31. Wren #3
“And since hockey has always been about community…” I glance back toward the tunnel, unable to stop smiling now. “I thought maybe we could expand that community a little.”
I nod toward the sound booth.
The lights cut completely.
For one suspended second, the arena falls into darkness.
Then music explodes through the speakers.
The giant screen flashes with the unmistakable logo of the Atlantic City Serpents.
The crowd loses its collective mind.
Children scream. Adults gasp. Phones shoot into the air, recording instantly as the tunnel doors slide open and the first Serpents player skates onto the ice beneath a burst of flashing lights.
Followed by another.
And another.
My brother grins at me as he passes, before turning that blinding white-toothed smile to the crowd, raising his stick as he steps onto the ice.
The cheering grows deafening with every player introduction. Even the Kings players look impressed as several NHL stars skate onto the ice, laughing and waving toward the crowd.
The atmosphere inside the arena turns electric almost instantly as the Kings and Serpents gather at center ice, surrounded by excited children practically vibrating in the stands. It’s chaos in the best possible way.
And standing there watching all of it unfold, I feel something settle deep in my chest.
Pride.
Pure, overwhelming pride.
Because I did this.
Me.
The realization steals the breath from my lungs for a moment.
Beside the bench, Dean Carver stands stiffly with his arms folded across his chest, his expression thunderous enough to rival an approaching storm cloud.
He’s still waiting for something to go wrong.
Waiting for the event to implode so he can swoop in and remind everyone that I never belonged here in the first place.
Too bad for him.
The puck drops moments later, and the exhibition game immediately dissolves into playful chaos. The fun kind. The kind where nobody really cares about the score because every big hit is exaggerated for the crowd and every goal gets celebrated like it’s game seven of the Stanley Cup Finals.
The Serpents might be NHL players, but the Kings aren’t exactly making life easy for them.
Lucian steals the puck from one of the Serpents’ forwards before skating past him with a cocky grin, only for my brother to immediately body check him into the boards hard enough to make the crowd gasp.
Lucian pops back up laughing. “That all you’ve got, old man?”
“You’re literally one year younger than me,” Carson shoots back.
Ronan intercepts a pass at center ice moments later, weaving through two defenders with smooth precision before sending the puck straight between the goalie’s legs. The arena erupts.
He skates backward afterward, pointing directly at me through the glass with an unbearably smug grin.
“Oh my God,” I mutter, already feeling heat creep into my cheeks.
Further down the ice, Silas strips the puck from another Serpents player so cleanly it barely even looks intentional before sending a brutal pass straight to Lucian.
The three of them move together with effortless chemistry, sharp and instinctive, like they’ve spent their entire lives learning each other’s rhythms.
Which…I guess they kind of have.
The crowd eats it up.
Kids scream every time someone crashes dramatically into the boards. Parents laugh from the stands. Phones remain permanently lifted, recording clips while the announcers lean fully into the ridiculousness of it all.
At one point, Lucian and Carson end up in a mock fight at center ice after arguing over a penalty call that absolutely did not matter. The refs barely bother intervening because both idiots are grinning the entire time while the crowd chants for them to ‘drop the gloves’.
“This may have been a mistake,” I mumble.
Coach snorts beside me. “Too late now.”
And honestly? Watching the two teams together on the ice like this feels strangely surreal.
The Valehurst Kings.
The Atlantic City Serpents.
Two parts of my life, colliding in the middle of an arena packed full of people because of something I created.
“Nah, this was a hell of an idea,” Coach Wexler says, more serious now.
I glance sideways to where he’s standing beside me near the boards, hands tucked into the pockets of his jacket as he watches the game unfold.
“You think?” I ask quietly.
He snorts. “Kid, you did good. Accept the win.” Warmth blooms low in my chest. “You were made for this.” His voice is matter-of-fact.
Certain. “And I’m not saying that because of who your family is or your last name.
I mean you. Your skillset. Your temperament.
You know how to handle players without bruising their egos.
You can manage ten problems at once without panicking.
You’ve got instincts for this job that most people spend decades trying to learn. ”
I swallow hard as his gaze sweeps the arena before coming to rest on me. It somehow seems to cut right through me. “You act like this world was forced on you, but watching you today? Looks to me like you belong here.”