Hockey is way more confusing when you're trying to figure out which reality you're in. I squint at the ice, trying to make sense of the blur of black and gold jerseys as players crash into each other with bone-rattling force. The crowd roars around us, but I feel weirdly disconnected from it all.
Our private box at TD Garden is ridiculous. All plush seating, top-shelf booze, and a spread of fancy finger foods that would make a five-star restaurant jealous.
Maeve stands at the glass partition, completely absorbed in the game below. Her tall frame is rigid with tension, her crimson eyes tracking every movement on the ice with predatory focus. The Bruins jersey she's wearing hugs her curves in a way that would normally have my full attention, but right now my brain is too busy short-circuiting over something else entirely.
"Maeve?" I finally say.
She doesn't look away from the action. "Yes?"
"Why are all the players women?"
Now I have her attention. She turns to me slowly, one perfect eyebrow arched in confusion. "What do you mean?"
"I thought only men played for the Bruins... And I can count on two hands how many men I see in the audience."
Maeve stares at me for a long moment before bursting into laughter, not her usual controlled chuckle, but full-bodied, head-thrown-back laughter that makes several people in nearby boxes turn to look.
"What?" she manages between gasps, wiping at her eyes. "You thought hockey was played by men?"
I feel my face heat up with embarrassment as I glance back at the ice. The players are clearly female, powerful, muscular women smashing each other into the boards with terrifying force.
"Why isn't there more men here?" I ask, looking around at the crowd. The audience is overwhelmingly female, with just a scattering of men here and there, most of them clinging to their female companions' arms.
Maeve's smile softens as she looks at me, her head tilting slightly. "Men don't typically enjoy hockey, Vincent. They prefer more... manly pursuits."
"Like what?" I ask, curious.
"Cooking," she says with complete seriousness. "Knitting. Interior design. Those sorts of things."
I blink at her, waiting for the punchline, but her expression remains earnest. "Wait, you're not joking?"
"Why would I joke about that?" She looks genuinely confused.
My brain feels like it's buffering as I try to process this information. I glance around the arena again, studying the crowd more carefully. The gender imbalance is striking now that I'm paying attention.
"Is there... like... less men than women in general?" I ask hesitantly.
Maeve's expression shifts to concern. She reaches out, her cool fingers gently brushing against the side of my head where I hit it during my "sidewalk accident."
"Oh Vincent," she says softly. "I forgot about your concussion. Poor thing. So bold but so..." she pauses, searching for the right words, "ignorant and forgetful."
Her touch is gentle but clinical, like a doctor checking for damage. "There are far fewer men, remember? One man for every five women."
"Woah," I breathe, my mind reeling.
Suddenly, Emily's casual reference to "wives" the other day clicks into place. Plural. Wives.
"So, uh... how does marriage work then?" I ask, my voice slightly higher than normal.
Maeve's eyebrow arches. "For humans?"
"Yeah."
"Men who don't find wives by twenty are assigned them. The government matches them with compatible women to ensure population stability."
"Fuck, that's wild," I mutter, trying to imagine a world where men are basically a controlled resource.
Maeve turns to me fully now, her game momentarily forgotten. Her eyes narrow slightly as she studies my face, and I notice the tips of her fangs just visible beneath her upper lip.
"Did you have any wives, Vincent?" she asks, her voice deceptively casual despite the predatory gleam in her eyes.
"I honestly don't remember," I say. They weren't my wives. And I am not going to sit down and think of all those implications or unpack any of that…
Something dangerous flashes in Maeve's crimson eyes. In an instant, her hand is around my throat, fingers tightening just enough to make breathing difficult but not impossible. She pulls me close, her face inches from mine.
She opens her mouth to say something when the door to our private box swings open.
Emily stands in the doorway, her expression tense. "Valentina and Victoria are on their way up," she announces.
"Fuck," Maeve sighs, annoyance radiating off her in waves as she releases my throat.
I gasp slightly as air flows freely again, my hand instinctively moving to rub the spot where her fingers had been. Despite everything, my body immediately misses her touch, that cool pressure against my skin.
"Take him out of here," Maeve commands, straightening to her full height. "I don't want them figuring out what he is."
Emily nods sharply. "Got it."
Maeve turns to me, her expression softening just a fraction. "I'll meet you back at the penthouse," she says, reaching out to brush her fingers against my cheek in a gesture that seems almost tender.
The contrast between her earlier aggression and this gentle touch leaves me dizzy with confusion and desire.
"Alright," I say, reluctantly pulling away from Maeve's touch.
I follow Emily as she practically drags me out of the box, her grip firm on my elbow as she steers me through the crowded corridor. She moves with purpose, navigating around groups of women in Bruins jerseys. The few men I spot are dressed impeccably in designer clothes that make my borrowed outfit look like trash.
Emily guides me down a side hallway marked "Staff Only" where a broad-shouldered security guard stands at attention. Emily gives her a curt nod, and the woman steps aside without question, allowing us access to a service elevator.
The doors slide shut with a soft hiss, leaving us alone in the small metal box as it begins its descent.
"You looked so disappointed the second she took her hands off your throat," Emily says suddenly, breaking the awkward silence between us.
"Yeah, I think I'm kinda into her whole... like, evil vibe."
Emily rolls her eyes, but there's less hostility in the gesture than usual. "Not surprised."
"Yeah, me neither."
To my complete shock, Emily actually laughs, a genuine sound that transforms her usually severe face. It's brief, but it's definitely a laugh.
"Oh, are we finally friends now?" I ask, unable to keep the hopeful note out of my voice.
The smile drops from her face instantly. "No," she says firmly. "Don't use that word. Maeve will kill me." She pauses, then sighs heavily. "But if you're going to be Maeve's pet, we might as well get along."
"Thank God," I breathe out in relief. "I wasn't sure how long I could handle the exhausted hating me act."
The elevator dings as we reach the basement level, and Emily leads me through a concrete service corridor. "It wasn't an act," she mutters, but there's less bite in her tone than before.
"So this whole world..." I start, trying to wrap my head around everything. "Women are in charge? Of everything?"
Emily gives me a sidelong glance as we walk. "Your concussion really did a number on you, huh?"
"You have no idea," I mutter, thinking about the truck. "So women run everything? Government? Military? Business?"
"Yes," Emily says slowly, like she's explaining something to a child. "That's how it's always been."
My mind reels as pieces of this reality start clicking into place. It's not just vampires and weird castles. The entire structure is different.
We reach a sleek black car parked in what looks like a private section of the underground garage. Emily pulls out a key fob and the vehicle chirps in response.
"Get in."