Chapter 6
Vivienne's POV
The confirmation email hits my phone at 6:47 AM and I'm off the bed before I finish reading the first line. Bad idea — the lash wounds across my shoulder blades scream in protest, skin not quite knitted together — and I suck air through my teeth until the worst passes.
But I'm grinning. Standing barefoot with my phone clutched to my chest like a kid who just got accepted to Hogwarts.
Student Manager — Thornfield Academy Ice Hockey. Position confirmed. Report to rink, Thursday, 9:00 AM.
I catch my reflection. Silver hair tangled past my collarbones, amber eyes, cheekbones too sharp for forgettable. Too visible.
Glasses on — twelve-dollar gas station frames. Hair into the tightest bun. Oversized Thornfield hoodie swallowing every line into shapeless gray.
Better. Bookworm. Forgettable.
I lace my boots too tight and talk myself through it. "The rink. Layout, exits. Marcus's financial records flagged three transfers to someone connected to this school — could be a player, could be staff. Either way, the hockey team is the power center. That's where the answers are."
My gland throbs at the thought of ozone and cold mint. And him. He's connected to Blackwell. Blackwell is connected to Marcus. He's a door.
Maisie mentioned last night that Dash won't be around for the first few days — Sterling Pack business pulling him back south, some territory dispute his father needs him for. Consulting role on hold until further notice. I'd be lying if I said that didn't sting a little.
The thought of seeing him at the rink — composed, steady, that quiet authority that never needed volume — had been part of why I'd circled the manager posting twice before applying. Not the main reason. But a reason.
Fine. One door at a time.
Thornfield's first week passes in wet-stone hallways and back-row seats. Then Thursday comes.
Fifteen minutes early. The rink smells like frozen water and rubber. My workstation — folding table, laptop, stat sheets. Twelve players split into two squads for scrimmage drills — first line versus second, rotating every fifteen minutes. I scan jersey names for anything connecting to Marcus's records.
Nothing. Yet.
Then the tunnel door opens and every calculation whites out.
His suppressant hits first — industrial wall, bitter. But my gland finds the crack underneath, catches ozone and mint, fires so hard my vision blurs.
Not now.
Kael steps onto the ice and every other player shifts — unconscious widening, two Alphas drifting apart without looking at each other.
He doesn't warm up. He attacks. Every stride more force than necessary, shoulder hitting boards hard enough to rattle glass.
He's not training. He's fighting something with his own body.
Whistle blows. First rotation ends. Kael glides to the boards for water, pulls his helmet off — black hair plastered to forehead. His eyes sweep the bench without interest until they hit my table.
Stop.
He doesn't speak to me. He speaks past me — to the air, to the boards, to no one.
"Wolf-less." Low. Almost to himself. Then louder, directed at the bench: "Since when does admin send wolf-less staff rinkside?"
Jensen, two seats down, shifts uncomfortably. Nobody answers.
My heart kicks past one-twenty. Face gives him nothing.
"Student manager." I hold up the stat sheet without looking up from my laptop. "Logistics, data, scheduling. I'm not here for you."
Those rust-gold eyes cut sideways. Not turning toward me — just the eyes. Fingers tighten once around the water bottle — knuckles white — then release. He looks away.
Something shifts in the silence — door meeting resistance in the frame. He doesn't acknowledge me again. Pulls helmet back on, pushes off the boards.
But his left arm swings shorter than the right as he skates back. Compensating. Favoring. The kind of asymmetry most people wouldn't catch.
"Your left shoulder," I say. Not loud. Just enough to carry across the three feet between my table and the boards.
He doesn't stop. Doesn't turn. Skates on like I said nothing.
Fine.
He didn't look at me when he said it. He looked through me. Like I'm furniture that shouldn't be here.
Good. Stay furniture. Stay invisible.
...Then why does my gland ache?
Second break. Carter — number seventeen — plants himself at my table. His linemate Edge flanks him. Two Alphas, scent rolling thick, crowding my workspace.
"The wolf-less secretary." Carter grins, reaches across, flips my binder open. "Grading us? Adorable."
My stomach tightens. You're here to be invisible.
"Bet she can't even read her own handwriting," Edge says, leaning in, scent heavy and sour.
Let it go. You're nobody here.
Carter's hand shoves the binder toward me — the jolt travels through my arms into my shoulder blades, lash wounds biting fresh — and Edge catches my glasses.
