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ELLIETTE

C ocky-ass berserker.

I fought an eye roll from my seat in the packed stands as number seventeen straddled his hockey stick like a hobby horse and skated around the rink while spanking his own ass.

I guessed that was one way to celebrate your third goal of the game. The diehard Minnesota Spriggans fans who’d come to watch the pre-season match-up cheered madly, some even pounding on the glass.

“Elli, who is that?” my friend Amy asked.

Her question came out breathily, which was odd. Amy had been my college roommate for all four years, so I knew she wasn’t into jocks. In fact, she’d be the first to admit she was way too shy to put herself in the path of so much swagger.

“That’s Tate Brass.” I said, activating my tablet. I put my fingers to the keyboard and typed out: #17 TATE brASS, RIGHT WING, HAT-TRICK.

“He’s a freight train,” said Jen, my best friend since kindergarten, who sat on my other side .

“I know,” Amy said on an exhale. “Did you see him? He blew right through that guy like he was air, then made the perfect pass.”

I looked up from my notes when I realized Amy wasn’t commenting on Brass’s latest goal. “Who are you talking about?”

“Him.” Amy pointed at number twelve, who I supposed could easily be compared to a locomotive. He had a reputation for plowing down defenses all across the league.

“That’s Rafe MacConall,” I informed her. “Team captain.”

“Amazing,” Amy breathed.

I shook my head because I hadn’t come to the rink to fan-girl over any of the players. I was here because—not to be dramatic, but—my life depended on it. My friends had come along to provide moral support.

“And what is he?” Amy asked. She wound her long, glossy black hair up into a knot, then secured it with the bright green scrunchie she’d been wearing around her wrist. “You know…besides a freight train.”

“He plays left wing.” I jotted down Jen’s freight-train comparison. If my interview went well tomorrow, the colorful description could come in handy for a future article.

“No,” Jen interjected. “What Amy means is, what is he?”

I looked up just as Rafe MacConall hopped over the boards and onto the bench. “Oh. He’s a hell hound.”

That was probably a good idea—to note every player’s species—so I added HELL HOUND to my profile on MacConall and typed out BEAR BERSERKER after my note on Brass.

Slowly, over the last seventy years, those creatures whom humans had once thought of as myths and monsters— namely, berserkers, shifters, and fae—had integrated themselves into the human population.

Now that they no longer lurked in the shadows, they were well represented in government, law, education, and medicine.

But when it came to professional sports, that’s where they truly dominated.

No surprise there, of course. They were bigger, stronger, and faster than humans, not to mention more cunning.

Some of them—like hell hounds and dryads—could even travel through the fourth dimension. They called it tilting . Popping out of one place and popping back in at another. It sounded terrifying.

What if you disappeared and something went wrong? What if you never popped back in ? I’d felt invisible so many times in my life, the very idea was a fate worse than death.

Anyway, because only a few kinds of creatures could tilt, it was deemed an unfair advantage and banned during games.

Other advantages, however, went unchecked, which was why only a handful of humans—like my big brother Evan—were still competitive enough to keep their spots in the National Hockey League, now rebranded the Savage League.

Evan and the other two humans on the Spriggans stuck together like a team within a team, and while some human fans resented our shrinking roles on the ice, most fans celebrated the sport’s elevated performances.

Personally, I tried not to care either way about monsters. Not that I was a bigot; it was just that I’d been burned once for caring too much, and that particular blister had never fully healed.

“Are they all hell hounds on this team?” Jen asked. “Besides your brother I mean.” She fixed a snap that had popped open on the front of her down vest—a common occurrence given Jen’s curves and penchant for buying clothes two sizes too small.

“No. There’s a dryad, a selkie, and Tate Brass and both goalies are berserker bears.”

“Ah,” Jen said, glancing toward the net. “I can totally see that. What about wolves?”

Berserkers were a species of shifters who came in three types: bears, boars, and wolves. Their history of brutal warfare meant they were usually at the center of any fights that broke out on the ice.

“No wolves,” I said, and I’d made sure of that before even considering coming to the arena. In fact, I didn’t care if I never saw another berserker wolf for as long as I lived.

“But…” I tightened my ponytail. “One of the centers is a gancanagh, which is just as bad, so stay away from that one.”

