Chapter 25
twenty-five
WREN
This isn’t just a game. It’s a spectacle.
A whirlwind. A high-stakes, end-of-the-season, star-studded charity event with a magnitude that feels like the Super Bowl.
Everywhere you look, there’s a camera rolling: from the massive film crews ready to capture every blink and gasp, to phone-wielding fans anticipating the next viral moment.
It’s a mad house. Intense.
Swarming with fans and camera crews, the producers have gone all out to make sure this isn’t just an event but a full-on reality TV extravaganza.
The entire cast has front-row seats, faces pressed against the glass like kids at the zoo, all in pursuit of chaos, drama, or maybe even love.
Shiny boom mics dangle just out of the frame.
Countless GoPros are tucked into flower arrangements on the ledge, capturing our every move.
Every breath. Every awkward pause. We’re being recorded again. Story of my life.
I’m still breathing hard from fucking Ryan. Again. This isn’t just amazing, terrible timing. It’s starting to feel like fate.
There they are in a row, like synchronized swimmers: all the contestants, each wearing crisp new hockey jerseys.
We’re supposed to look like a team, unified in blue and white.
Excited to catch the cameras’ attention.
Every contestant has HAART printed on the back in stark, bold letters, along with the number sixteen.
I can practically hear the producers snickering about how clever they are.
Here we all are, looking like one big happy family, the kind you see on TV but never in real life.
Except me.
I stare down at my jersey, a relic from another time.
The jersey. The one with frayed edges and a stubborn stain that never quite washed out.
The ancient one I stole years ago right after Ryan carelessly left it at our house.
I swiped it off the couch, gave it a new home, and never looked back.
While everyone else is decked out in fresh-off-the-press gear, mine is almost nostalgic, a reminder of days long passed.
It’s thin as paper, softer than it has any right to be, a paler blue than it used to be.
I paired it with a dark gray pleated skirt and my platform Mary Janes. It’s a look, but I’m uncertain that I got it right.
I squeeze in beside Raven. The cotton of my jersey rustles against my skin. I can’t help but think about all the times I fell asleep in it, wrapped up like it was some kind of security blanket. Maybe it was. I could almost be a teenager again in this faded jersey.
I should have more shame, but I don’t.
“Is my makeup okay?” I ask Raven.
“I wouldn’t say that.” She lights up and touches a strand of my hair. “I would say that you look like a knockout.”
I feel my cheeks heat. “Thanks. I got a serious makeover for this show and it’s taking some time for me to come to terms with it.”
“Whatever it is, it’s working.”
“Thanks. That means a lot coming from you. You always look so put together.”
Raven grins. “Thanks, babe.”
I lean forward and look onto the rink before us where the players zoom around. The energy around us is supercharged. Raven is practically bouncing, her barely-contained excitement fizzing like soda out of a freshly cracked can.
“He’s hot!” she announces, eyes glued to the players warming up on the ice. Her voice rings with more surprise than she’d probably care to admit. “I’ll say it now. This was a genius date idea!” She jostles me with her elbow. “Major win for the producers. They must be losing it right now.”
Heidi bobs her head in agreement. Determination flashes in her eyes, a readiness to see the drama unfold. “Oh, I’m gonna scream so loud if he gets in a fight,” she declares, the prospect as thrilling as a front-row seat at a rock concert.
“He won’t,” I say instinctively, the words tumbling out with less certainty than I’d like. A small, nervous part of me can’t rule it out. “At least, I hope not. He was given a red card last season right before the playoffs, and I think that’s kept him in line this year.”
My mind drifts to all the times I’ve seen him go from zero to sixty, fists curled, ready to face anyone who thinks they can take him. He fights clean, his punches more precision than rage. But it still makes me flinch when he drops the gloves. He can’t help himself sometimes.
It’s so Ryan.
Though maybe he’ll surprise me. He’s got a whole bunch of bachelorettes to impress tonight, even if it’s mostly for the TV show.
The crowd buzzes with anticipation, a low rumble undercutting our conversations. The lights dim. The crowd quiets, then erupts again as the team is introduced. One by one, players burst from the tunnel in a blur of sharp blades and adrenaline. Ryan skates out last.
The crowd loses it.
