8. Silas
SILAS
I slip in through the door just after nine.
No one notices. They rarely do. When you don’t talk, people tend not to notice your appearance.
Or perhaps you just learn how to move around unnoticed.
Either way, it makes it easy to melt into the background.
Especially in a place like this, where the lights are low and the chatter is loud enough to keep eyes busy and ears occupied.
I’ve been here for twenty-seven minutes.
Well, technically, I’ve been here for the past two and a half hours.
I followed her here, curious to know where she was going when she left her building wearing skin-tight black jeans with rips at the knees and matching boots with a small heel, which accentuates her slight frame.
At the time, she had a hoodie covering the top half of her body, but she has since discarded it, revealing the vintage cropped T-shirt that clings to her breasts and finishes just above her belly button, giving everyone an unobstructed view of the creamy skin on her flat, smooth stomach.
I had to wait until enough people had piled into the bar before I could slip in without her noticing me.
I don’t want to spook her. Not after Ronan told us she believes we’re the ones who attacked her that night.
We all want answers. We want to know why she’s here.
Is it because she recognized us in The Stanley that night?
Or is it purely coincidence that she’s here now?
Ultimately, we want to help her in whatever way we can, but the last thing I want to do is scare her.
I have no doubt that the others have found their own ways of keeping an eye on her, infiltrating their way into her life.
Lucian probably barged his way in unapologetically.
Ronan will try to manipulate his way into her orbit.
Me? I don’t need to be a physical part of her life.
I’m happy to observe from the sidelines.
To be her quiet shadow. Her secret watcher.
Hence, for the past twenty-seven minutes, I’ve sat in a dark corner of the bar and watched, turning a coin between my fingers.
It’s an old piece—worn smooth at the edges, heavy for its size.
For years, I’ve turned it over between my fingers while thinking of her, and now that she’s here, in my life every day in some small way, I find myself reaching for it more and more often.
From my chair, I track her movements back and forth across the bar. I’ve been here long enough to memorize the tilt of her head when she’s listening to a customer. The way her hands move—confident, precise—as she pours beers and passes them over.
Long enough to catalogue the difference between this version of her and the one I’ve seen on campus and at the arena. Gone are the downcast eyes and the heavy hush of demons dragging behind her. She’s looser here. Not soft or vulnerable, but…free. Or as close as one can get to that feeling.
There’s an actual smile on her face. Not the fake one she wears when anyone addresses her at the rink. A real one. Quiet. Crooked. The kind that tugs slow at one side before it takes over your whole expression.
I can’t stop looking at it. At her.
The pain in her is real. Familiar. Beautiful in its brokenness.
It doesn’t beg for pity—it dares the world to look away.
Except I can’t.
I’ve only ever trusted pain that knows how to survive itself, and she does, even if she doesn’t know it yet.
There’s an older guy with a graying beard, and a younger woman with tattoos down one arm working alongside her behind the bar.
The guy seems to be the silent type, only speaking to the girls occasionally when asking for something or directing them, but Wren and the female bartender talk back and forth anytime they are in the same vicinity.
At one point, Wren throws her head back at something the other girl says and belly laughs.
I watch on in wonder. Given what I know she has survived, it’s miraculous that she can laugh at all.
That she can find little moments of pleasure amongst the drag of everyday life.
Because I know, more often than not, she’s unable to find that pleasure.
That her demons are too close to the surface to allow her any kind of genuine joy.
I want to hear that laughter. To see it on her every day. I want it to slip between my ribs and take root like a thorn. Ghost across my skin like silk caught in the wind. My fingers tighten around my glass, the pressure grounding me in a moment that’s already drifting too far.
I’ve spent my life in the shadows, content to observe, but she makes me restless. She makes me want to step into the light just long enough for her to look at me.
Just long enough to know what it feels like to be seen.
I shift in my chair, adjusting my sightline as Wren moves effortlessly through the room.
Unseen, I watch as she clears a nearby table.
Unaware of eyes on her still, her smile fades, her shoulders stiffening back into that quiet tension she carries on campus.
Her eyes dart from side to side, giving away her uneasiness in the loud, busy room.
She’s uncomfortable now that she doesn’t have the safety of the bar standing between her and the rest of the patrons.
The bar begins to thin just after ten, groups of people trickling out into the cold, dark night. Without the crowd, I know I’ll stand out. It won’t be much longer until Wren spots me, and I have the feeling that if she did, it would ruin whatever peace she has found here.
Tucking my notebook back in my pocket, I slip out the door while her back is turned.
The air outside bites colder than expected, and I wrap my coat tighter around me.
Gravel crunches beneath wheels as cars vacate the lot.
I cross the emptying space in silence until I reach my car parked beneath the long, sloped shadow of the trees.
From here, I can see the warm glow of the bar windows.
Shapes moving inside. One of them is hers.
I settle into the driver’s seat and wait.
I tell myself I’m only hanging around to make sure she makes it home safe.
But the truth?
I can’t make myself look away.
The air in the rink is sharp this morning—frost still clinging to the glass, ice fresh-cut, humming beneath our skates like a living thing. It’s always quiet here, even when it’s loud. That’s why I like it. The sound of sticks tapping. The scrape of blades. Breath, grit, focus.
It’s the only place where silence feels like power.
Out here, I don’t need words. I don’t need explanations. There’s a system. A rhythm. Everyone has a place, and when they move wrong, you feel it. You correct it. Order, born from chaos.
Here, silence is control. I choose when to hit. When to retreat. When to let the storm roll off me and when to become it. There’s no guessing game on the ice. Just instinct, speed, and the cold clarity of knowing exactly who you are when the puck drops.
Coach runs us hard through drills, barking out corrections with his usual gravel. I nod when he flicks a look my way, which is his version of approval. He doesn’t expect words from me. No one on the team does anymore.
