Hazard (West Hell Magic Book 1)

by Devon Monk

  “How tight?” Duncan asked. “Like, personal? Intimate?”

  Josky shrugged. “Coach is pretty private. Rumors say friends. Not more than, but still, friends.”

  I’d heard rumors that Coach was gay, but that didn’t really matter in this league. West Hell wasn’t exactly hugs and rainbows, but there had been a few out players and staff and no one cared one way or the other.

  Officially, sexual orientation wasn’t something a player could get canned for. Unofficially, most players just wanted to play hockey and didn’t care.

  The conflicts usually came from between the different marked and the unmarked. Or what country someone was from. Or what kind of music they liked. Or who they had voted for in the last election.

  “No soap opera forbidden lost love? Too bad,” Duncan said.

  Josky threw a chip at him. He tried to catch it in his mouth and almost knocked over his drink. “Nowak is a dick,” she said. “Coach could do way better.”

  “You know Nowak’s a dick, how?” I asked.

  “One, I’m a sensitive. Two, I got eyes, Wiz. So Coach goes from losing the coaching position at the Tide, a team that always ranks higher than us.”

  “Jerks,” Watson piped up.

  “Jerks,” Josky agreed, “and takes over the Thunderheads, right? Buys the whole team with Assistant Coach Beauchamp and the cake guy, Franklin. Starts making changes, turning the team into hockey players, good hockey players. Makes waves that starts changing the league. Made it better for us, but not so good for some people.”

  Watson tapped his fingers on the table. “Whole lotta money made on shifter fights. Whole lotta money made on thrown games. Not so much anymore.”

  “You fight,” Duncan said.

  “Not for money. I fight for my team.” He slapped his hand over his heart a couple times.

  “Was Coach Nowak making those kinds of bets? Throwing games?” I asked.

  Josky sniffed. “I don’t know. But whatever his problem is, we are on his shit list, his team’s shit list, and their fans’ shit list.” She took a moment to consider that, and I knew she was replaying time on the ice with them. “Their captain is kind of a tool too.”

  “Hey,” Watts said, “you tell me if Steele so much as breathes too hard on you and I will break his face down the middle.”

  “Down boy,” Josky said. “Keep the fight on the ice.”

  “Oh, trust me, I will. Fourth-marked to fourth-marked.”

  “Tabor Steele’s a centerman, right?” I asked.

  Josky nodded. “And a panther. He’s strong and has fast reflexes. Always goes for the garbage goals. Stupid sneaky wraparound attack.”

  “Hey,” Watson said, “don’t profile us. Just because he’s a cat doesn’t mean he’s sneaky.”

  “He’s sneaky because he’s Steele.” Josky flicked an olive at his head, which he made a bite for and caught. Show off.

  Watts grinned. “Reflexes like a cat! But yeah, Steele sucks. Good thing we’ve got Wiz here on our side. Anybody who can keep magic a secret for all their lives can out-sneak Tabor Steele.”

  Wiz. There was the nickname I didn’t want to stick.

  “How about we use Ran?” I suggested.

  “What?” Watson asked.

  Duncan just snorted. “Like you got any say over what we’re gonna call you.”

  “You already call me Ran,” I pointed out.

  “And that matters why?”

  “Because it’s my name. My well-established, most-of-my-life nickname that you have always called me.”

  “That was before I knew you were a wizard, Wiz.”

  “All right!” Watts high-fived Duncan.

  I scowled into my soda. “I hate you all.”

  Duncan laughed. “What? Did you want us to call you, Gandalf?”

  “No.” Yes. Maybe.

  I shoved chips in my mouth, ignoring them.

  Over on the other side of the room, the band had settled in on the raised stage and was warming up.

  I took a deep breath and just sat, content to be exactly where I was. I liked being a part of a team. I liked being a part of this team.

  Going out and blowing off some steam—in moderation—before the game had been a pretty good idea.

  But I couldn’t wait for tomorrow.

  The first notes of music vibrated through the bar and people closest to the stage whistled and clapped.

