Chapter 35 Wren
There’s nothing like a pro arena on game night.
The air changes before the doors even open—charged, humming, alive.
The kind of electricity that lifts the tiny hairs on your arms and makes your chest buzz like you swallowed a live wire.
My badge feels heavier around my neck, not like a credential, but like a permission slip I still can’t believe I earned.
Concrete vibrates beneath my boots as I step out of the tunnel for the first time, the rink opening in front of me like a world I’ve only ever seen from TV angles.
The music thunders, lights sweeping the ice, kids waving signs above the glass.
The sounds swirl together—laughter, shouts, whistles, the thunk of pucks hitting end boards.
I should be nervous.
I’m not.
Or maybe I am and it just feels good for once.
The guys are already on the ice, gliding through warmups. Finn catches my eye first—of course he does. His grin flashes bright beneath his visor as he races toward the glass, stopping short so the spray of ice dusts the boards in front of me. He taps his stick twice. A hello. A promise.
Atlas is the opposite. He doesn’t tap. Doesn’t wave.
Doesn’t smile. He scans. Always scanning.
He makes a slow loop around the near circle, shoulders rolling beneath his pads like the tension inside him is coiling tighter with every stride.
But when he passes me, his gaze flicks down—quick, sharp, checking.
Making sure I’m here. Making sure I’m okay.
Kael skates past without a single acknowledgment, but I’ve learned that means nothing.
He’s locked in, steady, orchestrating the ice like it’s his second language.
He fires a pass cross-ice, tape-to-tape, then positions his hips so perfectly for the next angle that I swear he sees plays three seconds before they happen.
The anthem blares. Lights dim. The place explodes.
And then—
The puck drops.
The sound hits first: the roar of twenty thousand voices punching the air at once when Finn wins the opening draw with a quick flick of his wrist. He dances through two defenders before the shift even settles. I’ve seen him skate a hundred times. I’ve never seen him skate like this.
He looks wild. Free. Elusive.
Beautiful, if I’m being honest.
Atlas’s line jumps over next. The opposing winger tries to cut through center ice and Atlas meets him chest-on.
The thud shakes the glass and sends the man sprawling.
The entire arena reacts—half outrage, half awe.
Atlas doesn’t even glance back. He just pivots, digs in, and drives the puck back out of the zone.
The energy floods into my bloodstream like adrenaline injected straight into a vein.
“Trainer!” one of the rookies calls, lifting his stick in the familiar signal.
I’m already moving, grabbing a fresh visor cloth and sliding along the bench. He leans down so I can wipe a smear of sweat and snow off his cage. It takes three seconds. By the time I hand him water, the play is already turning.
Kael’s on the ice again.
His presence changes everything.
Lines shift.
Opponents reroute.
Even the crowd quiets for a second, like they can feel the ice rearranging around him.
He wins a battle along the boards, kicks the puck free with his skate, then feathers a pass to the slot so effortless it looks accidental—until Finn appears out of nowhere, collects it, and snaps a shot that rings off the post.
The entire bench groans.
Finn circles back and taps the glass right where I stand.
As if he’s saying:
Saw you flinch.
It was cute.
I swallow a laugh.
The game builds like a storm cell—pressure rising, lines shifting, the ice a blur of color and speed and muscle. I work nonstop. Water. Towels. Tape. Adjusting a loose lace. Checking a shoulder that smacked the boards too hard.
The Reapers get a power play late in the first. Kael quarterbacking it from the blue line, hands steady on his stick. Finn darts in and out, playing keep-away with three guys like he enjoys making them chase him. Atlas plants himself net-front, a wall in human form.
The puck cycles.
Kael fakes a shot.
Defenders bite.
Finn snaps it cross-crease to Atlas.
He buries it.
The arena detonates.
Atlas doesn’t celebrate much—just a sharp nod, a shove from Finn, and then he skates toward the bench with that same intense, quietly furious focus he always carries.
But when he reaches me, he drags his glove across the glass—not a tap, a drag—and his eyes hook into mine for a fraction of a second.
Heat shoots straight down my spine.
The horn ends the period. I exhale for what feels like the first time all night.
In the tunnel, the guys peel off toward the locker room. Trainers swarm. Staff move in practiced chaos. I grab extra tape, refill water bottles, and restock the medical bag for the second period. Kael brushes past me, shoulder grazing mine—nothing obvious, just enough for my breath to catch.
“You good?” he murmurs.
“Yeah,” I whisper.
His gaze searches me for a beat longer than necessary, then he nods and disappears inside.
Finn stops as he passes, leaning in close. “Best seat in the house, huh?”
“Pretty sure the goal judge behind the net disagrees,” I tease.
“Yeah, but you’re prettier,” he fires back, winking as he follows the others.
Atlas is last. He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t wink. Doesn’t smile.
But he slows.
Just enough to say without words:
I saw you all night.
I’m not done watching.
The second period is faster. Meaner. The opposing team comes out hot, throwing their weight around like they’re trying to knock the Reapers off rhythm. One of their forwards slams into Finn behind the net, and my stomach drops until he pops up with a grin like he enjoyed it.
Kael takes a puck off the inside of his knee and winces but plays through the next shift because he’s made of something sturdier than bone.
Atlas gets in a scuffle after someone takes a late hack at Finn’s ankles.
He doesn’t drop gloves—Kael yells something sharp from the blue line and Atlas listens—but the warning in his posture sends the other guy skating away fast.
By the time the whistle blows for a TV timeout, my heart is beating in sync with the arena.
I’m not scared.
Not thinking about Denver.
Not thinking about texts or shadows or an ex who carved too many scars into my reflexes.
Just the game.
Just the ice.
Just them.
I lean against the boards, breathing in the cold air that rises off the rink like mist. Finn skates by and flicks a snowflake at me. Kael shouts a command to the defense. Atlas jams his helmet back on with a snap that makes sweat drip down his neck.
God, no one warned me how hot hockey players are when they’re actually playing.
The clock ticks down to the final minute of the second. I glance up at the Jumbotron, checking the shots on goal, and—
Something pricks the back of my neck.
I turn toward Section 118.
Just a glance.
Just enough to let my eyes skim through the rows.
Someone stands near the aisle.
A shape.
A silhouette.
Tall.
Still.
Facing the bench instead of the ice.
My breath catches mid-inhale.
I blink.
A fan moves in front of them.
When the crowd shifts—
he’s gone.
Gone.
Like he was never there.
The horn blasts for intermission and the entire arena jumps to its feet. Noise slams into me. Lights flicker. Trainers rush onto the ice.
But all I feel is the cold crawling up my spine.
I look down the bench.
Finn is watching me.
Kael too.
Atlas’s stare is already cutting through the crowd.
They know something happened.
They just don’t know what yet.
The rest of the arena gleams and cheers and sways with the pulse of the game—
—but all I can see is that one empty space in the stands.
And the way my body recognized a presence before my mind did.
The way fear remembers a silhouette long after it’s gone.