Chapter 37 Finn
The bus smells like sweat, rubber, warm gear, and victory. Usually it’s a good smell. Tonight it makes my chest tight.
I drop into a seat halfway down the aisle, stick bag wedged between my legs, helmet rattling against the window as I move.
The light is dim, those yellowish overhead strips that make everything look softer than it should.
I’m sweating through my undershirt even though my gear is already half off. My breath won’t settle.
I keep looking at her.
Wren sits near the front, tucked against the window, hands in her sleeves like she’s hiding her fingers from the whole damn world. Her forehead rests lightly against the glass. There’s a tiny crease between her eyebrows—the one that means she’s thinking too hard. Or trying not to.
Kael sits across from her aisle seat, posture steady, knees spread like he’s balancing the entire bus on his spine. Atlas sits one row behind them, elbow on the seat in front of him, jaw grinding like someone owes him an apology for the air existing wrong.
I tug off my elbow pad and scrub a hand through my hair. I’m still riding the high from the game—goal, assist, chirps that landed—but it’s laced with something darker. Something that started the second I saw her face tighten in the second period. Something that hasn’t let go since.
Fear.
Not mine. Hers.
She smiled after we scored. It was real. Bright. The kind that makes you want to earn another one just to see it again. And then... something shifted. Subtle. Quiet. But I felt it—like someone flicked off one of the arena lights inside her and left the rest buzzing too loud.
I want to fix it.
I don’t know how.
“Quit staring before you burn a hole in her,” Mason mutters from the seat behind me, smirking into his protein bar wrapper.
I flip him off without looking. He laughs.
Kael glances back, eyes scanning the bus the way he scans the neutral zone—quick, precise, cataloging everything. When his gaze hits me, I drop my eyes to my phone like I’m checking stats. I’m not.
I’m checking her again.
She’s too still. She gets still when she’s scared. And the thing is—she’s trying so damn hard not to show it. She’s holding herself tight, shoulders drawn in like she’s conserving heat. Or composure.
I stand before I can talk myself out of it.
Kael’s gaze shifts, tracking me. Atlas’s fingers tap once against his seat—a silent acknowledgment, not a warning, not permission, just... awareness.
I take the open seat beside her.
The moment I sit, she startles, then relaxes when she sees it’s me. That tiny little shift punches straight into my ribs.
“Hey,” I say, keeping my voice soft. “Didn’t mean to spook you.”
“You didn’t.” Her voice is quiet, the edges worn from a day too long and a night too intense.
“You okay?” I ask.
She nods once. A lie. A good one. The kind survivors craft so smoothly they don’t even realize they’re doing it anymore.
The bus jerks as we pull out of the parking lot. She grabs the seat in front of her, fingers trembling so lightly I might’ve missed it if I wasn’t living with my eyes glued to her lately.
I angle my knees toward her. “Wren.”
She exhales. The kind that sounds like surrender and exhaustion wrapped tight. “I don’t know,” she admits. “I thought tonight would feel... different. Safer.”
“You were amazing tonight,” I say. “You looked like you belonged out there with us.”
Her lip twitches—almost a smile. “I felt like it. For a while.”
“For a long while,” I correct gently.
The dim light catches her hair. She’s beautiful in this strange, quiet way. Not glam. Not dramatic. Just real. Unguarded in a way she doesn’t mean to be. And I swear, if I didn’t know better, I’d think the universe put her on this bus to ruin me.
Her eyes flick toward the aisle, then toward the spot in the stands she’d been staring at. Section 118 lives behind her gaze now. I hate that. I hate him for it. I hate myself a little for not being faster—looking sooner, noticing earlier, being where she needed me before she even needed me.
Not logical.
Doesn’t matter.
Feelings never ask permission.
“You saw someone,” I say. Not pushing. Just acknowledging.
She nods. Barely.
“You don’t have to talk about it.”
She looks at me then. Really looks. “I don’t want to make it real.”
My chest squeezes. “Hey.” I shift closer—carefully, slowly—until our knees brush. “Just because you talk about something doesn’t give it power. It gives you clarity. And clarity keeps you safe.”
She presses her lips together. “I know. I just... I don’t want him to take anything else from me.”
I swallow hard. “He doesn’t get to.”
Her breath catches.
I lower my voice. “You know that, right? He doesn’t get seconds. Not anymore.”
She looks down at her hands. They’re still tucked into her sleeves, small and pale and tense.
I reach gently—slow enough she can pull away—and loosen one sleeve so her fingers peek out.
She lets me.
I wrap my hand around hers. Warm. Small. Trembling.
Electric.
Her inhale is sharp and quiet. “Finn—”
“I’m not doing anything,” I whisper. “I’m just here.”
She doesn’t let go.
The bus hums around us—players debating plays, coaches murmuring, Atlas muttering to Kael behind us about camera angles and exit routes. But right here?
It feels like the world narrowed to just us.
She squeezes my fingers. It’s small. Barely pressure. But it’s permission in a different language.
“I didn’t imagine him,” she says softly. “I know I didn’t. But I didn’t see enough to say it was him.”
“Either way,” I say, shifting closer, “we’ve got you.”
She looks up again. “I know you do. All of you.”
“You especially don’t have to worry about me,” I add, attempting a grin, softer this time. “I’m basically useless at worrying about myself, so worrying about you is a massive improvement.”
A tiny laugh slips out of her. God, it’s pretty. A relief. A little tear in the heavy fabric stretched around her all night.
“I don’t want you to get hurt,” she whispers.
“I don’t want you to get hurt,” I answer.
Her cheeks warm at that, barely visible in the bus lights, but enough to make my chest do something weird and tight.
Atlas leans forward in the seat behind her. “You good?”
His voice is low, steady, but there’s an undercurrent that says say the word and I’ll start flipping seats.
Wren exhales slowly. “I’m okay.”
Atlas grunts. Acceptance. Maybe impatience. Hard to tell.
Kael shifts across the aisle, elbow on his knee. “We’ll go over camera footage tonight.”
I nod. “Good.”
Wren looks overwhelmed again—the way her shoulders want to curl, like responsibility is a weight she keeps forgetting she can set down.
“Hey,” I say to her, leaning in. “Breathe.”
She does.
I squeeze her hand once more before letting go. Not because I want to. Because Kael’s gaze says she’s close to hitting capacity and I need to give her air.
The rest of the ride is quiet.
Calm.
Steady.
She stares out the window like the streetlights are safer to look at than the shadows in her head.
When we finally pull into the player lot, the bus decompresses—everyone grabbing bags, shouting goodbyes, clapping backs. Kael stands first. Atlas waits for Wren to move. I stay seated until she rises, then fall into step behind her without thinking.
She glances back once. Just once.
Not scared.
Checking.
And when she sees me there, her shoulders drop a tiny fraction, like something inside her loosened just enough for air.
That does something to me.
Something I’m not sure I’m ready to name.
Something I’m not sure I can avoid naming much longer.
Kael stops at the bottom of the bus steps, scanning the lot. Atlas steps beside him. I slide between them and Wren, just enough to be a presence, not a cage.
Wren adjusts her bag and exhales.
“You sure you’re okay?” I ask her quietly.
She nods. “I’m better.”
And I swear—every muscle in my body softens at once.
Better counts.
Kael nods once. Atlas scans the shadows. Wren tucks her hands into her sleeves again.
And I walk beside her through the lot with this quiet, fierce truth settling into my bones:
I don’t just want to protect her.
I want her.
And I’m terrified she already knows.