George’s POV

Everyone at Saint John University thinks they know who I am.

To them, I’m George Okafor — third-year Psychology major, captain of the university’s hockey team, two-time MVP, and the kind of guy who walks into a room and owns the air before saying a single word. I’ve heard the rumors. The nicknames. “The Ice King.” “Mr. Untouchable.” “Dream Guy.” I’ve seen the looks girls give me when I pass through the halls, the way guys either nod in respect or step aside like I’m royalty.

But nobody really knows me.

They know the highlights: my face in the campus magazine, the goals I scored, the trophies I held, the matches I led to victory. They know I’m sharp with words when I need to be, that I keep to myself off the rink, that I don’t chase anyone. But they don’t know the man behind the mask. Or the beast under the skin.

Before the fame, before the arrogance people now associate with my name, I used to be... different.

I used to be kind.

Hard to believe, I know.

In my first year, I was just another hopeful boy trying to blend in. I used to help people with their assignments, smile at strangers, say “good morning” to cleaners and security guards. I used to laugh more. I used to let people in. But kindness doesn’t survive long when it's thrown into the fire of betrayal.

Her name was Tonia.

Second-year Law student. Smart. Beautiful. Sharp like a blade wrapped in silk. I met her at a freshman orientation event, and for reasons I still don’t fully understand, she took an interest in me. Back then, I was still working my way up in the hockey team. I wasn’t a star. I was just George. But to her, I was something to mold, to control.

She called me her project — not to my face, of course, but I found out later. Found out everything later. How she used me to get back at her ex. How every soft word was part of a script. How she lied to her friends about me, made me sound like a fool behind my back.

The worst part? I believed in her.

I opened up. Told her things I hadn’t even told my own mother. I let her into parts of me that weren’t meant to be touched by just anyone.

When I found out, something in me snapped.

That was the end of George-the-nice-guy. The death of the gentle version of myself. I rebuilt what was left with colder bricks, sharper edges. I stopped apologizing for taking up space. I stopped waiting to be liked. I became what people whispered about — confident, detached, dangerous.

I rose through the ranks of the hockey team fast. The coach said I was a natural — my speed, my power, my instincts on the ice. What he didn’t know was that I wasn’t like the other players.

Because under the surface, I wasn’t just fighting defenders or chasing pucks.

I was fighting my nature.

You see, I’m not just Saint John’s hockey captain. I’m not just the mysterious guy walking the halls in a leather jacket and a half-smile.

I’m a werewolf.

An alpha.

Born into a legacy older than the university itself. A lineage marked by ancient bloodlines and territorial bonds. My pack is hidden, scattered across regions, some in cities, others in forests, all sworn to secrecy. My father was the last true alpha of our line before he vanished under circumstances I’m still trying to understand.

The gene passed to me early.

I shifted for the first time at fifteen. Alone. In pain. In a clearing outside my uncle’s village. It was wild. Bloody. Violent. But freeing. Like waking up for the first time after years of sleep.

Now, I carry that power with me every day — even if no one knows.

When I play hockey, I hold back.

Well... most of the time.

There were matches where I could feel the change clawing at the edges of my skin — when adrenaline and anger mingled in ways I could barely control. I’d push a little harder, run a little faster, hit a little stronger. It wasn’t full transformation — I’m not stupid enough to let that happen in public — but it was close. Too close.

Last semester’s championship game? The one where we were down by two goals and came back in the last five minutes? That wasn’t strategy. That was instinct. That was me, half in control, half on the edge, letting the beast out just enough to win.

The crowd roared. They called it magic.

I called it restraint.

The truth is, I have to be in control. Always. Because if I slip — really slip — someone could get hurt. Or worse. And for someone like me, there’s no such thing as forgiveness. No second chances. Just headlines. And blood.

So I stay distant. I don’t get close. I don’t explain myself.

Let them call me arrogant. Let them paint me however they want.

It’s better that way.

Because if anyone ever really saw the real me... the one behind the smirk, behind the muscles, behind the captain’s badge... they wouldn’t admire me. They’d fear me.

And maybe they should.

But sometimes, late at night when the moon is full and I’m sitting on the rooftop of the sports complex alone, I wonder what it would feel like to let someone in again. Someone who wouldn’t run from what I am. Someone who could see both the man and the monster — and not flinch.

But that’s a fantasy.

In the real world, people like me don’t get happy endings.

We just survive.

So I walk the campus with my secret tucked beneath my skin, like a ticking clock only I can hear. I shake hands with teammates. I nod at professors. I ignore the stares. I let them whisper.

Let them keep wondering.

Because at the end of the day, none of them know the truth.

None of them know that the man they see scoring goals and wearing a jersey numbered 11 is something else entirely.

They don’t know that sometimes, when the night is heavy and the wind is sharp, I run on all fours through the outskirts of campus, unseen. Free. Dangerous.

No one knows that George Okafor, captain of the Saint John hockey team, isn’t just a man.

He’s an alpha in the heat — and the beast inside him is always hungry.