Page 78 of Pucking Feral: Part Two

His timing's off.

His jokes fall flat.

He keeps sneaking glances in my direction, like he's trying to find a way to pry himself away from the crowds to finish our conversation.

Hamming it up is his favorite activity.

Something isn't just off.

Something is fucking wrong.

A pair of fans with backstage passes approach, gushing about autographs and photos. It distracts Thane, Plague, and Whiskey enough that they don't notice Valek stepping away from the group.

I do.

I growl to Whiskey, pointing after him.

Plague wastes no time calling out to Valek, already walking after him. "Where are you going?" he asks, his voice carrying that edge he uses when he's trying to sound commanding instead of concerned.

Valek doesn't even look back. "To have a few words with my old teammates."

"Valek—"

Now he turns.

"Be careful," Plague tells him. "Don't fuck up."

"I won't."

Then he's gone, slipping through the crowd of reporters like a ghost, heading toward wherever the Demons are warming up.

I glance to Thane.

He shakes his head at me. Leave it.

So we let him go.

Not like we can physically stop him anyway.

"Shit," Whiskey mutters under his breath. "This is gonna end great."

Thane's called away for an interview about predictions and team chemistry. He shoots me a look before he goes—keep it together—and then he's swallowed by the media swarm.

Plague drifts toward the equipment area, probably to triple-check his gear.

That leaves me and Whiskey, standing in the relative quiet of the tunnel entrance, surrounded by noise but somehow apart from it.

Whiskey shifts his weight.

Runs a hand through his damp hair.

Opens his mouth, closes it, opens it again.

"Hey, uh." His voice is lower than usual. Almost nervous. "Can we talk? Just you and me? There's something I gotta⁠—"

"Excuse me?"

A voice I don't recognize cuts through whatever Whiskey was about to say. Female. Professional. The wary tone of a reporter used to approaching difficult subjects.