บททั้งหมดของ Chasing the Riot: The Alpha's Second Chance: บทที่ 111 - บทที่ 120

Jarrett's pov The victory in Game 1 should have felt sweet, but Boston smelled like sulfur and rotting meat. Outside our hotel, the crowd had grown into a boiling horde by mid-afternoon. Fans, camera crews, and anti-werewolf protesters chanted slogans that rattled the double-paned glass of my top-floor room.Signs painted with silver paint and crude slurs against packs flashed through the gray drizzle."We cannot stay bottled up in here, Jarrett," Helena said, her quiet voice instantly cutting through the noise in my head. She stood by the window, her silhouette sharp, shadow-draped, and entirely calm despite the chaos below."The team stays inside," I replied, checking the heavy leather jacket I wore over my tactical hoodie. "You and I go down through the basement. If this guy really has bank records linking our union rep directly to Ilya’s offshore accounts, Game 2 won't even matter. We can blow Vanguard's entire corruption scheme wide open before puck drop tomorrow."Helena turn

Jarrett's pov The empty seat in the private box high above the ice felt heavier than a physical obstacle. Helena was gone—racing across borders in the middle of the night for reasons she couldn’t fully disclose—and without her grounding presence, my wolf was pacing the cage of my ribs, clawing to get out.The home crowd inside the arena was a deafening wall of sound, but beneath the roaring fans, I could hear every taunt from the Vanguard bench. They knew I was edge-bound. They knew the pressure of Game 3 on home ice, combined with the whispers of Helena’s sudden absence, made me volatile.From the first puck drop, Boston’s blue-liners came at me like hitmen with ice skates. Every time I touched the puck, a shoulder drove into my spine; every whistle brought a glove to my visor or an insidious slash to the back of my calves. By the middle of the first period, the heat under my skin boiled over. When their captain drove me into the glass long after the play dead-ended, my vision flas

Jarrett's pov The stench of stagnant, lukewarm water hung heavy over the ice pad before the opening puck drop even took place. Standing at the center circle for the starting faceoff, I dug the toe of my skate into the surface and felt the blade sink into soft, treacherous slush.The arena cooling units were humming, but they were blowing warm air into the subterranean sub-floor chillers instead of refrigerating the ice sheet. Someone had tampered with the thermal controls, transforming our home ice into an ankle-deep marsh.It was a calculated death sentence for our game plan. The Ironheads thrived on high-speed transitions, quick edge work, and razor-sharp puck movement. Soft ice killed speed. It turned every stride into a slog through wet concrete, dragging down our sleek playmakers while playing directly into Boston’s heavy, slow-grind style of hockey.From the first shift, Game 4 degenerated into an ugly, brutal slog.Boston didn't bother trying to out-skate us. They dumped t

Jarrett's pov The tension inside Boston’s arena was thick enough to choke on. Half of their coaching staff had been carted off in federal handcuffs hours before puck drop, leaving their remaining bench bosses frantic, desperate, and completely out of options. The Vanguard were backed into a corner, and a wounded animal on home ice was always at its most dangerous.From the second the opening whistle blew, Game 5 degenerated into a complete, unhinged brawl.With their tactical playbook in tatters and their syndicate backchannel dismantled by Helena’s federal raid, Boston abandoned any pretense of playing hockey. They came out slashing, elbowing, and spearheading. Every stoppage of play brought a swarm of yellow-and-black jerseys crowding our crease, shoving facemasks, and digging blades into our boots long after the referee’s whistle blew.They knew they couldn't out-skate us anymore. So they resorted to the only weapon they had left: psychological warfare."Hey, Brooks!" their row

Jarrett's pov The tether between us screamed.It wasn't a whisper or a distant hum. It was a violent, sharp pulse in the center of my skull that tore me straight out of my pre-game rest. Helena was in the penthouse level of the arena, and the sudden wave of cold, calculated danger radiating across our bond told me everything I needed to know.I didn't wait for elevators or security clearances. I sprinted out of the away locker room, threw open the heavy emergency door, and took the concrete stairwell three steps at a time. My hyper-tuned lungs burned, my heart beating like a war drum in my chest.When I burst through the door to the executive suite corridor on the top floor, four heavy-set men in dark, unmarked tactical suits immediately moved to block the hallway. They weren't arena staff, and they certainly weren't federal marshals. They were private syndicate mercs—Marcus Vance's personal clean-up crew."Hold it right there, Brooks—" one started, reaching inside his jacket.I didn