

To top off his asshole ensemble, he carried a stun rod at his hip.

A fucking stun rod.

Okay, I knew they were part of the league. I knew they were necessary. Sometimes shifters got out of control. Hockey players lost their cool. Claws were bared. Bones broke. Shit happened.

But this was fucking practice. This was where we put in the time and work to become a team that gelled. A team that clicked.

There was no conversation or play that would justify the use of a weapon. We were all on the same side here.

Either he wore it because he was a crappy coach and let things get out of hand, or he wore it because he wanted to look tough.

Ass. Hole.

He waited while we all stood there, muscles getting cold and stiff. He glared at each player in turn until they looked away.

And hey, if that’s how this game was played, deal me in.

When his gaze met mine, I held it with as much respect as I could muster, then slid my gaze sideways so he could be the big alpha asshole he thought he was.

Still, the silence. Sweat trailed from my pits to my waistband, itching.

I wanted to wipe my face, but no one else was moving.

Someone skated on the ice behind us. I squashed the desire to turn and look.

The rattle of pucks meant the new skater was one of the assistant coaches setting things up for drills.

“Break into teams,” Coach barked.

“Fucking finally,” I exhaled a little louder than I wanted to. Coach’s Mt. Doom stare swiveled my way.

Slade tapped his stick almost silently against my skate.

I took the hint, ducked my head, and avoided eye contact.

I was not going to bare my neck. I didn’t bare my neck to anyone.

“You’ll remain, Mr. Spark.”

Everyone quickly and silently skated off, no comments, no “yes, Coach.” They formed mixed groups on either side of the ice, and finally made some real noise.

The assistant coaches weren’t silent, and within moments, there was conversation, shouts, and unbelievably, quick chuckles.

“What are you doing on my ice?” Coach Nowak asked.

“Standing, Coach.” So much for not being a smart ass.

I thought I heard a snicker, but didn’t dare take my eyes away from staring over Coach’s shoulder.

“I didn’t want you on my ice, Mr. Spark. I haven’t invited you to my locker room. I sure as hell don’t need you in my arena. But you are here. Right here. In my house. You think you have any power? You think you are worth a gnat’s ass to me? You are nothing. And the sooner you understand that, the better.”

“Line-to-line, Mr. Spark,” he ordered. “You don’t stop until I tell you to stop.”

Bag skate. Fuck me. He was going to push me through drills until I puked.

God damn.

But all I said was, “Yes, Coach.”

And for the rest of the day I didn’t pay any damn attention to the other players, or the other coaches, or the silence, or the conversations or the shit cohesion of the team or anything else.

All I heard was my own heartbeat, my pounding pulse, my hard breathing. All I heard was Coach’s whistle breaking me into one grueling drill after another.

Hard work became painful work. Painful work became agony. Somewhere beyond agony was this fork in the road. A place where either I chose to hold on to being human and pass out from exhaustion, or go down that other fork in the road where the wolf waited.

Waited with burning eyes, hungry for a chance to chew its way out of the chains of my weakened will. Waiting for its chance to turn on my tormentor and make him pay.

Yeah, that couldn’t happen.

I held the wolf back, fought against the rushing, primal survival need to give in to it. To give in to the magic it shaped within me.

Coach knew what he was doing. Knew he was pushing me to the edge of my limit. Knew he was going to find out just how good, or bad, my control over the beast really was.

The whistle blew again. Coach yelled at me to move, to skate, to do it faster and do it now. The bang bang bang of that fucking prod slammed against the boards, punctuating his orders.

To remind me he could hurt me at any moment.

To remind me he had full control over me.

To remind me he liked me in pain and would make sure I remained in pain.

Pissed. Me. Off.

I wanted to bite, to break, to tear.

My breath came out in short, hard growls. The beast was so close to the surface, I could taste the metallic tang of blood in my mouth.

No, wait, there shouldn’t be blood in my mouth.

I blinked hard and pulled up short. Had I hurt someone?

I pressed my glove against my mouth. It was my blood. I’d bitten through my lip. I hadn’t felt it, but a dizzy wave of relief rocked the world under my feet.

“I did not tell you to stop.”

Coach was suddenly in front of me. I hadn’t seen him move. Or maybe he hadn’t moved. He’d probably just told the ice to slide to the side until he was standing in front of me, and I bet the whole arena, the city, and the tectonic plates beneath the continent had shifted to his wishes.

“Skate, Mr. Spark. Now.”

I held up my bloody hand, because words just weren’t making it through my brain anymore. I was hot. Really hot. But also really cold. I’d puked so many times, my stomach had crawled around behind my spine and tied itself in a knot. I wasn’t sure I was breathing hard enough for oxygen to stick. My heartbeat was a hummingbird.

Blood ran down my chin fast enough to click, click, click as it hit the ice at my feet.

I remembered that, the blood falling.

“You’re not done until I tell you you’re done.”

I did not remember seeing him pull the stun prod off his belt.

I did not remember him swinging it at my head.

I remembered the look in his eyes right before I blacked out though. It was not the look of an animal. It was something much, much worse.