Words aren’t what I’m here for.
Ronan leads the drills, fluid and precise. He’s a captain in every sense of the word. He speaks in clipped commands and hard glances, and the team falls into line without question.
Lucian is less refined, but although his methods are different, they are just as effective.
He bodies the puck off one of the freshmen during a passing drill.
The freshman hits the boards with a yelp.
It’s not an uncommon occurrence in practice, and nothing compared to the damage Lucian can inflict during a game. He’s brutal in every sense of the word.
We break for water after an exhausting line change drill. I lean on my stick near the boards, listening to the team chat while I down half my flask of water.
That’s when I see her.
Wren, standing just inside the doorway at the far end of the rink. Clipboard in hand, coat buttoned tight over her frame. She’s watching. Or rather, pretending not to. Lucian sees her too. I catch the way his shoulders tighten. The flick of his eyes, heavy with possession.
And that’s when the idiot opens his mouth.
“Y’all see the new intern?” Evans, a second-line winger, asks, staring blatantly at Wren. He’s one of the louder ones on the team. Boisterous. One of the few who enjoys challenging Ronan’s authority and gets a kick out of pissing Lucian off. “Tight little thing, huh?”
“What’s her name again?” chimes in Ford, another upperclassman. “Gwendolyn? Sounds like a fairy princess.”
Lucian’s head snaps up, eyes narrowing in that dangerous way of his that screams impending bloodshed. Great. Setting my flask down, I prepare myself in case these knuckleheads don’t have the common sense to shut the fuck up.
“Could probably bounce a puck off that ass and it’d come back with a phone number.” Evans chuckles, several other guys joining in.
In the blink of an eye, the vibe shifts from casual banter to ‘oh shit.’
Lucian shoves Evans, the move so fast and rough that it’s bone-jarring. Evans flies off the bench, sending water bottles scattering. Before anyone can do anything, Lucian is on him, one fist sinking into his ribs, the other already swinging again.
Great, here we go.
“Don’t you fucking talk about her,” Lucian snarls, fisting the front of Evans’s jersey as he goes to pummel him again.
Evans laughs. Fucking laughs. “Bet she’s the kind that likes it rough.”
Lucian’s fist connects with his jaw in a bone-deep thud that silences everything. “I’ll fucking give you something to bounce,” he snarls like a rabid dog.
Evans’s humor flees, shoving back at Lucian as he spits, “Touch me again and I’ll fucking flatten you.”
“You think she’s a joke?” Lucian growls, grabbing the collar of his jersey. “Say that shit again.”
Evans bucks, trying to dislodge Lucian from on top of him. When that doesn’t work, he swings.
And misses.
Lucian doesn’t.
His fist crashes into Evans’s cheek with a sickening crack. Evans stumbles sideways into the boards, teeth bared, blood already dripping from his mouth.
Chaos erupts.
Benches scrape back. Someone yells. Feet stomp.
“ENOUGH!”
Ronan’s bellow cuts through the brawl as he marches into the mix. Grabbing Lucian by the shoulder, he drags him off Evans.
Newly freed, Evans scrambles upright, blood dripping down his chin and eyes wide. “What the hell, man?!”
Before Lucian can lunge for him again, Ronan adjusts his stance, blocking their view of one another. I step in, bumping Lucian’s shoulder hard enough that he glares at me.
I gesture to my notepad where I’ve written, You want to give her more reason to be scared of you?
Tilting my head subtly to the side, his eyes lift to where Wren is standing on the other side of the rink, watching the interaction. Lucian’s jaw works like he’s chewing glass, an emotion I’m unused to seeing on him flashing across his face: Guilt.
Ronan catches the look between us, his eyes flicking in Wren’s direction before he focuses on the rest of the team. “Everyone cool it. This isn’t high school.” Giving everyone a stern glance, he adds, “How about we keep locker room talk to non-staff members, yeah?”
“He shouldn’t have been talking about her,” Lucian hisses low enough that only I hear.
They were just talking shit.
I scribble.
It didn’t mean anything.
Giving me a look, he asks, “So you’re telling me it didn’t bother you?”
My lips purse, and he gives me a vicious smile. “Exactly.”
Alright, fine, so I might be a little satisfied that Evans is currently bleeding from a split lip.
“She’s not some puck bunny,” he continues, voice dipping lower. “She’s—”
He catches himself, brow furrowing as he struggles to finish that sentence.
She’s what?
I write, showing him the notepad.
“Ours,” he grumbles, looking almost…bashful. Except Lucian wouldn’t know the definition of that word if he read it straight out of the dictionary.
The look I give him is flat. Measured.
Really?
He scowls. “Whatever.”
“We’ve got a season to win,” Ronan continues, sternly. “You want to throw hands; save it for the ice. You want to run your mouth; don’t do it about someone on our team—and you know damn well that includes more than just us players.”
A few heads drop, one or two nod, but no one speaks.
Then Ronan’s eyes find Lucian. “You paying attention, Caulfield?”
Lucian scoffs under his breath, wiping the blood from his knuckles on his leg.
“Yeah. Loud and clear, Cap.”
“Good. Because if you keep it up, you’ll spend the first game of the season watching from the goddamn bench.”
Lucian’s jaw ticks, but he doesn’t argue.
Ronan nods, sharp and final. “Let’s get back to practice.”
We clamber onto the ice. The scrape of blades drowns out the tension, but glares continue to be shared between Lucian and Evans. Lucian continues to release his anger by slamming through defensive zones with a kind of violence that’s almost beautiful in its precision.
Ronan barks orders, and I focus on the rotations, settling into the comfort of structure. No voices. No chaos. Just movement and pattern.
And for a little while, the world makes sense again.