ICE 5

"Got identification?" The woman behind the glass didn't look up, her gaze fixed on the ledger through spectacles perched precariously on her nose.

"Right here. Grab the sign, Camila," Isaac said, shoving the massive glitter-crusted board into his friend's hands. He dug through his clear, regulation-size bag—a lesson learned the hard way after being turned away from a San Antonio Ice Arena match years ago. He flipped his wallet open, pressing his ID against the glass. "Isaac Corres. I should be on the list."

The woman squinted, then slid a heavy, dark bundle through the tray. "Here. The passes are tucked inside. Instructions were very specific."

"What is all this?" Isaac pulled the fabric toward him.

"A Warhawks jersey," she grunted, her mouth twisting. "Traitor."

"Excuse me?" Isaac bristled, glancing at Camila, who was rocking a blue and yellow sundress—the best she could manage to show Bobcats pride on short notice. "We’re locals. Born and bred."

"Then explain why the visiting Alpha had this mess sent over for you."

"The Warhawks?" Isaac shook out the heavy material. It wasn't just a jersey; it was a sanctuary of black and red fabric. Santiago Vega’s name was stitched across the shoulders, the number twenty-two standing out like a bloodstain. It was large enough to be a tent, smelling faintly of cedar and the heavy, musky scent of a dominant werewolf.

"Holy..." Camila trailed off. "He gave you his actual colors? Isaac, that’s a fated-claim move in some packs. How intense is this guy?"

"Like I told you, he's just dedicated to the prank," Isaac muttered, though his heart did a strange, lupine thud against his ribs. He felt the silver-haired woman's glare and raised his chin. "I'm still a Bobcat. Allegiance doesn't change because of a shirt."

"Move it along, turncoat," Camila teased, snatching the tickets. She steered him toward the metal detectors. "Isaac, look at these rows. We’re so close to the glass we’ll be able to smell the pheromones when they shift."

"How did he pull this off? These seats are worth a fortune."

"He’s a star Enforcer with a grudge," Camila shrugged. "He’s not trying to buy you, he’s buying a front-row seat to Derek’s humiliation."

"He’s going to get exactly what he paid for." Isaac looked at the sea of blue-clad fans around them and felt a pang of guilt, then he thought of Derek’s smug face and the guilt vanished.

"So? Are you putting it on?" Camila nudged him.

"I have to. It's the deal." Isaac pulled the massive jersey over his head. It swallowed him, the hem hitting his mid-thigh until he tied a frantic knot at his waist. "I can't believe he just handed this over. Derek never even let me touch his alternate jersey."

"Let me guess," Camila rolled her eyes. "He wanted you in nothing but the jersey?"

"Gold star for you," Isaac sighed.

"Ego like a rogue Alpha," Camila muttered as they moved through the line. "Is Vega any different? Or is he just a different breed of arrogant?"

"He's... different." Isaac tried to find the words. "He feels like he’d tear a throat out just for looking at him wrong. He doesn't preen. He just looms."

"That’s a protector instinct," Camila noted. "It’s primal. Most omegas and betas would crawl through broken glass for a male who smells that protective."

"I’m not 'most' people, Camila."

"Sure, honey. But if the world ended tomorrow, who are you picking? A pretty boy who spends an hour on his hair, or a mountain of a wolf who can carry you out of a fire while snapping necks with his bare hands?"

"You spend way too much time on those survivalist forums."

"I've been single for three cycles, Isaac. My imagination is all I have left. While you were busy being Derek's 'secret' mate, I was alone with my thoughts and a very expensive vibrator."

"Point taken." Isaac placed his glitter-bleeding sign on the conveyor belt. The security guard, a bald man who looked like he’d wrestled bears for a living, ran a wand over Isaac’s frame, the metal detector chirping against the silver glitter embedded in his skin.

"These seats are insane!" Camila screamed over the roar of the crowd. "In that black jersey, you look like a target, Isaac."

The arena was a pressure cooker of noise. Isaac didn't care. The jersey was heavy and warm, the scent of Santiago acting like a physical weight on his shoulders.

"The sign will be the target," Isaac replied.

"You're not kidding. Bobcats fans are going to eat you alive for calling out their Golden Boy."

"Let them. They didn't see him sniffing around every lounge in San Antonio."

