9. Wren #2
Ronan wins the faceoff. He moves like precision carved into muscle.
Everything he does is controlled yet relentless.
Lucian’s already cutting through the defensive line, lowering his shoulder as if daring anyone to get in his way.
While Silas lingers on the edge, ghosting where the play isn’t…
until it suddenly is. One flick of his wrist, and the puck is his. Smooth. Effortless. Deadly.
The Kings shift as one organism—Ronan leading, Lucian charging, Silas anticipating what no one else can see. The Krakens scramble to react, their defense collapsing like a poorly built wall.
The sound swells: the scrape of blades, the slap of the puck, the roar that follows when Ronan’s shot hits the back of the net. I’m already leaning forward, pulse matching the rhythm of the game, that old familiar thrill climbing up my spine.
I can see why my parents wanted the three of them.
Why they were willing to lock in a deal early.
There’s something hypnotic about the way they move, the way the puck bends to their pace, the way even the crowd holds its breath when they’re on the ice.
Not having all three of them on your team would be a travesty.
A monumental mistake that you would live to regret for years to come.
As always happens when I’m at a hockey game, I get swept up in the excitement of it all. In predicting the shifts before they happen. The change in positioning. The strategy woven beneath the noise. It’s instinctive. I can feel the rhythm of it, the way you can feel thunder before it breaks.
“Pretty incredible, huh?”
The voice draws my attention away from the ice.
Isaac Evans.
Second-line winger. Sharp jaw. Smug grin. Trouble, written in the casual sprawl of his shoulders.
He’s sitting at the end of the bench, helmet resting between his knees, watching the game like it’s a joke he’s already figured out the punchline to.
“I’m Evans, by the way,” he adds, like I don’t already know. Like he doesn’t already know me.
“Wren,” I say, cautiously. Polite.
“I know who you are,” he responds, with a grin that’s pure flirt. “Kind of hard not to, isn’t it?”
I arch a brow. “Because I’m the new intern or because of my last name?”
He hums, leaning in slightly. “Nah, because the last time I said your name, Lucian nearly took my head off.”
That catches me off guard. Not because of the comment—but because of the way he says it, like he’s laying bait.
He knows exactly what he’s doing.
I glance toward the ice.
Lucian’s out there now, charging toward a Kraken winger like he’s got something to prove.
“Don’t worry,” Evans says. “I don’t bruise easily.”
My eyes snap back to him, brow furrowed in confusion. He can’t be telling the truth. Why, for all the stars in the sky, would Lucian nearly take his head off for simply saying my name? It doesn’t make any sense.
I’m about to tell him as much when the crowd erupts in a collective gasp that has my head jerking up in time to see Lucian barrel into the opposing winger after the whistle.
The guy crumples. Slams into the boards shoulder-first, then drops to the ice, like a boulder rolling down a hill.
A whistle pierces the air, shrill and frantic, as the referee’s arm shoots up, already motioning.
Skates cut across the ice, one ref skating hard toward Lucian while another rushes to the downed player.
Evans lets out a low whistle of his own beside me. “Wonder what got under his skin.”
It’s another targeted comment that feels as though it’s got hidden layers to it, and I frown at him, trying to understand, to read beneath the surface.
The overhead speaker crackles to life, cutting through the noise: “Number twenty-eight, Caulfield. Five-minute major for charging. Game misconduct.”
The crowd breaks out into a storm of reaction. Boos. Cheers. Shouts of “throw him out!” from the Kraken side.
Lucian doesn’t bother to argue, doesn’t waste time defending himself. Instead, he skates toward the penalty box with all the casual threat of a lit fuse, ripping his helmet off on the way.
But then, as he passes the bench—
His eyes find me.
And I go still.
Because whatever fire’s burning in him, whatever that was…
It’s not spent.
And even though his anger isn’t aimed at me—
Even though I didn’t do anything—
It feels like it is.
The locker room is still. Blissfully still.
After the chaos of the game, this silence feels like a balm. There’s no shouting. No orders barked over my shoulder. No Carver breathing down my neck like I’m one mistake away from being fired.
The scent of sweat and ice and victory still clings to the walls, heavy in the air even though the players are long gone—off to whatever bar or house party they attend after a win.
Leaving only me in the locker room.
I move between benches, gathering stray gear and tossing forgotten towels into the bin near the exit. I still have to double-check that all the bottles are accounted for and plug in the cooler to charge for tomorrow. If I forget, Carver will find a way to make me regret it.