Page 92 of Pucking Feral: Part Two

"Didn't know they let serial killers wander into opposing locker rooms," he mutters.

"Didn't know they let you evolve from enforcer to power forward."

His lips twitch. As close to a smile as Nikolai ever gets.

"Fuck off."

"After we talk."

Now he looks up. One eye real, one prosthetic—matched well enough that most people can't tell. Both fix on me with cool assessment.

Some fans think we're secretly brothers, if only because we share a mother tongue and similar hair color. Convenient, when we want to shit talk without prying ears eavesdropping.

And he would sell Wade out for sport at the first opportunity.

I switch to Russian. "I need a favor. I'll owe you, after."

"A favor, huh?" He doesn't sound surprised. Doesn't sound annoyed either, which is new. He almost sounds happy to see me. "Figured you weren't here to chat because of my sparkling personality."

"Keep an eye on Wade tonight. I have reason to believe he's sabotaging the game," I lie easily. "Has he been more of an ass than usual lately?"

Nikolai snorts. "Yeah. He's been crazier than usual since his fiancee took off. He's getting paranoid because he's been brought in for questioning a few times. Cops think he might've had something to do with it and aren't convinced she's just 'missing.' The missing finger doesn't help."

"Missing finger?" I echo, tilting my head. "Do you not believe his story about a dog attack?"

Nikolai gives me a wry grin. "I like to think Ivy took a piece of him with her when she took off."

Across the room, Wade has rejoined a cluster of younger players who laugh too loudly at things that aren't funny. His eyes keep cutting toward us, flinty with resentment.

Let him watch and wonder.

"Hey, V. Niko. Speak English." Wade's voice carries deliberately, pitched for an audience.

"Howdy, Wade!" I say brightly in my best white bread American accent. The dead-behind-the-eyes smile I plaster on makes Wade physically shrink.

He recovers quickly with a sneer. "What? Did getting your head caved in by their resident freak finally lobotomize you? Speaking of Wraith, are those pictures of his fucked up face going around real?"

The locker room quiets. A few players exchange uncomfortable glances. Others smirk, hungry for drama. Raven isn't among them. He shoots Wade a disgusted look and turns back to his locker, suddenly very interested in his tape job.

Not surprising. As vicious as he and Nikolai are toward each other, Raven has always had a bone to pick with Wade for being a prick about his ex-lover's scar and missing eye.

"You have a pattern," I say, keeping my voice perfectly mild despite the way my lip automatically wants to curl when I speak to him. "A pattern of running your mouth about things you don't understand."

"Oh yeah?" He spreads his arms, playing to the cheap seats. "What's Wraith's pattern, then? Besides racking up penalties on the ice and mauling the opposing team?"

Funny. He's still bitter about that game—though not because Wraith nearly killed him, no matter how much he'd like everyone to believe that.

No, it's because Whiskey slammed Wade face-first into the glass from behind and left a smear of blood and snot like a snail's trail. And when Wade bent down to pick up his lost tooth, Whiskey proceeded to skate in circles all over the rink, dry humping the air and barking like a dog.

That is why Wade hates the Ghosts.

"Wraith does have a pattern," I say, turning my head slightly to find Raven glancing sideways at me from his locker. "With wingers."

Raven laughs nervously. "Well. That's not menacing at all."

"Good luck tonight," I tell him.

His smile stays fixed, but I catch the way his fingers tighten on the jersey in his hands.