  They kicked into a song that was part rock, part grungy-folk. It was good. I finished my nachos, drank my Coke and mentally recited the drills we’d just practiced.

  “Time to dance!” Josky declared. “Dance with me, Donuts!”

  She grabbed Duncan’s arm and dragged him laughing off toward the stage. A small crowd of dancers pulled together, jumping and swaying.

  Watts tipped his chin at me.

  “Gonna make my rounds. See ya, Wiz.”

  I really had to get ahead of that nickname. Before I could say anything, he was off, prowling through the crowd and flashing a smile at any lady who caught his eye.

  “You Hazard?”

  I glanced over at the three guys striding up to me. The leader was about my age, light-haired and dark-eyed. He was over six feet tall, bulky in the shoulders, solid and fit everywhere else. A real All-American football type. He looked familiar, but I couldn’t quite place him.

  “Yes?”

  “You’re nothing but a fake and a liar. You lied to get into the NHL, and you lied to get into the WHHL.” He planted one hand on the table top and loomed over me.

  “You must be a fan,” I drawled.

  “I’m going to fucking pull you apart and pick my teeth with your bones.”

  Holy shit. This guy was hardcore asshole.

  I was so not impressed.

  One thing that came with being shorter than just about everyone else on every team I’d ever played on or against was I didn’t back down from shitheads no matter what size they were.

  “Pick your teeth with my bones? Seriously? That is some bargain bin bullshit.”

  He showed me his teeth, which were sharp and elongating. His dark eyes bloomed with amber and his pupils narrowed to cat-slits.

  Terrific. A shifter.

  One of his buddies grabbed his arm. “Come on, Steele. Don’t do this here. Keep it on the ice.”

  Well, well, well. Tabor Steele, captain of the Tide. I’d never met the dude, but he sure hated me.

  Neat.

  “Maybe you should listen to your friends.” I didn’t make any quick moves, but I wasn’t afraid. I’d dealt with pissed off shifters before. I’d grown up with one.

  The other guy next to him rolled his eyes like he was used to Steele catting out, and was so done with it.

  “Dude,” the first guy said. “I’m hungry and want beer. Deal with your shit.”

  Those cat eyes zeroed in on me. His hand was now clawed, pressing so hard into the table as he clenched his fist, he left gouges in the wood. He was panting a little.

  “You don’t belong in this sport, wizard.” He spat that last word. With all the extra teeth in his mouth it came out a little garbled, which was funny, but now was probably not the time to laugh.

  If I were the kind of guy who could be intimidated, I’d be looking for a way out of this. But I was a hockey player.

  I leaned toward him and got up in his face.

  “Kiss my magic ass, Steele.”

  He snarled, a deep, chest-wrenching, bestial sound.

  Well, shit. This was going down. I had never used magic to defend myself. I’d taken my beatings just like any other guy. It had been worth it not to reveal that I was a wizard.

  I knew how to take a punch and how to throw one. And I knew when I was in a shitty position to do either.

  Shifting took maybe five seconds tops. But orienting to the animal mind, senses, and body could take at least another five seconds.

  I had maybe ten seconds lead time if I ran. Staying here was just asking for pain.

  Or I could
use magic to save myself.

  That thought, one I’d spent a lifetime squashing, floated through the back of my brain with a tempting, tingly kind of spin. I could use magic.

  Would that be so wrong?

  “The moment you step on the ice,” he snarled, “I’ll be coming for you. And I will take you out.”

  I was impressed he could enunciate all those words past his fangs.

  But instead of making the smart move by leaving, I made a kissy face at him.

  He growled.

  Oh. Shit.

  “We have a problem here, boys?” Graves’s voice, behind me with that easy Texas roll, rumbled over the music.

  I didn’t look away from Steele. Cats, big cats, often attacked when their prey turned its back.

  “No problem.” Teammate guy number one tugged on Steele’s arm again, then looked up and over my shoulder.

  At Graves.

  Then something really weird happened. The guy pulled his hand off Steele and he took a startled step back. “We don’t want any trouble.”

  He tipped his chin up, exposing part of his neck, his gaze sliding to the side, then to the floor.

