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14

TREVOR

“No practice for you today, and you’re scratched for tonight’s game,” Coach tells me in the morning as we walk into the dining room for breakfast. “For your own good. I know you’re banged up and exhausted. I don’t want you to risk a more serious injury.”

“No,” I say hotly as anger courses through me. “I’m playing. I’ve scored every time we’ve played the Cryptid. We need the points for the standings. Liam, please, don’t do this.”

I almost never call Coach by his first name. It’s not how we do things. We’re friends, and he’s going to be my brother-in-law, but we keep those connections out of the rink.

Sighing, he runs his hand through his hair and looks around, leading me out of the dining room and to a pair of chairs set in a relatively private area of the lobby. We sit in the dark brown leather chairs, facing each other. Coach leans forward and rests his elbows on his knees, his hands loosely clasped.

“Listen, Trev, I’m doing this for your own good. I see what’s happening on the ice. You’re being targeted.”

“I can handle it.”

“There’s no doubt you’re tough and will take whatever anyone dishes out. But we can’t risk you suffering a season-ending injury because you’re too stubborn to rest. We’re off two days before our next game, and it’s at home, so you’re going to be able to sleep in your own bed instead of switching time zones constantly. You can heal. I know your ribs are aching. Are they cracked? Do you need to be seen by the team doctor?”

I shake my head. “No. I’m fine. So I’m going to sit up in the stands, twiddling my thumbs like an asshole? Who’s taking my spot?”

“Moving Mac to center and Alvarez to first-line wing.”

“Fucking dance show,” I grumble. “This wouldn’t be happening if you didn’t force me to do it.”

And I wouldn’t have met Sophie. I guess this is what they mean by bittersweet. Her dream is killing mine. But I can’t not help her reach hers. I need to do better. Keep my head on a swivel so I can avoid the hits on the ice. Pass the puck more. If I don’t have the puck, they can’t hit me.

I sense Sophie’s presence as she enters the lobby. I smell her first—oranges and vanilla today. And before I can swivel in my chair to look for her, the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. My body knows when she’s nearby. And then there she is, stepping off the elevator with her brother and Randi. My wolf is happier having her near, and I’m happy too. So damn happy to see her smiling. My heart aches. I feel guilty being so miserable doing something she loves. It’s not that I don’t enjoy dancing, I do. But I can’t enjoy it while it’s taking away time from the thing I love. If the show was during the summer, it’d be an entirely different situation. But it’s not. So I have to make the best of the hand I’ve been dealt.

Coach and I join the others in the breakfast room, sitting with Randi, Mac, Daphne, Logan, and Sophie. I order juice and look over the menu. After placing our orders, Sophie touches my arm to get my attention. She’s beaming.

“It’s shifter week! We’ll film an intro with us as our wolves that they’ll show before we dance in the ballroom. The song we have is beautiful. I’d never heard it before. Oh, our style is contemporary ballroom, so we’ll have some freedom. I’m so excited! Want to hear the song?”

She’s bouncing in her seat, and the joy radiating off her is a punch to the solar plexus. I want her to be excited and happy doing what she loves, but I know this week will mean extra work filming as my wolf. I don’t shift a lot during hockey season because it’s strenuous. I tend to save it for when I have a few days off. And I’m not banged all to hell.

“Yeah,” I say, trying to muster a smile. “Let’s hear it.”

Randi and Daphne are nodding eagerly. They love all the show stuff, all the peeks behind the scenes.

Sophie hits play, and the first notes shiver into the air—acoustic guitar with a light drumbeat. Daphne gasps as a female vocalist starts singing in a high, clear voice about a full moon rising and a whisper of a breeze.

“Sunshine, are you okay?” Logan asks as he gently brushes away a tear trailing down his wife’s cheek. “Is it Birdie?”

She shakes her head no and gives a wobbly smile as Sophie hits pause on the song.

“I haven’t heard that song in forever!” she says.

“You know it after that tiny bit?” Sophie asks. “I’ve never heard of it.”

Daphne nods. “It’s from the early 90s, Kathy Mattea. The song is called ‘Asking Us to Dance.’ It was my parents’ favorite song. They’d dance to it in the kitchen when I was a little girl. It’s been close to fifteen years since I’ve heard it.” She sniffles and swallows hard. “Not since they died.”

“Are you going to be okay?” I ask. Daphne’s parents died in a car accident when she was a teenager, and I know the loss has been weighing heavily on her now that she’s about to have a child.