He’s a streak of blue and white, moving with terrifying ease, his shoulders squared and his jaw set with determined precision.
That stupid little smirk tugs at his mouth, as if he already knows he’s the one they came to see, the main attraction, the headline act.
As he flies past our corner of the rink, he slows just a notch, a fraction of a second that feels impossibly long.
Heidi waves.
Raven squeals.
Ryan’s eyes find mine. Just for a breath. A flash of heat, intense but fleeting. A flicker of something that makes my pulse skip. It’s enough to make me lean forward, to stand up, to feel like maybe this is a story with me in it. Then he’s gone, speeding off into the frenzy.
I’m left clutching the railing and pretending I didn’t just melt into the floor.
When the puck drops, the game starts with a jolt.
I know it’s just for charity, but you wouldn’t know it from the way they’re playing.
The pace is relentless. They don’t hold back.
The collisions are sharp, players careening off the walls and into each other like they have something to prove.
Ryan controls the puck as if it’s part of him.
Flicking passes, darting through traffic, skating backward like it’s no big deal.
Because to him, it isn’t. He’s in hyper-focus mode, his eyes searching the ice like he’s reading minds.
The first period flies by in a blur of thundering skates and crashing bodies.
Ryan moves like water flowing around rocks, finding gaps where none should exist. When he’s got the puck, he’s untouchable.
His stick work is poetry in motion, quick little taps and nudges that send the puck exactly where he wants it to go.
I watch him fake left, pivot right, and slip past two defenders like they’re standing still.
“Did you see that?” Raven shrieks beside me. “How did he even do that?”
I want to explain that Ryan’s been doing moves like that since he was twelve, that I’ve watched him practice the same sequence a thousand times in our neighborhood rink. But I just nod and cheer along.
The opposing team starts targeting him. I can see it happening. Extra checks when he’s near the boards. Subtle slashes across his wrists that the refs don’t catch. A late hit that sends him sprawling into the corner. My stomach clenches every time someone lines him up for a hit.
“They’re going after him,” I mutter, gripping the rail tighter.
“Who?” Heidi asks.
“Number twenty-three. The big guy in white. He’s been gunning for Ryan all period.”
Sure enough, the next time Ryan touches the puck, number twenty-three is right there, throwing his shoulder into Ryan’s ribs. Ryan absorbs the hit and keeps skating like it’s nothing. But I see the way he stretches his back afterward. The way he flexes his fingers around his stick.
Then Ryan gets his revenge in the most Ryan way possible. He scores.
It happens so fast I almost miss it. A face-off in the attacking zone. The puck comes back to the point. Ryan drifts toward the net, looking casual, almost lazy. The defenseman passes to him without thinking. Ryan onetimes it, top shelf, bar down. The goalie doesn’t even move.
The red light goes on. The horn blares. The crowd explodes.
Ryan doesn’t celebrate like the other players. No fist pumps or stick raises. He just skates in a slow circle, that infuriating smirk tugging at his lips like he knew it was going in before he even shot it. Show-off.
“THAT’S MY BOY!” some guy behind us screams.
I want to turn around and tell him that no, actually, that’s my… what? My what exactly? My brother’s best friend? My secret hookup? My complicated whatever this is?
The second period is more of the same. Ryan sets up two assists with passes so perfect they look scripted.
He draws a penalty by being faster than the guy trying to hit him.
He even drops back to play defense when their center gets a breakaway, skating backward at full speed and somehow stealing the puck without even looking like he’s trying.
“He’s everywhere,” Heidi breathes.
She’s right. Ryan is everywhere. Covering for his teammates. Making plays. Being the kind of player who makes everyone around him better just by existing on the same ice.
But it’s the little things that really get to me. The way he taps his stick on the ice to call for a pass. The way he adjusts his helmet between shifts. The way he stretches his neck, rolling his shoulders to work out the kinks. I know all these habits. I’ve been watching them for years.
During the second intermission, they show highlights on the Jumbotron. Ryan features in about half of them. The crowd cheers louder every time his face appears on screen. I catch myself smiling like an idiot when they replay his first goal in slow motion.
“You’re so obvious,” Raven teases, nudging my shoulder.
“I don’t know what you mean.” My neck grows hot.
“Girl, you light up every time he touches the puck. It’s adorable.”