The Hockey Alpha Bullied Me, Then His Wolf Claimed Me

The photo of my door hung over the ballroom for three full seconds. Then Blair clicked the remote again.

Grainy locker-room footage filled the screen. Shattered mirror, broken bench, and me on my knees with my arms wrapped around Jackson's bare back, my face buried against his neck.

Someone whistled. Someone else said, "Holy shit."

"This was taken the night of the Saturday game," Blair said into the mic. A phone on a gimbal stood beside her, streaming live. I could see the viewer count climbing in the corner. "Ten minutes after she was alone with him. Ten minutes after she gave him something to drink."

"That's cut," I said.

Nobody heard me. I walked forward until I was standing under the spotlight in the middle of the floor.

"That footage is cut," I said, louder. "It starts after the treatment. Jackson's wolf was overloading. Dr. Reyes authorized me by phone. Show the full timeline, Blair. Show the part where his claws are through the bench."

The mic squealed with feedback as Blair stepped too close to the speaker. She winced, then smiled.

"Of course she has a story."

"Liar," somebody called from the hockey table. Then two more voices picked it up. "Liar. Liar."

I looked at the stage.

Jackson's hands were fisted at his sides. The athletic director was beside him now, and behind them, the Ridge Pack Alpha, his father, sat at the head table with his phone face-down and his jaw set.

Jackson leaned toward the microphone.

"Search her room," he said. "If she's innocent, she has nothing to hide."

The chanting stopped. A couple of people actually clapped.

He didn't look at me when he said it. He looked at the camera.

---

"Fine," I said. "But not like this."

The athletic director frowned. "Miss Cole, if you refuse—"

"I'm not refusing. I'm setting conditions." I pulled out my phone. "The residence director is present. Professor Okafor is present. A neutral student representative is present. Everything is recorded start to finish, and it streams here so nobody can edit it later. And Blair and I both take a potion screen tonight, at the same time, same standard."

Blair laughed. "Why would I need a test?"

"You're holding the same vial I am. You tell me."

Professor Okafor had already stood up from the faculty table. "I'll draft the consent form," she said. "Dr. Hart is here from the Pack Council medical office. She can administer the screen."

A tall woman in a navy dress rose two tables over. Silver hair, reading glasses pushed up into it. She didn't look happy about being interrupted mid-dinner, but she nodded.

The form took six minutes. I signed it on the podium in blue ink with my frozen fingers. Blair signed it under the eyes of the whole room, her signature twice the size of mine.

Then the screen switched to Hannah's phone.

She walked into Halvorsen Hall with the residence director and a campus officer. Room 214. The officer opened my door. They found the vial in four minutes, tucked behind my laundry basket under the bed.

"There it is," Blair said.

"Hannah," I said into my phone, "ask him to check the hall camera first."

The residence director pulled up the hallway feed on a tablet and held it to the lens. 7:58 p.m. A figure in a hooded black parka at my door, a key card in one gloved hand.

At 7:58, I'd been in the Ridge lodge coat check, handing Hannah my jacket.

The room went very quiet.

Dr. Hart, watching the stream from the stage, asked them to swab under the bed. The swab turned faintly gold in the residue reader.

"Scent trace is less than two hours old," she said. "Vanilla base. Not the resident's."

Then she held up a clear crystal, roughly the size of a thumb, and pressed it to the inside of my wrist. Gold would mean potion. Pink would mean binding agent.

It stayed clear as glass.

"Nothing," Dr. Hart said. "She's clean."

Blair held out her wrist only after the crowd demanded the same test. Dr. Hart checked her with the crystal. It stayed clear. "Neither woman has taken a potion," she said.

Blair's lower lip started to shake. Real tears, perfectly timed. "I didn't know. Someone sent me those pictures anonymously. They said she'd done something to him, I was trying to protect him—"

"You brought a photographer to my locker," I said.

"Because of the tip!"

I waited.

I waited for Jackson to say something. Anything. My name. Sorry. Even a nod.

He stood next to his father with his eyes on the floor.

I turned back to Dr. Hart.

"My room is clean. Are you brave enough to test him now?"

---

Jackson's head came up fast.

"That's not necessary," the athletic director said.

"It's in the form." Professor Okafor tapped the paper. "Line four. 'Any party alleged to be under potion influence will be screened.' He's the alleged victim."

Jackson's father finally spoke. "Do it. Clear his name."

Jackson didn't move. Dr. Hart walked to him anyway, crystal in hand.

"Shirt, please. The screen reads strongest over the heart."

He undid two buttons. His fingers fumbled the third. Blair stood a few feet away, gripping a champagne flute she'd grabbed from a passing tray, smiling for the stream like this was the moment she'd been waiting for.

Dr. Hart held the crystal an inch from his chest.

Silver-blue light washed over his skin.

And under his collarbone, right where it had sunk in on the auxiliary room floor, the pawprint burned back into sight. Bright, sharp, every line of it glowing the color of my hands.

Two hundred people gasped at once.

Dr. Hart lowered her glasses. She studied the mark for a long moment, then turned to the microphone.

"There is no potion. His wolf has already chosen its mate."

"That's impossible," Blair said.

"It's very possible. It's just rare." Dr. Hart spoke clearly, the way doctors speak when they want no one to misunderstand. "A potion forces attraction from outside. It leaves residue and the crystal goes pink. This leaves nothing but the mark itself. It only appears when the wolf recognizes its true mate and accepts the resonance willingly. No one can put it there. Not a spell, not a drink."

Every camera in the room swung toward Jackson.

He grabbed the open collar of his shirt and dragged it closed over the glow, like that would hide it. Light leaked between his fingers.

Blair's flute slipped out of her hand. It hit the edge of the stage and shattered, champagne spraying across her gold heels.

---

"Madison!"

The campus reporter had pushed to the front. Her phone was inches from my face.

"The light matches your resonance signature, doesn't it? Is it you? Are you his mate?"

Everyone was watching me now. The live count had passed ten thousand.

Jackson came down off the stage. For the first time all night, he walked toward me in front of everyone, and for one stupid second my heart lifted.

He stopped close enough that only I could hear him.

"Don't say it," he whispered. "Not yet. Please. Give me time to handle things out there. My father, the pack, the press. I'll fix it."

His hand was still clamped over the mark.

I looked at it, glowing through his knuckles, and something inside me went very calm.

I unzipped my backpack and took out the last item in my work order. His home captain's jersey, washed, pressed, folded into a perfect square with the C on top. I set it on the nearest table, right beside Blair's place card.

Then I took hold of my staff lanyard and pulled. The cheap plastic clasp snapped. I laid the ID badge on top of the jersey.

"Your wolf chose me, Jackson," I said. "You didn't. That's the part I believe."

His face went white.

I walked toward the service doors. The kitchen light behind them was so bright the whole doorway glowed.

"Jackson, go after her!" Tyler shouted from the hockey table. "What the hell are you doing? Go!"

I heard the room hold its breath. I heard no footsteps.

At the threshold, I looked back once. He was standing exactly where I'd left him, one hand fisted over his chest and the light bleeding through his fingers, not moving.

My wolf stirred, and her voice was quiet and certain.

No more.