Chapter 2

Zeke 

The tape rips off with a sound like tearing canvas, pulling the hair from my skin along with it. I hiss through my teeth, staring at the fresh purple bloom spreading across my left side. It’s ugly, deep, and throbbing like a second heartbeat. 

The locker room is a tomb of silence now, the echoes of the crowd’s boos still ringing in my ears even though the arena is empty. They didn’t see the way my breath hitched when I took that slap shot. They didn’t see the way my rib ground against bone when I twisted for the rebound. They just saw the puck hit the post. They just saw the loss.

"Fucking useless," I mutter, throwing the wad of tape into the bin. It hits the bottom with a dull thud.

I dress mechanically, movements stiff and jerky. The jersey feels like a shroud now. I don’t bother showering. I just want the hell out of here. I shove my gear into the bag, not caring if the expensive pads get scratched, and sling it over my good shoulder. Zoey’s probably waiting for me in the car, or maybe she went ahead to the afterparty. I haven't even checked my phone. The walk out of the arena is a blur of gray concrete and distant.

The back alleyway is damp, smelling of wet asphalt and stale garbage. A single flickering bulb casts long, sickly shadows against the brick wall. I drop my bag on the ground, the heavy impact sending a jolt of pain through my side, and I just snap. I lash out. My boot connects with a metal trash can, sending it flying into the darkness with a deafening clang.

"Fuck!" The scream tears out of my throat, raw and ragged. I kick the wall next, instantly regretting it as my toes scream in protest, but the pain feels good. It’s real. It’s better than the hollow ache in my chest. "Fuck!"

"Rough night?" The voice is a low rumble, like a heavy engine idling. I spin around, my fists coming up instinctively.

Standing in the shadows, half-lit by the buzzing streetlamp, is our team mascot. He’s towering, encased in that ridiculous, creamy faux-fur suit that usually dances for kids and throws t-shirts into the stands. But he isn’t dancing now. He’s just leaning back against the brick, one leg crossed over the other, holding a blunt between two massive, padded paws.

I stare, slowly lowering my hands, though my chest is still heaving. "What the hell are you doing out here?"

The Bear’s head tilts. The glass eyes catch the light, dead and shiny, but the open mouth of the costume moves as he speaks. "Taking a break. You look like you need one more than I do."

He extends a paw. The blunt is pinched between the fake claws. I know I shouldn’t. I have drug tests. But the adrenaline is curdling into something sour and heavy in my gut. My ribs are screaming. The crowd is still booing in my head. I look at the smoke curling from the end of the blunt, thick and inviting.

I step forward and snatch it from him.

"Didn't think you smoked," I mutter, bringing it to my lips.

"There's a lot you don't know about me, McKinney," the voice rumbles back. It’s deep, textured, like gravel mixed with honey. It vibrates in my chest.

I inhale. The smoke is harsh and hot, expanding my lungs and making the pain in my ribs flare duller, further away. I hold it until my eyes water, then exhale a long, gray plume into the night air. 

The tension in my shoulders drops an inch. I lean back against the cold brick, sliding down until I’m slouching, passing the blunt back to the open mouth of the bear.

He takes it without hesitation, the paw moving with surprising grace. "You weren't bad out there," he says, smoke puffing out from the mesh of the mascot's mouth. "You were just hurt."

I freeze. "What?"

"Your rib," he says simply. "Saw you holding it in the second period. Saw you wince when you skated off the bench."

My heart hammers against my ribs, "You're full of shit."

"I've got good eyes from up there." He takes a long drag. "Plus, I know you're not the kind of player to choke unless something's physically wrong. You've got too much fight in your game to quit."

A startled chuckle escapes me. It sounds dry, rusty. "You watched me that close?"

"I'm paid to watch the ice," the Bear says, his tone perfectly casual. "I was cheering for you. Loudest one out there, I think. Tried to drown out the assholes in the nosebleeds."

A genuine laugh bubbles up, cracking the mask of anger I’ve been wearing. It feels foreign in my throat. "Yeah? Well, thanks for nothing. We still lost."

"Winning isn't everything." He passes the blunt back to me. "Go to the afterparty. Get laid, drink some free booze, let people fawn over you. Forget about it."

I take the blunt, staring at the glowing ember. "It isn't that easy."

"Why not?"

"Because I'm not a guy who can just 'forget'," I snap, though the weed is softening the edges of my temper. "I can't just turn it off."

It's not like I'm some vampire that can just switch off my emotions.

"Sure you can. I can help, what do you usually do when you're like this? Want to punch a bag? Go for a run? Break some furniture in the back? I can get you a stray chair if you need to smash something." He lists the options like a friendly bartender trying to cheer up a regular, his voice calm, steady, and practical. It’s comforting how grounded he is inside that sweaty suit.

"I get laid," I cut him off. The silence stretches between us, thicker than the smoke. "I don't mean gentle, missionary bullshit," I continue, the words flowing faster now, fueled by the confession and the high. 

I don't even know why I'm telling a giant bear this, but the filter is entirely gone. "I mean I find someone, and I take all this—" I gesture at my chest, at the anger and the frustration and the pain, "—and I pour it into them. I fuck them until I can't think about the game, until my legs give out and my mind is blank. It’s the only thing that shuts the noise up. It’s a mental reset. I wreck them so I don't wreck myself."

Mostly, Zoey takes all of it. She likes it rough and I do too. But sometimes I need to go wilder and I just can't do that with my girlfriend. I take another hit, holding it in, letting the buzz wash over me. I pass the blunt back, my fingers brushing against the coarse fur of his paw.

The Bear doesn't speak immediately. He takes the blunt, inhaling deeply. The air around us feels heavy, suddenly charged with something that wasn't there a second ago. The smell of rain, synthetic fur, and weed mixes together.

"I can help with that," he says.

The words hang in the cold air. I blink, sure I misheard him. "What?"

He turns his head slightly, the bulky, creamy bear mask staring me down. The casual, friendly mascot tone is completely gone, replaced by something much darker, thicker, and steady. "I said, I can help with that."

My stomach drops. My heart kicks into a sprint, slamming against my ribs so hard I can feel it in my teeth. I look at the suit, the round, silly ears, the plush belly, the dead eyes. He just heard me explain exactly how violently I treat people to blow off steam, and he didn't even flinch.

"I have a girlfriend," I say, the protest slipping out automatically, though my voice sounds incredibly weak. "And I'm not into guys."

The Bear shrugs, the fur rustling as he takes a step closer, casting a massive shadow over me against the brick.

"I'm not a guy," he whispers, the mesh mouth centimeters from my face. "I'm a Bear. And your girlfriend isn't here."

It’s ridiculous. It’s insane. I’m standing in a dirty alleyway, high and injured, talking to a mascot. But the thought doesn't repulse me. After the night I've had, the sheer, twisted anonymity of it hits my bloodstream like a drug. He knows exactly what I need to do to reset. And he's standing right there, offering to let me do it. I look at the open mouth of the mask, my breath hitching.

My cock twitches in my jeans.