Page 77 of Pucking Feral: Part Two

Great.

I heave a tired sigh—tired because I didn't fucking sleep last night, all I could do was stare at Ivy as she slept in bed, alone, not in my arms or anywhere near me, with fresh sheets and blankets that don't have my scent on them—and sign back stiffly.

I don't care about the fan chat.

I start pulling on my actual uniform.

Whiskey hesitates, chewing his cheek worriedly. "It's about you."

I glance back at him, frowning. What do you mean?

"Whiskey. Wraith. We gotta go," Thane's voice carries from across the locker room. "Time to face the music."

Whiskey swallows whatever he was about to tell me like he's swallowing rocks and lets out a nervous chuckle. "You don't gotta sound so fuckin' menacing, bro," he calls back to Thane, lumbering in his direction. He drags a hand through his hair with a glance back at me that looks…

Worried?

By the time we're dressed and heading toward the tunnel, the "media circus" as Whiskey calls it is already in full swing.

Cameras flash.

Voices shout questions.

The usual chaos of game day multiplied by the rivalry factor.

Ghosts versus Demons.

The matchup everyone's been waiting for.

If only they knew what else is at stake.

A cluster of reporters surrounds us the moment we step out of the locker room. Microphones shoved in faces. Questions fired like bullets.

"Thane! How are you feeling about tonight's matchup?"

"Whiskey! Any comment on the rumors about your shoulder injury?"

"Plague! Sources say you've been distracted lately. Care to elaborate?"

I hang back like always, letting the others field the questions. Reporters don't usually bother with me. Not worth it to try to conduct an interview with a feral alpha who communicates through growls and sign language.

But today...

Today something's different.

The reporters keep glancing at me. Quick, furtive looks that they think I don't notice. Whispered conversations that cut off when I turn my head. The usual nervous energy that surrounds me has intensified into something else.

Fear, yes.

But also curiosity.

Hungry curiosity.

Like they know something I don't.

The gaiter feels tighter against my face, even though I'm more than used to them by now. I scan the crowd of media personnel, trying to identify the source of the shift, but everyone's studiously avoiding direct eye contact with me.

Whiskey's working the crowd like usual with his booming laughs and charm, but there's something forced about it.