Chapter 28 Kael
The rink looks different at night.
Quieter. Colder. Honest in a way it never is during practice. The lights over the center ice are the only ones I bothered turning on; everything else is shadow, except for the long white spine of brightness cutting across the rink like a surgical incision.
I like it this way.
No teammates.
No rookies.
No whistles.
No noise I don’t choose.
Just the scrape of my blades as I push off and glide across the ice, carving silent arcs that echo against the empty stands.
It’s the only place where my mind lines up.
Except tonight, nothing lines up.
I stop at the far boards and plant my palms against the plexiglass, breathing hard. Not from exertion—though I’ve been skating drills for an hour straight. It’s the pressure. The information. The weight.
Adrian.
I knew the name would matter the moment she said it. Not because of who he is. Because of what she looked like saying it. Like she was offering me a wound she usually keeps stitched shut.
I replay the sound of it over and over, a shape carved into her voice.
Her ex.
Her stalker.
Her fear.
I drop my head and let it hang between my shoulders. My breath fogs the glass. It’s colder in here tonight. Maybe that’s me.
My jaw tightens. I force myself to exhale slowly, controlled, measured.
I don’t get to lose control.
Control is what makes a good captain. Control is what keeps a team in line. Control is the thing I perfected years before I ever stepped foot in a rink like this. Some kids grow up learning how to throw punches. Others learn how to hold back.
I learned restraint so well it feels like bone.
But tonight?
Tonight restraint feels like a noose.
I push off again, skating a clean tight turn around the circle, legs burning in a way that’s almost welcome. I push harder, leaning into the edge until my shoulder nearly grazes the ice, then snap upright and sprint down the line.
Fast enough that the wind stings my eyes.
Fast enough that thinking becomes optional.
But it never fully stops.
I see Wren’s face when her phone lit up.
How she froze.
How her hands trembled before she made them stop.
How she looked at Finn—not me, not Atlas—because Finn already knew.
That part shouldn’t bother me.
It does.
Not because she trusted him. Finn is safe. Warm. Open. The kind of person you tell things to without meaning to. He earned it. He deserves it.
It bothers me because I didn’t see it.
Because I should have.
I’m the one who reads a whole team’s worth of fear, tension, ego, exhaustion, potential disaster and manages it before it hits the ice. I’m the one who knows when someone’s about to blow or when they’re falling apart. That’s my job. That’s what I’m good at.
But I didn’t see this in her.
Or maybe I saw it and didn’t name it. Maybe that’s worse.
I take another lap so fast my blades scream against the surface. My lungs burn. Good. I want the pain. Pain is simple. Pain makes sense.
Fear doesn’t.
And what I feel when I think about Adrian—what I feel when I picture him calling her, texting her, watching her—isn’t anger first.
It’s fear.
I’ve never been the jealous one. Never been the one to react first and think later—that’s Atlas’s territory. Never been the one to panic, to spiral—that’s Finn, even when he hides it behind smiles. I’m the one who sees the full map.
But Wren changes the terrain.
Because the idea of someone hurting her makes something cold bloom under my ribs. Something that feels old, like memory. Something like helplessness.
I hate helplessness.
I dig my blade into the ice and stop short, chest heaving. The silence presses back at me.
I don’t know when I started caring about her like this.
Maybe when she first walked in with that too-small smile.
Maybe during the night I found her in the training room with her hands shaking while she wrapped her own wrist because she refused to ask for help.
Maybe the moment she told us she wasn’t afraid of Atlas and he looked like he’d been handed something holy.
Or maybe it happened slowly, then all at once the moment she said his name.
Adrian.
I want to find him.
Not to hurt him. Not out of violence.
Out of strategy.
I want to know what he looks like.
What he wants.
What he did to her.
What he’ll try next.
I want to know him the way I know an opposing team’s playbook.
Because you can only defend what you understand.
I skate to center ice, stop on the logo, and let myself breathe through the thoughts curling in my head.
Finn said she has a safety word. Two, actually. Hydrate and Zamboni. He said it like it was normal, like she’s had to build entire scaffolds to survive someone who turned her life into a chokehold.
Finn knows things I don’t. And Atlas... Atlas knows enough to be dangerous. He’s trying so hard to hold himself back that I can practically feel the strain vibrating off him.
If Adrian shows up?
Atlas won’t stay contained.
Finn will break open.
And I—
I’ll have to decide how far I’m willing to go.
The truth is simple.
I will go as far as she needs.
If that means calling the cops, fine.
If it means filing reports, fine.
If it means changing all our schedules, fine.
If it means keeping her in sight, pairing off, making sure she’s never walking alone—fine.
If it means putting myself between her and whatever nightmare she’s been dragged through?
I don’t hesitate.
I rub a hand over my face and stare at the far glass, my reflection faint and ghostlike.
“I should have seen it,” I mutter to the empty rink.
My voice echoes back at me, too soft to fill the space.
I don’t talk to myself. Never have. But tonight the words spill out like they needed air.
I think about her leaning against the desk earlier, eyes bright with fear she was trying to swallow. I think about the question she asked—What if I make the wrong call?
She won’t.
But I might.
I’m not used to uncertainty. Not like this. Not when it comes to people I’m supposed to protect.
I skate again, slower this time. Breathing. Thinking. Planning.
We need structure.
We need clarity.
We need to know Adrian’s pattern, his history, his escalation trajectory.
We need to know where Wren is vulnerable—routes, times, blind spots.
We need to know what she needs, not what we assume.
I’ll gather the information. Quietly. Thoroughly.
Finn will come at it through emotion.
Atlas will come at it through loyalty.
I will come at it through logic.
Between the three of us, we can cover any angle.
If she lets us.
That’s the hardest part.
Trusting someone with your fear is harder than trusting them with your life.
I complete one last lap and drift to a stop near the bench. I pull off my gloves, sit down, lean forward with my elbows on my knees.
My heartbeat slows.
My mind sharpens.
And the truth clicks into place:
I am scared for her.
I am furious for her.
I am invested in her.
More than I should be.
More than I planned to be.
More than I’m ready to admit out loud.
But I’m also something else.
Determined.
If Adrian thinks he can get in her head again?
If he thinks he can control her from a distance?
If he thinks he can break her open and crawl back inside?
He hasn’t met me yet.
He hasn’t met Atlas.
He hasn’t met Finn.
He hasn’t seen the way she already has us orbiting her gravity.
He hasn’t seen what we turn into when someone we care about is threatened.
“Come at her again,” I whisper into the dark arena. “And you’ll learn what a team really is.”
My breath fogs the air. The lights hum above me. The ice stretches out in front of me—quiet, waiting.
I push off and take one final lap, a slow one. Not to think.
To settle.
To seal the promise forming in my chest.
Whatever comes next—whatever Adrian tries, whatever fear curls back up Wren’s spine—I will be there. Finn will be there. Atlas will be there.
She won’t have to face him alone.
Not anymore.