  That was full submission posture. Which told me two things: one, the guy was a wolf shifter and two, he instantly deferred to Graves as an alpha.

  Interesting. Almost interesting enough for me to turn around so I could get a look at Graves for myself. But seeing as Steele in front of me was still part cat—the fang and claw part—I didn’t do so much as blink.

  “Then you can leave,” Graves said. “You too.”

  The other guy either wasn’t a shifter or wasn’t a wolf because he didn’t bare his neck. But he did give Graves a long look, then nodded. “He’s just…it’s been a long day, and he’s a little intense before a game.”

  “Are you saying I need to make him leave?” Graves’s voice was low, a rumble. There was something big behind it. The quiet before the boom.

  That got Steele’s attention. He blinked and his eyes slid more brown, less feline gold. He straightened and squared off toward Graves.

  No. Nope. No.

  I did not need Graves fighting my fights. I didn’t need anyone fighting my fights. It didn’t matter that Graves was a D-man and his job description pretty much meant that he was all about defending his teammates, me included. We were not on the ice.

  I could handle my own problems. On or off the ice.

  I pushed the chair back so I could stand between the two of them. Graves was still at my back and placed a heavy hand on my shoulder, holding me there.

  “Mr. Steele,” he said over me. “You seem to take umbrage to my friend, Hazard here. That doesn’t sit right with me. If you have a problem with him, you have a problem with me. I’d be happy to step outside right here, right now, and settle that.”

  “Hold on,” I said. “Wait.”

  Steele slid his jaw back and forth, teeth elongating and shortening as he tried to control—or not control—the cat. His eyes slitted down, narrow and mean.

  “Listen.” I was addressing Graves, but since I couldn’t turn around, I was still looking at Steele. “This doesn’t have to be a thing. You don’t like me? Fine. We’ve got a game tomorrow. Let the scoreboard settle it. We can just walk away from this. We can both walk away.”

  Silence.

  “Right, Graves?” I craned a look back at him.

  I guess I expected him to look different somehow. From the way the other guys had quickly backed down I thought he’d Hulked out or something.

  Nope. Same Graves. Although even regular Graves was just a calm second away from boom. There was always something tight about him. Something dangerous right beneath the surface.

  It wasn’t his wolf. Or at least I didn’t think so. I’d seen Duncan angry, seen him lose control of his wolf more than once. He had never looked like he knew how to dismantle a man, joint by joint, and would take pleasure in doing so.

  “Happy to walk away,” Graves said. “I’d be even happier to see you walk away. Now.”

  Steele scowled at me then at Graves. His teeth were more human shaped, his eyes a hot brown. He’d gotten control of the shift. But just because he didn’t look like an angry cat didn’t mean he wasn’t still an angry man.

  “You’re garbage, Hazard,” he said. “You won’t last. They’ll have to scrape you off the ice and send you home in a bucket.”

  He stormed away, shoulders square, movements fluid, a predator in motion.

  “When did you spit in his shoes?” Graves asked. “That man in no way cares for you.”

  “I’ve never met him before. But his coach doesn’t like me either.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “He told me.”

  Graves stared after Steele then scratched under his jaw. That trigger edge, that calm before the storm was hidden away until it was almost unnoticeable.

  Almost.

  “You’ve played in the league,” I said.

  “That’s right.”

  “Do you know his story?”

  Graves shook his head. “I’ve heard rumors. Locker-room conversations with players who have played with him. His father’s a piece of work. Mom died five years ago. He changed then. And not for the better.”

  “How did she die?” Something that felt a lot like sympathy twisted in my stomach. I knew what it was like to lose a parent—well, to be missing one. I’d never really met my father, but I could guess at how much worse his absence would be if I had known him. If I had loved him.

  “Accident.”

  “What kind?”

  “Car, I think? Never heard for sure.” His voice was tight. There was more he wasn’t saying, more I suspected he knew. But the music, which had swung down into a smoother sort of grind, stopped and the crowd clapped and cheered.

  That seemed to shake Graves out of whatever thoughts he’d been lost in. It also shook Duncan and Josky out of the crowd.

