Seducing My Werewolf Hockey Captain

Chapter 17: Alpha’s Heritage

Chapter 17: Alpha’s Heritage

~ Yates ~

I woke up feeling like someone had used my skull for target practice.

The light filtering through the blinds was too sharp, too aggressive, slicing across my eyes until I had to throw an arm over my face. I was in my bedroom, still tangled in the sheets, but the air felt stale. Gradually, the fog in my brain began to lift, and the jagged pieces of last night started to slot back into place.

I remember the heat of the bonfire. I remember the bitter taste of the whiskey. I remember Jerome practically hauling me into his car while Fanny waved from the porch of her farmhouse, her voice trailing off as she told him to drive safe.

Getting up the stairs had been a battle. Jerome had been shoving me toward the landing while I tried to argue that I was perfectly fine to sleep on the kitchen floor. He’d won eventually, mainly because I’d tripped over the top step and crawled the rest of the way to the mattress.

I sat up, rubbing my face until my skin tingled. The house was quiet, but I could hear the faint sizzle of bacon coming from downstairs. My dad was home. I offered a quick prayer of thanks to whatever gods were listening that he hadn't been in the foyer to witness my drunken entrance at two in the morning.

I dragged myself out of bed, threw on a clean shirt, and headed down to the kitchen. My father, Scott Underwood, was standing at the stove, his back to me. He was already in his police uniform, the fabric crisp and the badge glinting under the fluorescent lights.

"Hey, Dad," I mumbled, my voice sounding like I’d swallowed sandpaper.

"Hey." He didn't turn around, just flicked his gaze toward the stove. "You look like hell."

"I always look like hell," I shrugged, heading straight for the coffeemaker. I needed caffeine more than I needed oxygen.

"You didn't make it back on time last night," he noted. It wasn't an accusation—Scott Underwood didn't do accusations—it was a statement of fact.

I paused, the mug halfway to my lips. "Oh. Yeah. I was hanging out with Jerome and Fanny at her place. We lost track of time."

It was a lie, and we both knew it. The Nightshade pack didn't just 'lose track of time' in the woods without a bonfire and half the student body involved, but he let it slide.

"Hmm," was all he said. He flipped a piece of bacon with practiced ease. "Were you guys doing drugs or—"

"Dad, come on," I snapped, the coffee finally beginning to drip into the carafe. "You know me better than that."

"I’m just saying, Yates. RavenBane is a small town. I don’t need words flying around the precinct that the future Alpha of the Nightshade pack is tripping on something in the woods."

"I don't do drugs. You know that."

"Okay," he said, finally turning to face me. "If you say so."

He set a plate of eggs and bacon on the table, the steam rising in the cool morning air. "Eat. I’ll be leaving for work in a few minutes. We’ve got a homicide case opening up, and the department is in a frenzy."

My fork stopped halfway to my mouth. "Homicide?"

"Just something we’re starting to look into," he said, dismissively waving a hand. "Don't go worrying about it. Focus on school."

I watched him as he moved toward the coffeemaker. It was a strange sight—the Alpha of a wolf pack wearing the blue uniform of human law enforcement. But in RavenBane, that’s how it worked. The older generation of our pack held the police department like a fortress.

"It’s weird," I said, chewing slowly. "How all of you ended up in the same department. You, Justin, all the others."

My father sighed, a weary sound that made the lines around his eyes look deeper. "We’re family, Yates. We stick together. In the woods or in the station, it doesn't matter. We protect our own."

He poured himself a cup, his movements steady. "Speaking of family, how is Justin’s girl doing? I haven't seen Elodie in a while."

"She’s fine," I said. "Doing well in her classes. She’s actually made a new friend. A human."

My father paused, his mug hovering near his lips. "A human?"

"Yep," I nodded, keeping my voice casual. I didn't want to mention Gwen by name. Just thinking about her made my chest tighten in a way that had nothing to do with the hangover.

"How did she—" He was cut off by the sharp, rhythmic chirping of his phone. He checked the screen and answered immediately. "Underwood."

I listened to the muffled, urgent voice on the other end. Work. It was always work.

As he talked, my gaze drifted around the kitchen. The house felt too big, too empty. It had been that way for fourteen years. My mother, Daisy Underwood, should have been sitting across from me. She was the daughter of an Alpha from a neighboring pack, a woman who had been born to lead. When she and my father found each other, it was like two halves of a storm finally meeting.

She died when I was eleven. A trip to Baton Rouge that was supposed to be a vacation turned into a nightmare. Severe food poisoning, the doctors said. A freak occurrence. But to an eleven-year-old boy, it felt like the sun had been extinguished.

My whole world had crumbled that week. My father had been a ghost for a year, hollowed out by grief. Gradually, we’d found our way back to the surface, but the house never recovered. He never looked for another mate. He didn't want one. He was Scott Underwood, the widower, and he wore his solitude like a shield. I felt bad for him, even if I admired his strength.

"Okay, buddy, I’ve gotta go," he said, clicking his phone shut. He drained the rest of his coffee and grabbed his walkie-talkie and sidearm from the living room table. "Work is waiting. I’ll see you at dinner."

"Okay, Dad."

"And tell Fanny I say hi," he added, pausing at the door. He’d always liked Fanny. She was 'safe.' She was a wolf. She was the expected choice.

"I will."

"Bye." The door clicked shut, and I was alone with the hum of the refrigerator.

I cleared the dishes, sliding them into the dishwasher with more force than necessary. My phone started vibrating on the kitchen island before I could even dry my hands.

"Hey, dude," I said, answering without looking.

"What’s up, Underwood? Has the hangover killed you yet?" Jerome’s voice was far too energetic for this time of day.

"It tried. But coffee brought me back from the brink."

"Good to hear. You were absolutely wasted last night. I thought I was going to have to carry you into the house over my shoulder like a sack of potatoes."

"I know, I know," I sighed, leaning against the counter.

"You coming to school? We’ve got practice at noon. The new coach is supposed to introduce himself today, and you don't want to be the guy who shows up late and hungover to the first meeting."

"I’ll be there in a bit. I just need a shower to wash the smell of smoke off me."

"Cool. See you in a few, Underwood," Jerome said, and the line went dead.

I stared at the phone for a second, the silence of the house pressing in on me.

Are we going to talk about it? Jack’s voice drifted through my mind, soft but persistent. About how you felt when Jerome asked her for that kiss? About how the air in your lungs turned to lead?

"No," I said aloud to the empty room.

Jack didn't push it, but I could feel him lurking just beneath the surface, restless and brooding. He didn't need to say anything else. We both knew the truth. The game was supposed to be a joke, but the look on Gwen’s face—and the fire that had flared in my gut—was anything but funny.

I headed for the shower, determined to drown the memory of her wide eyes and the orange glow of the fire in scalding hot water. But even as I turned the handle, I knew it wouldn't work. Some things didn't just wash off.