Page 43 of Pucking Feral: Part Two

Caleb snorts into his water glass. Rae kicks him under the table. Finn doesn't even try to hide his laughter.

And this is why I avoid family dinners.

The server appears, rescuing us all from whatever my mother was about to say next. Steaks for Whiskey and Plague, salmon for my mother and for Rae, some kind of artisanal pasta for Finn that comes with a wine pairing he's far too excited about, considering this is an establishment with a giant wooden beaver gnawing on the side of it. Caleb decides he wants the same.

"And for you?" the server asks me, her pen poised.

"Blue rare ribeye. No sides."

"A man after my own heart," Whiskey says, earning another round of laughter from my family.

I'm going to kill him.

Slowly.

Starting with the balls, somehow.

The server retreats, and my mother immediately launches into interrogation mode, asking Whiskey and Plague about their families, their lives, how they manage to balance hockey with their relationship.

It's masterful, really. The way Whiskey deflects personal questions with humor while Plague provides just enough detail to seem forthcoming without actually revealing anything substantive.

Makes me wonder just how long they've been lying to people about what they are to each other.

"So Val," Whiskey says, turning those honey-brown innocent puppy dog eyes on me with fake casualness. "You played with the Demons before joining the Ghosts, right?"

Ah. There it is.

The real reason they're here.

Not for team bonding. But to dig into my past, looking for... what? Connections to Wade Kelly? Evidence that I'd ever help cover up an omega's abuse?

My hand tightens on my water glass.

Under the table, I deliver a sharp kick to Whiskey's shin.

He doesn't even flinch, the bastard. Just keeps that easy smile plastered on his face while his work boot presses back against mine in warning.

"Briefly," I say to him, keeping my voice neutral. "One season before I was traded."

"Must have been interesting," Plague adds, his tone too carefully disinterested. "The Demons have quite a reputation."

"For what?" Caleb asks, because my brother is genuinely curious and has no idea he's watching a verbal chess match.

"Excellence," I say flatly. "They win games."

"And they have Wade Kelly," Whiskey continues, like he can't help himself. "Heard you two were on the team at the same time, too."

Another kick. Harder this time.

Whiskey's smile doesn't waver, but I see Plague's hand move under the table again. Whatever he does, it makes Whiskey's grin twitch and his eyes water in pain.

At least one of them has some sense.

"We were," I admit, because denying it would be pointless. "I didn't particularly like him."

"Really?" My mother looks surprised. "But he seems so charming in interviews. Poor boy, with his fiancée going missing like that⁠—"

Both alphas go rigid.