Page 21 of Pucking Feral: Part Two

"We have a game next week," Whiskey interrupts, sitting up straighter despite the wince he stifles. "Against our rivals. The Demons. And I'm not missing it."

"I'm afraid medical advice supersedes your game schedule," the doctor says, unmoved by his protest.

"Nah, see, you don't understand." Whiskey's entire demeanor shifts, that easy charm replaced by something darker. More intense. "There's this one alpha in particular we need to wipe the floor with. And I'm not missing that opportunity."

The menace in his voice makes my eyebrows raise. Whiskey rarely gets genuinely threatening. When he does, it's usually for good reason.

He's talking about Wade Kelly.

My nails bite into my palms before I realize what I'm doing.

"I can't clear you for contact sports," the doctor says firmly, though she already sounds resigned. Like she's picked up on the fact Whiskey isn't going to listen, and neither am I, for that matter. "Your shoulder⁠—"

"Will be just fine, ma'am," Whiskey finishes. "I've played through worse."

"That's inadvisable."

"Noted." Whiskey smiles and takes the discharge papers, already swinging his legs off the table. "Thanks for the patch job, Doc. You're a real one."

He holds out his fist.

To fist bump her.

She sighs, clearly recognizing a losing battle, but she doesn't take him up on the fist bump offer. That is apparently a bridge too far for a doctor who was practically pawing at him a few minutes ago.

"At least ice the shoulder regularly," she says. "And if the pain gets worse⁠—"

"I'll come straight back, Doc," Whiskey lies smoothly. "Promise."

We gather our partially destroyed shirts and make our way through the hospital corridors. My ribs protest every movement. Perhaps the doctor had a point about resting.

Oh, well.

I pull out my phone, trying once again to reach Thane.

"Still nothing?" Whiskey asks, glancing at my screen. "Huh. Maybe they're too busy fucking to answer."

Heat crawls up my neck despite my best efforts. "Whiskey."

"Dude. Come on." Whiskey's grin is back. The one that makes me want to simultaneously punch him and... other things. "Wraith's already gotten some. Thane's with 'em. You do the math."

I don't want to do the math.

The "math" involves highly detailed mental images of our scent matched omega between our pack leader and his feral brother, taking them both at once, crying out their names while I'm stuck in a Canadian hospital with bruised ribs and an even more bruised ego.

I've always had a terribly vivid imagination, and apparently, I'm jealous.

We turn a corner toward the exit, and Whiskey suddenly grabs my arm, yanking me behind a wall divider with surprising force for someone who supposedly has an injured shoulder.

"What the fu⁠—"

His hand clamps over my mouth, silencing my protest in the meat of his palm. He's lucky I don't bite him. But his eyes are wide, urgent, focused on something around the corner.

I pause, listening.

Voices. Multiple people. One of them deep, smooth, accented, and distinctly familiar in the worst possible way.

"—ridiculous. She'll be fine after the surgery, but she's being completely unreasonable about staying overnight."