“Noted,” Jen said, because everyone knew those smooth-talking Irish fae known as gancanagh could charm the panties off a nun. “And whatever you do, please, don’t mention him to Brielle.”

“Why’s that?” Amy asked.

“Come on,” Jen said. “You know my little sister can’t resist a bad boy.”

I thought that was a bit of the pot calling the kettle black, but I let it slide.

“Mum’s the word,” Amy promised.

“Good call,” I agreed. “Especially since that bad boy is also a rookie, which means he has something to prove. Double trouble.”

“Great,” Jen muttered. “ Trouble is my sister’s mating call.”

I scrolled through my notes. “So, there are those seven…pl us the three humans on the team, including Evan. The other twenty players I don’t know much about yet.”

The crowd cheered as the next line came out onto the ice, some of the fans even rising to their feet.

“Well, you better know them all by tomorrow,” Jen said. “At least their names. You didn’t get through three rounds of interviews just to blow it on a pop quiz with the team owner.”

A shiver ran down my spine and not because of all the ice. The owner of the Minnesota Spriggans, Oisín O’Rourke, was a bristly berserker boar . I’d only seen him once before, and that was from across the rink, but I swore—even in his human form—I’d felt his tusks.

For good reason, I hadn’t planned on getting any closer to the guy; that is, until Evan told me the team was hiring a digital and social media manager to improve its image.

I’d double majored in marketing and graphic design three years ago with the dream of going to California and becoming a publicist for some Hollywood A-lister.

So far, I’d only done social media for local businesses like Connors’ Bakery. Besides their social media, I also worked the counter on Saturday mornings (and maybe downed a few donuts when things were slow).

If I didn’t have Daniel, my almost-fiancé, paying my way half the time, I would have been swimming in debt. Which was why I needed this job.

I may not have been a huge hockey fan, but I knew the sport backward and forward.

That’s what came from being dragged to every single one of Evan’s games the whole time I was growing up.

Knowledge of the game had helped me in the last three rounds of interviews, but I’d come to the Spriggans’ pre-season game today to do even more research .

Professional athletes might not be Hollywood actors, but they were celebrities. My life could finally be taking a step in the right direction.

I even imagined myself ending the interview by telling O’Rourke that he didn’t need to talk to any other candidates and that I’d see him first thing Monday morning. It would be a highly presumptuous thing to say, but berserker boars favored the bold.

“I thought Daniel was going to be here,” Amy said, glancing over her shoulder at the rows of seats behind us.

“Something came up at the law firm,” I explained. “He had to work late.”

I felt Jen and Amy exchange a worried look behind my back. Subtle they were not.

“Quit making something out of nothing,” I groused.

“ El ,” Jen said, “he’s been working late a lot , and it’s not like he needs the overtime.”

I rankled at her insinuation. Just because Jen was unlucky in love didn’t mean I hadn’t found happiness. What Daniel and I shared was real. He’d seen me when no one else had.

And sure, over the last couple of years, we’d had our bumps in the road. But we always worked through things. We were committed. What we had was lasting.

“He’s salaried,” I explained. “He doesn’t earn overtime. But if you must know, he’s working late because he’s hoping to make partner this year.”

The team’s second line formed a half circle around center ice as the ref prepared to drop the puck. The Spriggans’ center, the rookie gancanagh, knocked his stick against the ice in eager anticipation while the other team’s center did the same.

The puck dropped, and they went after it. What followed was a dizzying whirlwind of jerseys—some red and black, others yellow and green. The Spriggans’ head coach leaned forward and pounded his hand against the boards, urging even more speed and further attack.

I winced when a big blond mountain of a fae checked my brother hard against the boards with a thunderous crash. Evan went down on his ass, but he popped right back up.

“Way to go, Evan!” Jen shouted, pumping her fist in the air. “Don’t let ‘em keep you down!”

The humans sitting in front of us must have agreed with Jen’s sentiment because they cheered loudly.

The play on the ice moved fast, making it hard to keep track of everyone. I did, however, notice that the dryad, Sean Murphy, was incredibly agile. He moved like a ballet dancer, and I jotted down an idea about a series of slow-motion videos, emphasizing his graceful athleticism.

Two opposing players rushed him, but he sprang into the air—all while balancing the puck on the flat side of his stick blade—spun around, landed on one skate and flung the puck to number sixteen, who took a shot.