  “Your turn,” Josky said, grabbing my hand. “There is dancing to be done and I already wore that one out.” She jabbed a thumb toward Duncan.

  He grinned at her and waggled his eyebrows. With her in two-inch heels, they were eye-to-eye. “Give me five minutes and I’ll be ready to go again.”

  “That’s what all the boys say.” She slapped his chest and yanked me after her.

  “I don’t dance.”

  “Don’t care. This is for luck.”

  “I don’t know what to do.”

  “Still don’t care. You a Thunderhead, Hazard? Because no Thunder backs down from a challenge.”

  I snorted. “So?”

  “So this is a challenge.” She pulled me again, using my momentum to slingshot herself backward and me forward. “Dance!”

  The movement was hard enough I stumbled, throwing my arms backward.

  I caught myself on something hard. A person carrying something wooden, like a signboard, or a table.

  “Jesus,” the person—a woman—said.

  Hands fell against my upper back and shoved me onto my feet.

  I spun on my heel to apologize to whomever I’d been shoved into.

  “Sorry—” The words died.

  I’d run into a woman. A woman wearing a guitar slung over her shoulder. A woman who was the lead singer of the band. A woman wearing torn black jeans and a black T-shirt that skimmed just high enough above her waistband to show an inch of soft, bare skin.

  A woman who I’d met, though she’d been wearing scrubs then.

  “Genevieve?” I sputtered. “Sorry. Sorry I hit you. God, sorry. Are you okay?”

  Her eyes, which were not just green, but that amazing yellow-leafy green of spring, were lined with black, making them huge. I couldn’t look away.

  She shook her head, her expression flickering with confusion, then maybe something close to laughter.

  “I—” I began again.

  But the drummer was counting, the crowd, which I could suddenly hear again, was chanting and then the music started and everythi
ng moved around me.

  I might have danced with Josky. I might have even danced with some of the other Thunderheads. I had a vague awareness of the guys around me, sometimes shoving at my shoulder or patting my back. Might have muttered goodnight as they leaned in close enough to say they were leaving, land a palm-slap, a fist bump.

  But what I remember is standing there, still a little too close to the stage, utterly enraptured by the woman singing. I was caught by the spell of Genevieve’s voice, Genevieve’s guitar. Caught by the spell of her.

  “…looking ridiculous,” Duncan yelled in my ear. “Or would you rather walk home?”

  “What?” I turned. He had a grin and good timing. The music ended on a lilting rise, while the drummer rolled through to the end, and then the entire place erupted in applause.

  Genevieve thanked the crowd, waved with one hand, the bracelets on her arm jingling and flashing with dull metal glints.

  “How many beers did you drink?” Duncan asked. “You’ve been standing there like an idiot for almost an hour. It’s time to go home.”

  Yeah, I still couldn’t take my eyes off her.

  Genevieve moved backward from the edge of the stage and her gaze met mine again. She smiled, showing that dimple and nose crinkle. Her breath was coming a little fast, and her face was shiny from the raw energy and joy of performance, her hair messy and curling around her face to stick to the sweat on her forehead.

  She was the most beautiful person I’d ever seen.

  I lifted a hand, then pressed it over my heart.

  “Lame,” Duncan laughed.

  She waved back and made a pinky-thumb phone at her ear. I hoped that meant she was going to call me.

  Her drummer and the other guitarist were both sending suspicious looks my way, but when she said something to them, they nodded and went back to ignoring me.

  “So not lame,” I said. “I got the sweetest moves.”

  Duncan shoved me with his shoulder. “Let’s get out of here, Sweet Moves.” He slung his arm across the back of my neck.

  That wouldn’t be a bad nickname: Sweet Moves. Yeah, I could do that.

  I took one last look around the place. Didn’t see anyone from the team except Graves and Josky over in the corner of the room. He faced her, one hand in hers, the other on the middle of her back. Her hand was on his shoulder. She was just an inch shorter than him. Their elbows bent and Josky’s head dipped so she could watch her feet. Graves was talking, counting out the beat of whatever dance he was trying to teach her.