"Check your phone yet? The parking lot kiss has to be viral by now."

"I'm terrified to look."

"Coward. Give it here." Camila snatched the phone. "Holy—Isaac, you’re at four thousand likes in twenty minutes. People are losing it. The 'Ice Beast' finally caught a scent."

"Read the comments," Isaac urged, bracing himself.

Camila’s face fell. She went quiet, scrolling rapidly. "Standard trolls. Ignore them."

"Give it." Isaac grabbed the phone. His eyes landed on a top comment: 'Five years without a mate and this is the best Vega could find? He should've stayed in the den. The kid looks like he'd break in a light breeze.'

"People are vicious," Isaac whispered, the words stinging more than he wanted to admit.

"They're jealous," Camila snapped, tucking the phone back into his bag. "Put it away. Don't let some bitter betas ruin the show. Focus on the mission."

"Right." Isaac stood up as the Warhawks began their warm-up skate. He waited, heart racing, until he saw the familiar, predatory stride of number twenty-two hitting the ice.

Santiago Vega didn't stretch. He didn't practice shots. He skated slow circles, his eyes scanning the crowd until they locked onto the splash of black and red in the front row.

"What's the play?" Camila asked, standing beside him to help hoist the sign. "He kissed you for the world to see. Is he actually going to play the boyfriend?"

"It was a deal for a photo," Isaac said, his eyes following Santiago. "The kiss was extra. After tonight, he probably won't even remember my scent."

He didn't mention the way Santiago had felt against him. The sheer, terrifying size of the man.

Santiago didn't need a scout to tell him Derek Coleman was rattled. He could smell it across the ice—a sour, sharp scent of anxiety beneath the Bobcat’s expensive cologne. Derek wasn't smirking. He was twitching.

"Damn, Pres," Jordan Blake muttered, skating past. "You’ve got that 'I'm going to eat your heart' look on your face. Try not to get a game misconduct before the first whistle."

"I'm not going to touch him," Santiago grunted, his eyes fixed on the stands.

Derek skated a wide arc around him, his face pale. "I know what you're playing at, Vega. There’s nothing between you and Isaac. He was in my bed forty-eight hours ago."

"Maybe that's why he looked so relieved to be in mine this afternoon," Santiago countered, his voice a low, jagged rumble.

"That's a lie!" Derek’s voice cracked. He looked small. Isaac was right—the psychological hit was doing more damage than a cross-check to the ribs ever could.

Santiago flashed a predatory grin. "Wait for the sign, Coleman."

"What sign?" Derek followed Santiago’s gaze to the glass.

There he was. Isaac Corres, draped in Santiago’s personal jersey, silver glitter catching the arena lights like stardust. He was holding a massive board that screamed in bold, shimmering letters:

THE SCOUTING REPORT IS IN: Santiago’s stick is bigger than Derek’s!

In place of the word 'stick,' a crudely drawn but unmistakably large hockey stick was rendered in black ink. It was an insult. It was a declaration. It was beautiful.

Derek’s face went from pale to a violent, bruised purple. "You son of a bitch!"

Derek dropped his gloves. He didn't wait for the puck. He lunged, a blind, uncoordinated snarl of rage.

Santiago didn't even drop his hands. He was several inches taller and fifty pounds heavier. He simply planted a hand on Derek’s forehead, skating backward while the smaller wolf swung wildly at the air. Santiago was laughing—a deep, chesty sound that echoed off the glass.

When the rest of the Bobcats roster started moving in, Santiago gave Derek a hard shove, sending him sprawling onto his backside.

"Can't wait to introduce you to the boards tonight, pup," Santiago said, turning his back on the humiliated captain.

"What was that?" Coach Alejandro Ruiz barked as Santiago skated toward the bench.

"Just taking him off his game, Coach."

"We can't have you in the box for the whole period, Vega. I need your muscle on the ice."

"Relax. I won't throw a punch. I don't have to." Santiago leaned over the rail, looking back at the boy in his jersey. "I'm winning this war in the bedroom."

It was a lie, a rumor designed to fester. But as Santiago caught the scent of Isaac’s fear and excitement drifting over the glass, he realized he didn't want it to be a rumor for long.

"He's your mate?" Ruiz asked, surprised.

"He’s mine tonight," Santiago growled. "That’s all that matters."