Chapter Two - The Gift.

Julliette.

The first thing they drill into you at sports therapy seminars, besides “ice is your best friend” and “for the love of God, don’t flirt with players” is the golden rule:

Hands stay professional.

No lingering. No straying. No letting your touch wander into “oops, did that feel good?” territory.

You’re the calm. The fixer. The invisible one.

And invisible had worked just fine for me. Invisible had paid my bills. It had kept me sane.

Until Caleb Archer swaggered into my training room like sin in hockey tees.

He hopped up onto the table with the smooth ease of someone who had been performing for an audience since birth. Shirtless. Smirking. Every muscle flexing like he had practiced in a mirror.

“Mercer,” he said, stretching his arm toward me like it was an offering. “Do me a favor?”

His wrist was red, swollen. Actual injury. Which should’ve been my cue to zone out, tape him up, and send him on his merry, cocky way.

Instead, I got caught staring at the faint trail of sweat running down his chest.

Professional. Be professional, Julliette.

“What happened?” I asked, grabbing my tape.

“Blocked a shot.” His grin widened. “Worth it. The crowd went crazy. You hear them?”

“No,” I said flatly, looping his wrist with bandage. “I was busy doing my job.”

“Pretty sure your job includes watching me.” “Pretty sure it doesn’t.”

A couple of his teammates snorted from across the room. Caleb’s smirk only grew, like he fed on my irritation.

I pulled the tape tighter. “Hold still.”

“Don’t worry, doc,” he murmured, eyes glittering. “I’m always still for a pretty girl.”

“Don’t waste your lines, darling.”

That got another round of laughter, and for one fleeting second, I felt smug.

Then my fingers brushed his skin. And the world tilted.

It wasn’t the casual warmth of flesh against flesh. It was a spark—sharp, searing, alive and ripping up my arm like I had plugged myself into a live wire.

My breath caught. My vision narrowed. My pulse sprinted. I could feel it hammering against my neck. Too fast. Too wrong.

Caleb stilled. His grin vanished, replaced with something darker. His pupils blew wide, swallowing green until there was almost nothing left.

He looked at me like I wasn’t a person but his prey.

Hungry.

“You felt that,” he said, low and certain.

I ripped my hand away, tape dangling uselessly. “Nope. Didn’t feel a thing.” “Liar.”

I slapped tape back around his wrist, harder this time, ignoring the way my hands trembled. “It’s inflammation.

You have got nerve compression.”

Caleb chuckled. But it wasn’t his usual locker-room laugh. It was darker. Rougher. Like the sound of a beast rumbling in its chest before it lunges.

“You can pretend,” he murmured, leaning closer, breath brushing my cheek. “Doesn’t change the truth.”

The heat between us was suffocating, and I hated myself for noticing it. For wanting to lean in instead of shove him away.

And then that annoying prickle. That someone’s watching me itch across my skin.

I turned.

Bryan Maddox.

Captain. Golden boy. Professional mood-killer.

He leaned in the doorway, arms crossed over his broad chest, expression carved from stone.

Watching.

My pulse tripped all over itself.

“Captain,” I said, too brightly. “Something you need?”

His eyes flicked to Caleb’s wrist. To my hand on it. Then back to me. Slow. Deliberate. Like he was counting every second of contact, filing it away as evidence.

“Make sure he can still play,” Bryan said finally. His voice was calm, but the edge underneath left goosebumps in its wake.

“Always do,” Caleb shot back, flashing teeth.

He flexed his newly taped wrist with exaggerated ease. “Good as new.”

Bryan didn’t reply. Didn’t need to. His silence said plenty.

Then he turned and walked away, shoulders tight, jaw tight, everything tight.

But the heat he left in his wake clung to me long after he had left.

I finished Caleb’s wrist in record time and practically fled.

In the privacy of my broom-closet-sized office, I braced both hands on my desk and exhaled like I had just run a marathon.

“Okay, Mercer,” I muttered. “You’re fine. Totally fine. You are not melting down over locker room theatrics and cocky smirks.”

My reflection in the tiny window was flushed, pupils too wide. Unprofessional, party of one.

The problem wasn’t Caleb’s grin. Or his ridiculous abs. Or even Bryan Maddox’s glacial stare that somehow burned hotter than fire.

The problem was me.

Because somewhere between touching Caleb’s wrist and catching Rhett watching, I had stopped being invisible.

And invisible was my only rule.

That night, I came home to what should have been blessed sanity and a frozen pizza.

Instead, there was a box.

Sitting on my doorstep like it had been waiting for me.

Square. Black. No note. No return address.

“Oh, good,” I muttered, crouching down. “A murder present. My favorite.”

Still, curiosity was a stronger drug than fear. I carried it inside, set it on the counter, and untied the ribbon.

Inside was a pendant.

Silver. Heavy. Shaped like a wolf’s head.

Its eyes glinted red in the dim light, twin pinpricks of something that looked too alive to be stone.

I picked it up. The chain slithered through my fingers, cool and delicate. The pendant itself pressed warm against my palm.

Too warm.

The warmth grew, pulsing faintly. Like a heartbeat.

My stomach dipped.

“Okay. Nope. Not happening.” I dropped it back in the box. The metal clinked against cardboard like it was laughing at me.

I backed up until my shoulders hit the fridge, chest heaving.

It was just jewelry.

Just jewelry.

Except, I could still feel it. The warmth. The weight. The way the wolf’s eyes had seemed to lock on mine.

I shoved the box to the far corner of the counter and grabbed my phone, fingers trembling. i went to search for something, anything to explain how ridiculous this was.

No results helpful. Just Etsy shops and vaguely threatening werewolf fan forums.

“Perfect,” I muttered, pacing. “Not creepy at all. Not serial-killer chic. Totally normal housewarming gift.” But even as I tried to deceive myself into believing that, I knew better.

This wasn’t random.

It was deliberate.

And somehow, deep in my bones, I knew exactly who it was from.

The Wolves.

And whatever game they were playing I had just been pulled onto the ice.