Page 55 of Pucking Feral: Part Two

"You're gonna lose your pony," Whiskey pipes up from across the aisle, leaning forward to watch our game.

Plague's jaw tightens. "I know what I'm doing."

"Just saying, Val's got his pope lined up perfectly."

"I'm aware. And it's a bishop and a knight, not⁠—"

I take the knight.

Plague counters by threatening my queen. Smart play, even if it's going to cost him his rook in three moves.

"Told you," Whiskey says helpfully.

"If you don't shut up," Plague grits out, not taking his eyes off the board, "I'm going to make you regret ever learning to speak."

Whiskey bites his own lips to hold back whatever he was about to say that was clearly not suitable for mixed company.

Plague moves his bishop, and I see the trap he's setting, using my aggression against me. I counter with a pawn push that opens up his king's flank.

"He's really topping you, bro," Whiskey says to Plague.

Plague's hand freezes mid-reach for his rook. He takes in a long, controlled breath through his nose. "It's called having the advantage. "

"Sure," Whiskey agrees easily. "That's definitely what it's called."

Plague makes his move angrily, the magnetic piece clicking against the board loud enough to make the flight attendant glance over.

I study the new board position, genuinely impressed despite myself. He's good. Too distracted by his packmate to best me, but good. Better than any opponent I've had before. If it weren't for Whiskey, we might even reach a stalemate.

"Your move," Plague says, his eyes meeting mine in challenge.

I take Plague's remaining knight, and the endgame becomes inevitable. Three moves later, I have him in checkmate.

"Good game," I say, meaning it.

"Again," Plague demands immediately.

I raise an eyebrow. "We'll be landing soon."

"Then we'll play quickly."

There's something almost desperate in his tone. Like he needs this. Needs the distraction of the board, the predictability of the rules, something he can control when everything else is chaos.

I understand that better than he knows.

"Fine." I reset the pieces. "But this time, you're white."

We play three more games. He takes the second one. The third game goes to me again, though it's closer than the first. By the fourth, we're landing, and Plague looks genuinely disappointed when the flight attendant asks us to put away our tray tables.

"I want a rematch," he mutters as I pack up the chess set.

"Anytime," I find myself saying, and for some reason, I actually mean it.

Whiskey has been blessedly quiet for the last game, absorbed in whatever movie he had the foresight to download to his phone before the flight. But now he's back to his usual chaos energy as we taxi to the gate.

"Home sweet home," he announces, rising to get their carry-ons out of the overhead compartment. "Can't wait to sleep in my own fuckin' bed. You still staying in our pack house, Valek?"

"I am," I say dryly.