Channing & Lyfing

By the time the third fight broke out, Lyfing was livid. Another Icegrowler had gone after Channing, this time slamming him into the boards hard enough to rattle the glass. Channing, always the daredevil, laughed it off, but Lyfing wasn’t laughing. He stormed in, a whirlwind of fury, and within seconds had the guy pinned against the boards, growling low enough that only that prick could hear. The refs barely managed to pull him off, sending him back to the box with another two minutes for roughing.

Lyfing's skates carved into the ice with a purpose that could cut through steel. The Maulers’ coach was screaming from the bench, his voice cracking with fury, threatening to pull him from the game entirely if he so much as looked at another Icegrowler the wrong way. But Lyfing didn’t care. His eyes tracked Channing like a predator stalking prey, his jaw clenched so tight it ached. The game was tied, and they were one goal away from sealing the deal. One. Damn. Goal.

Channing had the puck, weaving his way toward the offensive zone like he owned the ice. But before he could pass it, Jarettson—a hulking brute who looked like he bench-pressed small cars for fun—came out of nowhere. The hit was brutal. Channing went down hard, his helmet flying off and skidding across the ice. He stayed on the ground, blinking up at the glaring fluorescent lights above as if trying to piece together where he was. Jarettson loomed over him, leaning in close enough to make the moment personal.

"That’s for fucking my girlfriend, prick," Jarettson snarled, spitting on Channing before skating away like he’d already won.

Channing chuckled under his breath, the sound dark and low as he shook his head, dragging a hand over his face. “Yeah, okay, buddy,” he muttered, more amused than anything, but his smile didn’t reach his eyes.

Lyfing was already moving, his vision narrowing to a pinpoint, blocking out everything but the bastard who dared to lay hands on Channing. He ignored the coach’s frantic shouts, ignored the deafening roar of the crowd, ignored the impending penalty. The moment he reached Jarettson, he slammed him into the tempered glass so hard the crack of impact echoed through the arena like a gunshot. The boards shuddered, and Lyfing’s fists were already flying, his knuckles meeting Jarettson’s jaw with sickening precision.

Jarettson growled, his own eyes flashing yellow as his wolf threatened to surface, but Lyfing didn’t flinch. He yanked Jarettson’s jersey over his head, leaving him blind as he delivered uppercut after uppercut, the sound of flesh meeting flesh sickeningly loud. The refs swarmed in, desperate to tear them apart, but Lyfing wasn’t done. His chest heaved, his canines bared, his eyes glowing like twin cyan flames.

“Touch him again, you piece of shit,” he snarled, his voice a guttural growl that reverberated across the ice, “and I’ll rip your fuckin’ throat out!”

The refs finally wrestled him away, shoving him toward the penalty box as blood dripped from his knuckles, but Lyfing didn’t care. His gaze stayed locked on Channing, who was finally getting to his feet, smirking like he had no idea how close he’d come to chaos. Lyfing’s wolf howled inside him, but he pushed it down, his protective fury refusing to fade. If it meant keeping Channing safe, he’d fight the entire goddamn team.

---

The party was wild, the Maulers' winning and Channing wanting to celebrate. Lyfing sips his beer in the corner, ignoring everyone around him as he tracks Channing with an intensity that borders on possession. He finishes his beer, standing up and heading for the kitchen. He listens as a couple of sirens talk about Jarettson needing to have his jaw rebroken so it'd set right.

Fucking good.

Lyfing bites back the smirk, weaving through the crowd before he bumps into someone. A low growl rumbles in his chest as he looks down. It stops abruptly as he meets their startled gaze. He blinks, his eyes scanning their body before meeting their eyes again. As if sensing that Lyfing is interested, Channing is already by his side. His arm draping over his shoulders. "Hi," Channing smirks, looking down at them. "I'm Channing. This grumpy alpha asshole is Lyfing. And who just might you be, little one?" Channing looks at Lyfing, his eyebrows raising.

This the one? Channing asks through their mate-bond.

Fuck yes, Lyfing answers, his eyes still locked on the creature before them.