The Hockey Alpha Wants Me

Chapter 14 Jane's Pov

I didn’t even mean to scream.

But when I saw him fall, all at once, something in me just… broke.

The sound ripped through the dorm courtyard, echoing off the brick walls, and almost immediately, people started pouring out of their rooms. Some were confused. Some were frightened. I couldn’t even process what I’d done. I couldn’t even process what I’d seen.

“Jane!” Geneva’s voice cut through the chaos. She was already at my side, arms wrapping around me as if I were fragile glass. “It’s okay. You’re okay.”

I shook my head, trembling. “No… No, he—he…” My words died before I could finish. The image of him falling, twisting, his body hitting the ground—it replayed in my mind like some sick, unending film.

Geneva squeezed me tighter. “Look at me. Breathe, Jane. You’re safe.”

I nodded shakily, even though it felt like my body belonged to someone else. My wolf screamed under my skin, restless, uneasy, angry, scared.

The crowd grew. Students came from all directions, some whispering, some shouting, but no one dared come too close. Faces I’d known since the first week at Cornell turned pale. Eyes wide. Some froze entirely, like they were caught between curiosity and horror.

I wanted to disappear. I wanted to crawl under the ground and pull it shut behind me.

Then I saw them—pack wardens, security, and even Coach Whitman. He wasn’t usually on night duty, but he’d been called immediately when they realized the victim was a shifter from Athletics.

He pushed through the students, eyes sharp, body tense. “Clear the area. Now.” His voice cut through everything. No one argued.

I stumbled back, letting Geneva guide me away from the center. “Jane, it’s under control. Just breathe.”

I nodded again, feeling faint. My hands shook so badly I almost dropped my bag. My wolf was pacing under my skin, snapping at anything that moved.

I forced my eyes forward. The victim lay there. Not a pool of blood like I’d expected. No, it was worse. His body was burnt. Scorched. Not evenly, like a fire. Not outside. Inside. Patterns I couldn’t comprehend ran across his flesh, twisting, blackened in uneven streaks.

A sick part of me wanted to look away, to block it out, but I couldn’t. Not completely. My body refused to obey me.

Whispers ran through the crowd.

“Who… who is that?”

“That’s… Marcus…”

“Marcus from Athletics?”

“Yes. That Marcus.”

My stomach churned. Marcus. The boy everyone knew. The boy everyone respected. He was dead. And not just dead—mutilated in ways no one could explain.

Coach Whitman knelt by the body, checking quickly. “Pack wardens, get the perimeter secured. Everyone else, back to your rooms.”

“What?” someone shouted. “We can’t just—”

“Return to your rooms. Now,” one of the wardens barked. His voice held no patience. No negotiation. And no one moved.

I stood there frozen, watching as they worked quickly, efficiently. The murmurs were cut off. Curiosity stifled. Instructions were clear. Late-night curfew immediately enforced.

“You heard them,” Geneva whispered, holding my arm. “Back to your room. Now.”

I didn’t argue. I didn’t move fast enough anyway. My legs felt like lead.

The walk back to the dorm was quiet. Every so often, I caught glimpses of faces behind windows, shadows pressed against glass. Eyes wide, silent, afraid.

When I finally reached my room, I slammed the door behind me. Sat on the floor. Tried to breathe. Tried to think. Tried to make sense of what I had seen.

I couldn’t.

By morning, exhaustion had settled into my bones. Not just tiredness. Something deeper. Something that made my pulse pound at every small noise. Every footstep outside my door, every book falling in the hall, every whisper.

I forced myself to get dressed. To go to class. To pretend.

I sat down at the back of the lecture hall, gripping the edge of the desk until my knuckles turned white. My heart was still racing. My wolf was still restless.

The professor called my name.

“Jane Garice?”

I straightened as best I could, trying to smooth the panic from my expression. “Yes,” I said. My voice sounded strange to me. Too loud, too shaky.

“Are you prepared to participate today?”

“I—I’m… I’m not feeling like myself,” I admitted, voice low, trying to sound calm, trying to sound rational. “I don’t think I can…”

The room went quiet. Eyes flicked between me and the professor. I thought maybe someone would understand. Maybe someone would see me and say it was okay, that it wasn’t my fault, that I didn’t need to pretend.

I was wrong.

The professor’s eyes narrowed. “Not feeling like yourself?” she said sharply, voice louder than necessary. “In my class, everyone participates. Your disruption yesterday—”

I froze.

“—was unacceptable. You will write an apology to the class for disrupting the lesson. Do you understand?”

The words hit me like a punch. An apology? For screaming? For witnessing a death? For… existing?

“Yes,” I whispered, too drained to argue. Too drained to protest.

She glared at me, satisfied with my submission, and moved on to the next student. The room stayed silent for a long moment after. Shocked. Tense. Waiting for someone to say something.

No one did.

I sank back in my seat. Heart still racing. Hands still trembling. My wolf snarled under my skin, restless, snapping at shadows.

I didn’t write the apology right away. I just sat there, feeling hollow. Feeling exposed. Feeling angry at a world that demanded I apologize for the terror I had seen.

The class moved on, the lecture continued, but I was somewhere else entirely. I could feel the panic lingering. The exhaustion. The unease. The fear.

I forced myself to breathe. Tried to focus on notes. Tried to listen. Tried to act normal.

But I wasn’t. I couldn’t be.

Even the sound of a book dropping in the back of the hall made me jump, hands gripping the desk. My pulse spiked. My eyes darted to the source.

I took a deep breath. Tried to calm myself. Tried to push it away. Tried to remember that I wasn’t the one on the ground.

I was alive. I was breathing. I was safe.

But it didn’t matter. My mind replayed the image again. And again. And again.

I finally picked up a pen and my notebook. I wrote the apology the professor demanded, each word heavy, forced, hollow.

I didn’t look up once.

When I finished, I handed it to her silently. She nodded, satisfied, and moved on.

I stayed in my seat long after class ended, staring at the page. The words didn’t mean anything. Couldn’t undo what I had seen. Couldn’t undo the scream. Couldn’t undo Marcus.