Chapter 13 Wren
Practice feels wrong today.
The ice is too loud.
The energy is too sharp.
Kael is wound tight enough to snap, Finn keeps glancing at me like I might disappear, and Atlas... Atlas is skating like he’s trying to outrun something inside his own head.
Coach blows the whistle and calls for a full-ice scrimmage.
Great.
Exactly what this team needs—more chaos.
The puck drops.
Bodies explode forward.
Atlas launches himself down the right side with terrifying momentum. Jensen, one of the rookies, tries to take the inside angle and cut him off.
My stomach twists.
“Don’t—” I mutter under my breath.
Jensen does.
They collide at full speed.
The sound that follows is horrible—an echoing CRACK that shoots lightning through the rink.
Jensen hits the boards and falls.
Atlas hits a millisecond later, shoulder first, head snapping back against the glass. His legs buckle. His stick clatters. His breath punches out of him in a violent, sickening rush.
And then—
He doesn’t move.
My body reacts before my brain does.
I’m running.
Down the bench.
Through the gate.
Onto the ice in my cleats, slipping hard but never stopping.
“Atlas!” I shout, heart slamming against my ribs. “Move—come on—Atlas, look at me!”
Everything slows.
The scraping of skates stops.
Voices fade out.
I drop to my knees beside him, hands already on his helmet to keep him still.
His eyes are shut.
Ice seeps through my pants.
My breath fogs the air between us.
“Atlas,” I say again, softer. “Hey. Hey, open your eyes. Come on.”
A groan.
His eyelids flutter.
Finally, his gaze drags up to me—unfocused, pained, but alive.
“Wren,” he mutters.
Relief crashes through me so hard my vision blurs.
“Don’t move,” I warn. “You slammed into the boards. Just stay still.”
He tries to shift anyway and grits a curse through his teeth.
Kael skates to us in seconds, dropping down beside me with terrifying intensity. “Is he out?”
“No,” I say. “But he’s hurt.”
Finn arrives next, breathless. “Atlas, man—what the hell—”
“Everybody back up,” I snap before I even think. “Give him space.”
Kael immediately listens.
Finn backs off too.
Atlas... stares at me like I’m the only person on the rink.
Coach shouts something about clearing the ice, but I’m already checking Atlas’s ribs, his shoulder, the range of motion he absolutely shouldn’t test right now.
“On my count,” I say. “One... two... three.”
Kael and Finn help lift him carefully. Atlas is swearing under his breath the whole time, leaning more on Kael than he probably realizes.
I walk backward in front of them, watching every hitch in his breathing.
Atlas watches me just as closely.
The moment we reach the tunnel, he stops abruptly and I bump into his chest.
“You came fast,” he says, voice low and rough.
“You were hurt,” I answer, heart pounding.
His eyes darken. “You always gonna run like that?”
“I—”
God, I don’t know.
He gives me one long look that sends heat down my spine. Then Kael guides him toward the training room, Finn hovering close like a shadow.
I follow.
And I can already feel the pressure building behind my ribs.
Because all three of them are about to be in a small room with me.
Worried.
Watching.
Crowding.
Trying to help.
And none of them realizing they’re making everything so much worse.
***
The second we step into the training room, everything tightens around me.
The walls feel smaller.
The air feels heavier.
And the three of them—Kael, Finn, Atlas—move with this suffocating, overwhelming intensity that wraps around my ribs like a fist.
Atlas lowers himself onto the medical table with a hiss, jaw clenched. Kael stands to his left, arms crossed, eyes burning holes in the floor. Finn is on the right, pacing, hands dragging through his hair.
All three of them tense.
All three of them watching me.
All three of them too close.
I can’t breathe.
“Okay,” I say, forcing my voice steady as I set out supplies. “Let me check your shoulder.”
Atlas glares at the mention of pain but doesn’t argue when I step in front of him. I place my hands on his upper arm, feeling for swelling, muscle tension, any dislocation.
He inhales sharply.
“Hurts?” I ask.
“No,” he lies.
“Atlas—”
“It’s fine,” he snaps, but he’s looking at me, not the injury.
My pulse stutters.
Kael’s voice cuts in, low and dark. “If he’s hurt, fix it.”
“I’m trying,” I say.
But my hands are trembling.
I try to hide it—curling my fingers, adjusting my grip, repositioning—but it’s useless. Finn sees everything. His pacing stops.
“Wren?” he asks softly.
I shake my head. “I’m fine.”
“You’re shaking again,” he whispers.
My throat tightens. “It’s cold,” I say again, because I don’t know what other excuse to use.
“It’s not cold,” Atlas mutters.
“Wren.” Finn steps closer. “Talk to us. Please. We know you don’t want to, but maybe we can help.”
I swallow hard and try to breathe through the rising pressure. “I’m working.”
Kael shifts his weight, jaw ticking. “We’re not trying to overwhelm you.”
“You are,” I whisper before I can stop myself.
Silence snaps through the room like a whip.
Finn’s eyes widen.
Atlas straightens.
Kael goes stone still.
Shit.
I back up, bumping into the counter behind me.
Kael takes a step forward automatically—like he’s trying to fix it, fix me—but the second he does, something inside my chest clenches painfully.
I flinch.
Barely.
But I do.
Kael freezes mid-step.
Finn’s breath leaves him in a quiet curse.
Atlas’s eyes sharpen like he’s watching the most important moment of his life.
“Wren,” Kael says carefully, the way someone approaches a skittish animal. “We’re not here to scare you.”
“I know,” I whisper.
“Then let us help,” Finn pleads.
“I don’t want—” My voice cuts off as my throat closes. I force a breath. “I don’t want this.”
“‘This’?” Atlas echoes.
“All of you,” I choke out. “Staring. Hovering. Waiting for me to fall apart.”
Kael’s face goes blank—his version of breaking.
“We’re not waiting for that,” he says quietly.
“You are,” I whisper.
I can practically feel the moment his heart cracks.
Finn looks physically pained. “Wren...”
Atlas doesn’t speak.
He doesn’t move.
He just watches—eyes dark, jaw locked, breathing slow like he’s swallowing the urge to grab me by the shoulders and demand answers again.
I drag in a shaky breath. “I’m trying so hard to keep it together. But you’re all so...”
Big.
Intense.
Loud.
Everywhere.
They each take a tiny step back when I say it.
All three of them.
Kael first.
Then Finn.
Then Atlas—slowest, like he hates the idea of giving me space, but hates the idea of hurting me more.
The air rushes into the room like a gust of cold wind.
I can breathe again—but it hurts.
Because distance feels like relief...
...and losing something I didn’t realize I wanted.
I wrap Atlas’s shoulder in silence, my hands steadier now that they aren’t hovering like storm clouds at my back.
But every time my fingers brush his skin, he watches me with this look—raw, wounded, confused.
Like my fear is a knife he doesn’t understand, but feels anyway.
When I’m done, I step away fast. Too fast.
“All right,” I whisper. “You’re cleared for ice tomorrow. But no hitting. No checking. No collisions.”
Atlas snorts. “So... no hockey.”
Kael shoots him a warning glare.
Finn steps forward—then stops halfway, remembering.
“Wren,” he says softly. “If you need anything... anything at all...”
I shake my head. “I don’t.”
My voice cracks on the last word.
They hear it.
All three of them go still, like my pain hits them physically.
I can’t do this.
I can’t be in this room another second.
“I need to go,” I whisper.
“Wren—” Kael tries.
But I’m already walking out.
Fast.
Too fast.
Almost running.
I don’t look back.
If I do, I’ll break.