9. Wren
WREN
The locker room is chaos.
Loud voices. The thud of sticks hitting benches.
The slap of tape pulling tight around skates.
The metallic tang of adrenaline in the air.
The air is thick with the smell of liniment and fresh tape, and the low rumble of male voices all bleeding together.
Someone laughs too loudly. A player on the other side of the room yells for more tape.
Someone else swears when they drop a mouthguard.
All of it is the soundtrack to game night.
I don’t have a moment to soak it all up, though. There’s no pause button when you’re the intern.
I’m juggling a checklist that feels twice as long as my arm, darting from one end of the room to the other while the team gets ready to hit the ice.
I’ve got half a dozen towels thrown over one shoulder, a crate of water bottles in my arms, and stat sheets tucked beneath my elbow.
All of it is one wrong move away from going flying because the hem of my team-issued jacket keeps catching on every damn thing in this locker room—the corner of a bench, the wheel of the skate cart, someone’s bag left gaping open on the floor.
I weave between them all, invisible, as I drop a towel to the medical table and grab a fresh roll of tape to give to the equipment manager. I double-check that the hydration cooler is stocked. Triple-check that Coach’s clipboard has the right lineup sheet clipped to it.
Every task ticks off my mental list with satisfying precision, but there’s always more.
“Winslow!”
Carver’s voice slices through the noise like a blade, and my spine stiffens.
He’s standing in the doorway to the coach’s office, red-faced and impatient, waving a stack of papers like it personally offended him.
“Where are the updated stat sheets?”
“I—” I stop mid-step, balancing the last crate of bottled water against my hip. “They’re here. The copier—”
“I asked for them ten minutes ago,” he snaps, cutting me off. “What use are they in your hands?!”
Juggling the crate while I weave between legs and open duffel bags, I hurriedly cross the room to where Carver is standing. His hand is extended, foot tapping impatiently against the floor as I hand over the updated sheets.
“I don’t want excuses, Winslow. I want results.”
With those final cutting words, he ducks back into Coach’s office, slamming the door in my face.
I bite down on my tongue hard enough to taste copper before blowing out my frustration.
I don’t have time to melt into a puddle of humiliation or daydream about bashing Carver over the head with a water bottle, and thankfully, everyone else in the room is too busy getting ready for tonight’s game.
Unlike the last time Carver bit my head off.
Except for one player.
When I finally turn to face the room, my mental checklist at the front of my mind, my gaze connects with ice blue eyes.
Silas. He’s not looking at me; not initially.
Sitting across the room with his elbows on his knees, he’s glaring menacingly at the closed door to Coach’s office like he’s imagining how satisfying it would be to smack a puck into Carver’s smug, arrogant face.
He must feel my gaze on him, as those piercing eyes snap to mine, sucking me in and holding me captive. The exhausting list of all I have to get done is forgotten as I get swept up in the vortex of his stare.
There’s so much hatred in that look, and for some reason I can’t pinpoint, I feel as though it is on my behalf, but why? Why would Silas feel such inexplicable rage for me?
The entire interaction must last barely a second before I rip my gaze away, feeling confused and conflicted, before shaking my head and getting back to work, intent on ignoring Silas and his two friends.
I set the last water bottle on the bench just as the team begins to circle up.
Coach Wexler emerges from his office and begins his pre-game speech, his voice booming over the chaos.
It’s the same sort of pep talk I’ve heard from my family’s coaches when I’d sneak into the locker room before a big game.
The usual: stay sharp, watch the forecheck, play smart, play hard, play for each other.
By the time Coach wraps up, I’m back to darting between benches, clearing away stray bottles, and wiping condensation off clipboards. I move faster than I need to, partly out of nerves, and partly because Carver thrives on finding fault in anything I do.
“Don’t pay much heed of Carver. His life is so miserable that he has to drag everyone down with him.”
“Yeah, I’m sure it has nothing to do with the fact that my last name is the only reason I’m here.”
I’ve responded before I even register who it is talking to me. Ronan. His voice low and steady as he leans against the edge of a locker, dressed in his gear as he wraps fresh tape around his stick.