Daphne’s smile is brilliant. “Yes, absolutely! The night of the live show would’ve been their thirtieth wedding anniversary. They got pregnant with me their senior year of college and had a courthouse wedding. You guys dancing to that song is like a sign they’re with me and Birdie.”

Now we all have tears in our eyes.

“What is contemporary ballroom?” Randi asks, obviously trying to move us on to happier topics and regain composure. I’m glad she does. No one has danced it on the show yet.

“It’s a mashup.” Sophie smiles at me. “You’re going to smash this, Trevor. I’m so excited. It’s a mix of no-rules contemporary dance and elements of ballroom. So we can do lifts and leaps and then incorporate the Viennese waltz. I can picture it… It’s going to be gorgeous. Can we start choreo after your practice? I know it’s only an hour or so, but you’ll get the contemporary part easily, and you know the basics of waltzing already.”

The server delivering our meals buys me time in responding.

“I don’t have practice today,” I say before taking a bite of my spinach omelet.

“We don’t?” Mac asks.

“I don’t,” I say with emphasis. “Because I’m not playing tonight.”

Randi gasps. Mac freezes with his teacup halfway to his lips.

Sophie gives an excited little clap. “You have the day off? So we can practice extra? Yay!”

I close my eyes and lower my head. Before I can say anything, Mac responds.

“Soph. He’s not playing because he’s hurt.” Mac raises a brow and swings his eyes to mine. “Right? Coach is making you rest?”

I nod, afraid to look at Sophie. I don’t want to see the anger or disappointment—or both—on her beautiful face. Especially since she’s so excited.

It’s like the entire dining room’s gone silent. I open my eyes and look around, but no one is looking at me. They don’t have to. They’re shifters, and they can hear a blue jay fart two blocks away.

“Oh, Trevor,” Sophie says sadly, taking my hand where it’s resting on the table. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

I give a slight shrug, mostly because a full one causes movement in my ribs and my left shoulder aches from hitting the glass last night. Swallowing the lump in my throat, I chance a glance at her. Her eyes are a darker blue than usual, and her brow is furrowed. I hate seeing worry clouding her expression.

“It’s not a big deal, Soph. I’m sore. A couple days rest, and I’ll be good as new.”

Daphne points her fork at me. “You’re getting hit like you’re a pi?ata at a six-year-old’s birthday party. You’re a target. It’s amazing you haven’t been hurt more severely.”

“Wait.” Sophie focuses on Daphne. “They’re hitting him on purpose? More than usual? Why?”

No one answers her, and everyone trains their eyes on their plates.

“Because of the show?” she asks.

Mac clears his throat. “Yeah. Some of our opponents are saying nasty shit to him and playing more physically than usual.”

“Well, punch them. Aren’t hockey fights a thing?” She curls her fingers into tiny fists like she’s going to fight them on my behalf. I bet she would, given the opportunity.

Mac shakes his head. “We’re not allowed to fight. We can be kicked out of the league. It’s not like the human professional league. Every time Carter has the puck, he has a target on his back.”

Sophie slams her tiny fist on the table. “Then stop passing him the puck!” She looks around like we’re idiots for not thinking of that.

“My job is to get the puck and shoot it in the net. If I don’t have the puck, there’s no reason for me to be on the ice, and I may as well be figure skating.” I rest my hand on her thigh so I don’t strain my shoulder. Thankfully I can use my fingers to caress her without feeling pain. Her hand drops to mine, and she lightly runs her fingertips along the back of my hand. It’s the barest of touches, but it’s soothing a lot of my aches and pains.

“Can’t you avoid them?” Her voice is husky, and tears glisten in her eyes.

“I can’t play scared. That’s a sure way to get hurt. I get hit. It’s part of the game. I’ve been hit thousands of times. I’ve been playing since I was a kid. If you don’t want to get hit, you shouldn’t play in a professional league.”

“So, quit the show,” Sophie says quietly. “It’s not worth it if you’re going to get hurt because of it.”

I look up to see Mac’s eyes boring into me. I feel the weight of all my teammates’ eyes on me. She’s giving me an out. I can focus on hockey, and we can get back to playing more consistently.

It’s tempting.

But I can’t do it.

“No.” I shake my head firmly. “I’m not quitting. I made a commitment, and I’m going to honor it. It’s three more weeks. I can do it. But I’m taking a rest day today. We can start choreo when we get home tomorrow.”

I don’t look at my teammates to see what their opinions are. The gratitude and maybe something more shining in Sophie’s eyes is all I need. I don’t know if I’m making the right decision, but it’s the only choice I can make.