Page 309 of Pucking Feral: Part Two

"Get it done, Thane."

"Yeah." I swallow. "I'll figure it out."

"I know you will." He pauses. "Is Wraith in any condition to play?" he adds, his voice softening slightly. Not much, but… a little.

The truth is, he isn't. He's suffering. And wearing masks is making it worse, which is why he's hiding up in a VIP box with Ivy right now with the hood of his sweatshirt up and the loosest face gaiter he has.

"No," I answer honestly. "He's going to the doctor tomorrow."

"Alright." He pauses again, and I hear Mom's voice in the distance. He sighs and adds, "Your mother says hi. And to give Wraith a hug from her. She wants you to bring Ivy to dinner with the rest of the pack. Don’t forget."

He hangs up.

I stand in the tunnel, staring at the phone in my hand. Then I shove it into the pocket of my warmup jacket and press my knuckles against the concrete wall until the sting in my skin overrides the sting in my chest.

End of the month.

Two weeks to convince a seven-foot-three feral alpha with deteriorating nerve damage and teeth that can shear through bone to bite the woman he loves without maiming her.

I push off the wall and head for the locker room.

Plague is already dressed from the waist down, sitting on the bench with his legs crossed, lacing his skates and muttering something under his breath that sounds a hell of a lot like "going to kill you and I'm going to make it hurt Whiskey." There's a white bandage on his neck peeking out from his curtain of dark hair, covering the bite scar Whiskey gave him.

Valek is at his stall, fully suited except for his gloves, leaning back against the wall with his arms crossed and his silver eyes half-closed. He looks like he's sleeping standing up, like a horse.

He very well could be. He's been uncharacteristically relaxed since marking Ivy the other night. Against all odds, he's quickly becoming my favorite alpha in the pack other than my brother.

My least favorite right now is blaring Take On Me from his newest toy, a portable speaker held in the wings of a rubber duck with sunglasses, and⁠—

"THANE! BRO! Watch this!"

Whiskey is standing shirtless in the middle of the locker room with a roll of stick tape in each hand, oiled up for some reason, bite scar on full display, struggling to dual-wield wrap two sticks simultaneously.

It's not going well.

"Whiskey."

"Hold on, I almost⁠—"

The tape on the left stick catches on itself and the whole roll unspools onto the floor in a tangled mess. Whiskey stares blankly at it.

"That doesn't count," he announces.

"Whiskey…"

"I'm telling you, it was working two seconds ago. Plague, you saw it working."

"I saw nothing," Plague says without looking up from his skates.

This is what they were arguing about?

"For fuck's sake, Whiskey," I say, louder.

Something in my voice makes him stop. He drops both sticks on the bench and turns to face me, the goofy grin replaced by a devil-may-give-a-fuck smirk.

"Why the stick up your ass, Cap'n Crunchy?"

I'm going to kill him before the Wasps can.