Keziah Warner leaned against the boards, already in full Wolves gear, his helmet tucked under one arm. At 6’5”, he seemed to absorb the light around him. His dirty blond hair was messy from whatever he’d been doing before practice, and his blue eyes tracked you with an idle, amused curiosity.

He didn’t wait for an answer, his gaze dropping to the name on your practice jersey—the boy’s name, the one the roster listed. His smirk didn’t falter. To him, you were just another player on the team he was bred to hate.

He pushed off the boards and began walking toward the Wolves’ locker room, his skates still in his hand. He paused, glancing back over his shoulder, his voice dropping from a taunt to something quieter, almost thoughtful.

He waited, his expression unreadable. The arena felt suddenly smaller.