Cold air hits my bare face. Silver hair catches rink lights. Carter's smirk freezes.
He stares. His scent shifts — surprise cutting through aggression.
So much for invisible.
Something old and sharp rises in my chest. Not my wolf — I don't have one. Just me. The girl groomed to command a Pack. The girl whipped because she wouldn't bow.
I don't reach for the glasses.
I look up at Carter with my full face bare and smile.
"You're right, Carter. Let me read you some handwriting." My voice is calm. "Seventeen seconds late on every third-line rotation. Your right crossover is two inches shallow — which is why Jensen blew past you on the last drill. That hit on Reeves? Led with your elbow because your core rotation is collapsing." I tilt my head. "Want me to keep going? I've got ninety minutes of material."
Dead silence.
Edge steps back. Carter doesn't move. His scent thickens, darkens, territorial sourness spiking into threat.
"You little—"
Whistle blows. Third rotation.
Carter holds my stare — promising something — then turns.
My hands shake under the table. Worth it.
Third rotation. Carter and Edge drift toward center ice. Not running plays — skating with that coiled looseness that says someone's getting hit.
They're looking at my table.
Kael changes direction.
Not obvious. He shifts angle by ten degrees, builds speed on what looks like a standard breakaway drill, cuts across Carter's line at full velocity.
His left shoulder — the injured one — connects with Carter's chest like a freight train.
Carter goes airborne. Edge tries to brake and Kael's momentum carries through — secondary impact sends him spinning into boards so hard glass shakes.
Whistle screams. Both players down. Carter gasping on his back. Coach blows the whistle twice — sharp, warning — but doesn't pull him. Nobody pulls Kael Thorne. The other ten players keep skating, eyes forward, like nothing happened.
Kael circles back. Expression perfectly blank — bored, almost.
"Bad angle." His voice carries. Flat. "Didn't expect them to go down that easy."
On the bench, Jensen's head swivels from Kael to my table and back. His brow furrows.
Carter is helped up by Edge. Looks at Kael. Then me. Then back.
He's wondering. Can't prove it. But wondering.
Kael skates past without a glance. But his left shoulder hangs differently — lower, tighter, range visibly reduced. He used the injured one. Didn't have to. Right side is stronger.
He used the one I told him was hurt.
My gland fires so hard my pen slips.
Why would he — he didn't even look at me when he said wolf-less. I'm furniture to him.
Furniture he just broke his shoulder protecting.
End of practice. Players file toward tunnel. Carter gives me wide berth.
Kael is last off. Slower. Pain-pale. His suppressant thinned from exertion — underneath the ozone I catch metallic. Blood. Not surface-level.
He passes my table. I don't plan to speak. The words come out anyway.
"Your left shoulder. It was worse before you decided to play demolition derby with Carter."
He stops. Every player near the tunnel freezes — because Kael Thorne does not stop for anyone. Jensen turns around.
"Didn't decide anything. Bad angle."
"You and I both know that's bullshit."
Silence. He turns his head — just his head, body still angled toward the tunnel. Those eyes hit me with something new. Not anger. Not dismissal.
Curiosity. Raw, reluctant, hostile curiosity. Like he's trying to figure out why furniture is talking back.
"You're watching me."
"I'm watching data." My voice comes out softer than I intend. "You're just the most interesting data point."
His jaw tightens. For one fraction the suppressant wall drops — not from exertion, from something else. Ozone and mint flood my senses so sharp my vision whites and my fingers grip the table edge.
Then it's gone. Sealed. Expression shutters like a door slamming.
"Stay in your lane."
He turns toward tunnel. No "wolf-less" this time. I notice.
Jensen passes my table, voice low. "He doesn't let anyone near him when he's hurt. Anyone."
I watch Kael disappear into the tunnel. Then I grab the medical kit.
Maisie's text buzzes.
Please tell me you're not following him.
Do NOT go near him alone.
I slide phone into pocket and walk into the tunnel. The medical room door stands half-open at the far end, light spilling across concrete. He bypassed showers. Went straight there alone.
Shoulder pad hits metal exam table with a clang. Then a sound — low, barely human, growl bitten off at the root. Pain breaking through control for one raw second.
My hand finds the door's edge. Heart pounds in my fingertips.
Player welfare falls under the manager's job description. Technically.
And if he happens to let something slip about Blackwell's network — that's just a bonus.
...That's what I'm telling myself.