“Seems to me he’s more annoyed that you’re actually doing a good job, and you aren’t the useless, entitled princess he had you pegged as.”
I blink at him. Did the team captain just—
He smirks, faint but there, before turning away to lace up his gloves. The heat crawling up my neck has nothing to do with the humidity in here.
The team begins to move, the usual ritual before the first skate-out.
I notice Silas standing in front of his locker, back to the room as he does some sort of breathing exercises.
Isaac removes a token he keeps on a chain from his locker, kissing it before setting it back.
Other pre-game superstitions take place around the room.
A few guys bump shoulders and mutter “good luck”.
Meanwhile, I hover near the back, grabbing discarded tape rolls and folding towels.
Silas is still standing at his locker, ignoring everyone else as they file out of the room.
Not wanting to disturb him, I move quietly, tidying up the mess the team has left in their wake.
I reach for a crumpled practice jersey that’s been cast off and left abandoned on the bench near him, but before I can grab it, he picks it up and hands it to me.
“Thanks,” I murmur. Then, before I can stop myself, I add, “Good luck out there.”
He looks into my face, almost as though searching for something only he knows, then, slowly, he gives me the faintest of smiles. It’s small, fleeting, like it’s not something he’s had much practice at. I’m still staring after him as he follows the rest of the team out of the locker room.
I’ve never heard Silas speak. Not once in the two weeks I’ve been here. The guys don’t encourage him to engage in locker room talk. In fact, other than Lucian and Ronan, no one really engages with him at all. I find myself wondering why that is.
More concerningly, I wonder what his voice sounds like—if it’s quiet and deliberate like the way he moves.
The roar from the arena is deafening as I follow the team through the tunnel, clipboard tucked under my arm and heart thudding like it’s trying to break through bone.
As much as I may not want to be at Valehurst or interning for the Kings, there’s no denying the thrum of excitement that goes through me the moment I step out onto the concrete and the cold air hits me.
It’s not just the physical bite of the rink, but the electric buzz of the crowd, the lights, the hum that exists in the seconds before something important happens.
The arena is lit up like a show. Music pulsing.
Spotlights sweeping. The Kings’ logo glints at center ice, polished and pristine, waiting for the first contact.
Players are already gliding out one by one, slapping their sticks against the boards, shouting to each other over the music as they warm up.
The air is sharp with adrenaline and expectation, cut with the smell of ice spray and sweat.
It’s intoxicating.
I linger by the bench, unsure where to put myself until one of the assistant coaches gestures for me to join the staff just behind the gate. They stand in a cluster, headsets on, arms crossed, checking watches and clipboards. No one acknowledges me as I slip in amongst them.
Coach crosses behind the bench, catching my eye as I hover too long with nothing to do.
“Clipboard,” he barks, flicking two fingers at me.
I fumble to pass it over.
“Stay here,” he adds gruffly. “Keep track of the scratches and shifts. And make sure no one forgets water. I’m not pausing a line change because one of these idiots got lazy.”
He moves off before I can nod, so I do as I’m told.
I hover in the pocket of space just behind the bench, jotting down notes, and adjusting bottles, but most importantly, staying out of the way.
The players carve across the ice in fast, practiced formations.
Even during warm-ups, there’s aggression in the way they move, blades hissing, shots cracking off the glass.
Lucian barrels down the ice, an unstoppable force. Ronan commands the right side of the rink like he’s already dictating the pace of the game. And Silas…moves like smoke. Quiet, deadly. All sharp turns and sudden power.
Catching myself staring, I hurriedly glance away. My lips pull down in a frown. Why can’t I stop staring at them? I hate them. I hate what they did. The fact that they got away with it. The fact that, even now, there is nothing I can do to them. They are untouchable.
I should hate them.
I do.
So why can’t I seem to look away?
I keep my mind focused on the task at hand until the music quiets and the crowd goes still in preparation for the puck drop.
I’ve always loved this part—the silence before the mayhem. It’s as if everyone in the room is aware that something extraordinary is about to unfold.
With a held breath, I watch as Ronan and the captain of the Dunhaven Krakens duke it out for the puck.