Chapter Two

I stared at the coffee in front of me, it had already become lukewarm. My hand twitched, as if maybe I would grab it, but I didn’t. I just clenched my jaw and crossed my arms. "Sebastian," Mark started tentatively, "we all want the best for you." Here we go. "You punched a man on live television," the older rep went on, voice dispassionate. Without provocation. "He provoked me."

Not technically, the younger one growled, not raising his eyes from his screen. I sank back in the chair. So this is it? You’re suspending me? Mark shifted uncomfortably. "They’re offering you a choice." As a rehab program, the older rep went on. I went pale. "I’m not an addict."

"It’s not an addiction," the younger one responded quickly. "It’s… a wellness retreat. Therapy and isolation. We place you with a local team, you remain off the grid, off the press, and you heal." I snorted a harsh laugh. "Sounds like exile with extra steps." Mark massaged his face with his hand. Sebastian. Your reputation’s running amok and sponsors are dropping off. Your temper’s been on thin ice ever since the surgery and now this…"I don’t need therapy."

The words were too harsh, I heard them ringing, and I almost apologized. Almost. The older rep folded his arms. "It’s not what you want, believe me. It's a liability. If you ever hope to come back to the league, you have to do this under the radar. No press release, no interviews."

"And where are you shipping me off to, huh? Guantanamo?" Mark shoved a folder down the table towards me. I opened it up.

"Duskpine?" I repeated the name, double-checking that I’d spelled it right. "That’s not even an actual place."

"It’s a town in the mountains," Mark explained. "It's small, quiet, and off-season training with a Tier III team. You’ll be anonymous. Safe."

There it was. There was that word again.

Safe. Safe from what? Them? The media? Or myself? My jaw tightened. I wanted to slam the folder down on the table. I wanted to scream. I wanted to tell them I was fine, that I just lost it, that Halvorsen was asking for it, but…

But I smelled the blood. I remembered it. I envisioned my hands transforming and no chunk of sarcasm could mask that. "Therapist," I muttered, turning the page. "Remote house. Mountain air. Lattes and long walks with myself." The younger rep smirked. I looked directly at him. "What happens if I say no?" The room went quiet for a moment. Then Mark spoke softly, "They’ll cancel your contract and you’ll be blacklisted." And there it was. All the work I’d put in since I was thirteen, all the blood and broken bones, all the damn hours on the rink… it would be wasted if I didn’t take their handout.

I scowled at the folder. The words faltered a little. The paper trembled in my hands, even though I wasn’t shaking.

I detested this. I detested them. But most of all, I was frightened. And if I was honest, which I very rarely was, I didn’t trust myself anymore.

I set the folder on the table and rose to my feet.

"I’ll do it."

Mark exhaled. Good. "But it isn’t rehab," I said, my voice low. "It’s survival." No one disagreed. The aeroplane smelled of recycled air and citrus cleaning solution. It was too clean and too silent. First class, but I hardly took note of the seat. My mind wasn’t there. It was wedged somewhere between what I had witnessed and what I still couldn’t even comprehend.

I looked out the window. Clouds blurred below us. The sky was marked with the signs of early dusk. I tried to shut my eyes, just for a second, just to cut off the noise in my head but as soon as I did... 

I was running. Barefoot.

The ground beneath me was cold and rocky, but I wasn’t cold. I was burning. Heat pulsed beneath my skin. My lungs scalded, my legs ran faster than they ought. Trees whizzed past in a haze. Branches swiped against my arms and my chest, but I didn’t bleed. Something was behind me. Or maybe I was chasing something. Then suddenly, there was a sound. A rumbling, guttural growl. Not quite human, not quite a wolf. It jumped off the trees and into my bones.

I ran harder, and the heat got hotter. It spread and crept up my spine, crawled across my ribs, until I was sure I was going to burst wide open from the inside out. And then I looked and saw a reflection in the snow.

My eyes. Not mine. It was gold, blindingly bright and glowing. I suddenly jumped upright.

The seatbelt pressed into my ribs. My fists were clenched so tightly my nails had made bloody crescents in my palms. The flight attendant caught my eye down the aisle and looked at me strangely, but I waved her off. My shirt was covered in sweat and my heart was pounding wildly. I wiped my hands against my jeans and tried to breathe. This was occurring too often. The dreams. The swelter. The scream of wind where there had once been silence. And worst of all, the realization that some aspect of me derived pleasure from it. As if some switch within me longed to unleash. To finally stop holding itself back.

I leaned my forehead against the window and closed my eyes again. No dreams this time. Only the hollow pang of anticipation.