Chapter 5: Funeral of Champions

Adrian POV

The winter wind cut right through my coat. I stood in front of three coffins. Each was draped in blue and silver, the colors of the Titans. They belonged to three brothers. My teammates.

Everybody around me was crying. People stood by the cemetery gates holding hockey sticks and wearing team jerseys. Reporters kept their cameras pointed at me. Three framed photographs rested beside the coffins, surrounded by fresh white flowers.

My teammates stood in a straight line with their heads lowered. One by one, they tapped the ends of their hockey sticks against the frozen ground. The sound echoed like a final goodbye I could not remember sharing with the men lying before me.

I was the captain of the team. I was the one who had to say something to these people. I had to help them feel better. I could not even remember what happened.

Coach Dawson came up to me. He whispered my name.

"Adrian," he said. "It is time to talk."

I walked to the microphone. My legs felt like they were stuck. I looked out at all the faces.

There was nothing inside me. No grief. No anger. No memory. Just a hollow space where three years of my life should have been.

I did not know the men who were dead. I did not know the names of the women who were crying in the front row.

"I am sorry," I said. My voice was rough. "I am sorry for what we lost."

I could not say anything else. I looked back at the three coffins. I searched my mind for even one memory. A joke. A practice. A victory. Anything. All I found was another sharp pain behind my eyes.

I walked away.

The weight in my chest pressed harder than the frozen ground beneath my boots.

I could not look at the coffins.

I could not look at the families.

I could only walk away.

***

I had to get out of there and get some air. I walked past the rows of headstones. As I did, the crowd started to fade into the distance. It was then that I saw Noah Bennett.

He was standing by himself under a maple tree. His head was down. His hands were deep in the pockets of his black overcoat. He was not like the others. He was not crying for the cameras. He was just standing there watching.

Then he looked up.

Our eyes met.

As soon as our eyes locked, I felt something happen. My heart slammed against my ribs, and heat spread beneath my skin. My Alpha came alive. Every instinct inside me wanted to stand beside him, pull him away from the cold, and make sure nobody could hurt him.

My feet took one step toward him before I realized what I was doing.

My mind had no answer.

My body already did.

Everyone had told me Noah Bennett was my rival. For the last three years, we have competed against each other for championships. The media treated us like enemies, and our teams were supposed to be against each other.

I knew the history because people had explained it to me.

I just could not remember living it.

My mind called him my rival. My instincts refused to believe it.

Before I could go to him, someone moved into my line of sight. Someone stepped in between us. I could not see him anymore.

***

A man wearing a gray coat stood next to me. He did not look like he fit in at a funeral. He looked like he belonged in a business meeting or a dark alley. His face was expressionless. His smile never reached his eyes.

"Captain Cross," he said quietly. His voice was smooth without any warmth. "I am sorry about your teammates."

I did not know him.

"Who are you?" I asked.

He moved closer, looking around at the crowd.

"I need the encrypted drive," he said.

My heart slammed against my ribs.

"What drive? I do not know what you mean."

I tried to remember. My head suddenly pounded. For a split second, I saw dark water. Flashing police lights. A black SUV disappearing into falling snow. Then everything vanished as quickly as it appeared. I grabbed the side of my head. The pain disappeared, leaving nothing behind except confusion.

The man's eyes widened. A look of surprise crossed his face.

"You really do not remember," he said, his voice flat.

He did not wait for me to reply. He disappeared into the crowd like he was invisible.

I pushed through the people, trying to follow him. I searched the rows of mourners, but he was gone. It was as if he had never been there.

I looked around, trying to find Noah. He was still standing by the tree. The color had drained from his face. He was staring at the spot where the stranger had stood, his fists clenched.

Noah knew. He knew who that man was. He knew what that drive meant.

Before I could go after him, another man stepped out from the crowd. He wore an expensive black coat with a silver wolf pin fastened to his lapel.

His hair was neatly combed, and his smile was calm. I recognized him the moment Coach Dawson greeted him.

It was Commissioner Victor Blackwood, the president of the National Hockey League. He shook my hand and offered his condolences.

His words sounded kind. His eyes did not. They lingered on me a second too long before drifting toward the graves. Then he quietly walked away without looking back.

***

The cemetery slowly emptied. The police led my family to the SUVs. My teammates walked away in groups. I stayed by the graves. I wanted to remember. I wanted the ground to tell me something. I wanted back the three years I had lost.

Nothing happened.

My mind was still blank.

My phone buzzed against my leg. I took it out, thinking it was another message from the team or a reporter. I unlocked the screen.

The message was from a number I did not know.

There was no name, no signature, only six words that made my blood run cold.

YOU SHOULD HAVE DIED.

I stared at the screen. I tried calling the number.

The call failed immediately.

I tried again.

The number no longer existed.

I stared at the screen until the words became blurry. The crash was not an accident. Someone had failed to kill me.

I looked up at the cemetery. The silence suddenly felt like a trap.

They were not waiting for me to remember.

They were waiting for another chance to finish what they had started.