Page 3 of Ice King

Maybe my parents’ concern was more about why I hadn’t healed almost immediately. Sure, shifters weren’t immune to disease or injury, but we healed at a much faster rate.

Normally.

Mom insisted on placing the blanket over my legs and my father was performing his required duties by building a fire.

I sat back. Fighting her was of no use.

In the next several minutes, my house was made wolf proof, as I liked to call it, ensuring I wouldn’t hurt myself as I recuperated.

When Samantha brought the mug of tea, I lifted my eyebrow. She winked before nodding toward the steaming hot liquid. Thank God, my sister knew me so well. She’d added a couple of ounces of bourbon for me so I could at least tolerate the horrible concoction.

At least now that I was in my own space, I could enjoy fuming over the motherfucker who’d put me here. While the defenseman had been expelled, the act had pushed the game into overtime, which the Arizona Bluedevils had won.

I closed my eyes as the frustration tore through me and hadn’t realized I was growling until my mother sighed.

“See? My baby boy is still hurting.”

“Mags. He’s frustrated. We all are. But he’s fine. Let’s let the boy get some rest.” Pops grinned as he physically pulled my mother away from the couch.

“Are you sure? I can stay here,” she insisted.

“Mother. Come on. I need to get back to studying,” Samantha insisted.

“At this hour?” My mother wasn’t one to give in easily.

“I’ll call you tomorrow, Mom. Promise.” Right after I headed to practice. While the coach might not let me back onto the ice, he couldn’t stop me from entering the building.

Mom kissed me on the forehead while grasping both sides of my face, hers pinched as if she was the one in pain.

When all the goodbyes were finished and the door closed behind them, I finally took a deep, long, and agonizing breath.

“Shit.” The pain was annoying as hell and unnecessary. I couldn’t remember the last time any injury had bothered me for longer than half a day. Maybe the tea would soothe the rising tension.

One sip and I knew otherwise, making a face from how disgusting the brew was.

I needed the real thing at this point. My mother had forbidden me from indulging while spending time in their house. Tossing the blanket, I headed to the kitchen, pouring a tall glass of tea-free bourbon. After that, I grabbed my iPad, moving a little more slowly than before as I returned to the living room.

Time to find out how the other teams were doing, especially since the Wild had lost the last game because of my absence. At this rate, we’d be shut out of the playoffs. That couldn’t happen. I needed the team to have a Calder Cup placed in our trophy case and a championship ring placed on my finger if I wanted to finally make the NHL this year.

Time was running out, as the tabloids liked to remind me. Golden boy, my ass.

Granted, with wolf blood running through my veins, my body didn’t age the same as full humans, but insisting shifters had superior attributes to humans would only fuel the fires of hatred. Our kind had enough of that shit to deal with.

So I had to play by the regular rules, which meant I was washed up at thirty-three.

The bourbon was smooth, the liquor exactly what I needed to calm my nerves.

I flicked through the normal news sources and with ten seconds, wished I hadn’t. Also, there wasn’t enough liquor left in the bottle to cool down the fire sweeping through every vein.

Seattle Sentinel:Ford ‘The Wolfman’ Kendrick: Is He Washed Up Before Thirty?

Portland Herald:Ford ‘The Wolfman’ Kendrick. Not Even His Wolf Could Save Him

Vancouver Times:Is Ford ‘The Wolfman’s’ Career Finished?

“You’ve got to be kidding me.” Saying the words out loud didn’t make me feel any better. I tossed the iPad before I went any further. Sure, the injury couldn’t have come at a worse time, but I wasn’t crippled, for fuck’s sake.

I took another swig.