The Afterburn

Sera POV~

“You don’t smell like a regular human,” he said finally. “You don’t smell like a wolf either. You’re something else.”

The clipboard nearly slipped from my hands.

I covered it with a sarcastic snort. “Cool. So now I’m a walking mystery. Add that to my resume.”

Nico didn’t smile.

He just walked away.

And I stood there, pulse thudding behind my ears, replaying his words over and over.

Something else.

The dry-erase board squeaked as I drew out the zone entry diagram.

Three arrows, red circles, two “X” marks, and a big blocky #17 in the neutral zone.

The boys weren’t listening at first.

Some of them were laughing behind gloves. Some were checking their phones under the bench. One guy in the corner was literally sniffing his protein shake like it offended him.

And Blaze?

Blaze was pretending to fall asleep—head tipped back, mouth slightly open, one hand dramatically resting on his chest like he’d fainted from boredom.

I didn’t raise my voice.

I just flicked the marker cap back on and tossed it straight at his head.

Thwack.

Right between the eyes.

He flinched. “Ow—damn, Coach!”

“Awake now?”

He blinked, caught my smirk, and grinned like a troublemaker caught in the act. “Kinda hot when you get violent.”

“Perfect,” I said, turning back to the board. “Then pay attention. Maybe you’ll learn something before your next penalty box vacation.”

The room quieted. I had them now.

I pointed at the neutral zone trap I’d drawn. “Here’s what’s killing your rush game: you’re taking the puck wide on every break-in, which means you’re giving up control at the blue line. The second their D-men collapse into a 1-2-2 setup, you get funneled into the boards like cattle. And if you lose possession on a poor zone entry?”

I drew a massive red ‘X’ across the offensive zone.

“They take it. They dump it. You skate your asses back. Again.”

Some of the guys shifted. A few straightened up. Even the cocky ones started watching.

“Now,” I continued, tapping the board, “here’s the shift—line two and three, I want you running a center lane drive on transition. Puck carrier cuts through the middle. Weak-side winger backs off, stays high. Strong side crashes low and fast. Force them to collapse. Make their goalie panic.”

Blaze raised his hand lazily. “So, like… bull rush them?”

“Exactly,” I said. “But with brains. You don’t need to be a goon if you’ve got timing.”

A guy in the back muttered, “I’m not used to coaches who make plays sound sexy.”

I spun. “Good. Maybe next I’ll teach you how to keep a two-goal lead without blowing coverage like it’s prom night.”

Oof. That got a few laughs.

But more importantly? It got respect.

They were listening now. Focused. Some even taking notes.

I turned toward the bench and grabbed a puck off the counter. It was cold in my hand. Heavy. Familiar.

I tossed it once, caught it, then walked slowly down the row of players.

“I don’t care how good your hands are,” I said. “If your heads aren’t in the game, you’re useless in the zone. If you’re not reading the forecheck, if you’re not keeping your gap tight on the backcheck, if you’re not crashing the crease when it counts?”

I stopped in front of Blaze and dropped the puck into his lap.

“You’re not just off your game. You’re dead weight.”

Blaze smirked, but he didn’t argue.

He passed the puck to the guy beside him. Silent nod.

The moment settled.

I looked around the room and caught Nico standing in the far corner, arms crossed, unreadable expression on his face. He tilted his head slightly—just enough for me to catch it. Approval.

But the moment was short-lived.

Because as I turned back toward the whiteboard, a sudden pulse of heat shot up my right arm.

I winced. The marker fell from my hand and clattered to the ground.

Someone whistled. “Coach okay?”

I ignored them, stepping back toward the board, cradling my wrist like it had been burned.

I rolled my sleeve down—too fast, too defensive.

But underneath?

That faint bruise again.

Only now, it was deeper.

Clearer.

Bite-shaped.

And glowing.

The hallway outside the locker rooms was quiet—too quiet.

Most of the guys were still on the ice or dragging their tired legs through cooldown stretches. The fluorescents above buzzed softly, casting sterile light on scuffed floors and worn Wolves logos.

I pressed my back against the wall, rolling my sore wrist under my palm, hiding the bruise—the glowing one—like it was a crime. It pulsed beneath my sleeve, faint but hot, as if it knew something I didn’t. Something ancient. Something watching.

I needed air.

I needed answers.

I needed—footsteps.

Heavy, deliberate, echoing against the tile.

I didn’t have to look to know it was him.

Dante’s presence announced itself before he spoke. It pressed into the walls. Bent the atmosphere around him. He came around the corner like a shadow made real—sweat-slick hair, tight black T-shirt clinging to every muscle, eyes locked straight ahead.

Until they locked on me.

He froze mid-stride.

So did I.

No words.

No warning.

Just heat.

It crashed between us like a wave. Thick. Suffocating. That same magnetic pull from the locker room, but sharper now—more desperate. Like something in him had been hunting, and it had found what it wanted.

I stood taller. “You missed drills.”

He didn’t answer.

His chest rose and fell slowly, controlled. But his hands? They curled at his sides like he was gripping back a storm.

“Everything okay, Captain?” I added, keeping my voice even.

He didn’t speak.

Instead, he stepped forward.

One step.

Two.

Three.

Until there was no space left between us.

I had to crane my neck to meet his eyes, and when I did—my breath hitched.

They weren’t blue.

Not anymore.

They were glowing.

Not like contacts. Not like tricks of the light. But glowing.

Gold. Bright. Flickering like fire trapped in ice. And something behind them—a hunger, a voice, something not human—watched me.

His nostrils flared. He inhaled like I was the only scent that mattered.

“You’re not supposed to be here,” he rasped.

I swallowed hard. “The locker room?”

His voice dropped lower. “In this city. With this team. Near me.”

“Why not?”

“Because you don’t know what you are.”

That made me flinch.

“What I am?”

He leaned closer. Not touching, but close enough that my wrist—the glowing bite mark—throbbed in response.

His gaze dropped.

His lips parted slightly.

He sensed it.

Whatever the hell this was, he felt it too.

“You smell like…” he started, then cut himself off, eyes flashing again.

I tried to step back, but my body didn’t move.

His hand slammed against the wall next to my head—not aggressive, but caging me in.

“You’re triggering something I’ve spent years locking away,” he said quietly. “And if you don’t stay away, I won’t be able to hold it back much longer.”

My heart hammered so hard I was surprised he didn’t hear it.

His face was inches from mine now, breathing heavy, pupils dilated.

And then…

He stepped back like it physically hurt him to do it.

“Stay away from me, Sera,” he said.

And just like that, he turned and walked away.