Chapter 49 Wren
I expect practice to feel awkward.
I expect Kael to stand ten feet away with his arms crossed and that look he gets when he’s thinking too hard.
I expect Finn to hover.
I expect Atlas to burn holes in the rookies with his eyes just because he needs to aim the pressure somewhere.
What I don’t expect is for all three of them to pretend—badly—that everything is normal.
The moment we walk into the rink’s tunnel, Finn bumps my shoulder like we didn’t have the most intimate night of my life yesterday.
Kael hands me my clipboard without a word, but he’s holding it like it’s an explosive device he’s passing off.
And Atlas... well, Atlas stands between me and the rest of the world like he’s been assigned to bodyguard every molecule of air I breathe.
Still... none of them fight me on my decision again.
Not with their voices.
Just with their eyes.
The players file in, rowdy and loud, oblivious to the tension orb hanging over the four of us. I slip behind the medical cart and start checking tape rolls, gauze stocks, ice packs—anything to ground myself.
I can feel their attention even when I’m not looking.
Especially Atlas’s.
Finn skates past the boards and taps the glass twice—his silent, I’m here, you’re good signal. I raise an eyebrow at him. He tries to wink but does it wrong and ends up blinking like he has something in his eye.
I grin despite myself.
Kael whistles loudly at the forwards, “Positions!” and the players jump like they’ve been caught doing something illegal.
The rink fills with movement. Bodies weaving. Blades carving. Voices echoing. The weight in my chest lightens a little.
My world feels almost normal again.
Almost.
***
During a water break, Finn leans over the boards. “You okay?”
“I’m fine.”
“You sure? Because your face—”
“My face is fine.”
“You have your ‘I’m pretending to be fine’ face on.”
I glare. “Do I?”
He grins. “Yeah. But it’s cute.”
I throw a roll of tape at his helmet. He laughs, skates backward, fails to stop properly, and crashes into Rowan, who curses loud enough to shake the rafters.
Atlas materializes beside me with impossible quietness for a man his size. “You slept?”
There’s no judgment in his voice. Just a question.
“I did,” I say softly. “Really well.”
His jaw flexes. “Good.”
Something else moves under his voice—something dark and complicated—but he doesn’t push. He just stands at the boards, hands braced on the edge, eyes scanning the whole rink like he’s cataloging threats in every corner.
I follow his gaze by instinct.
Nothing.
Just players.
Coaches.
Ops.
Parents in the stands with hot coffees.
But still, my stomach tightens.
That’s the problem with trauma—it makes shadows look like men and men look like warnings.
I exhale slowly.
“You’re thinking too loud,” Atlas mutters without looking at me.
“I always think too loud.”
“Not this loud.”
I glance at him. “Are you trying to help?”
“No,” he says immediately. “I’m stating facts.”
It’s the closest thing he’ll ever come to admitting he cares.
Kael blows the whistle again, calling everyone to center ice. The boys gather like metal to a magnet. He gives instructions, demonstrates a drill, sends them off.
When he skates back to the boards, he pauses beside me. Just long enough that we’re in each other’s orbit but not touching.
“This afternoon,” he murmurs without turning his head, “ops will be ready for the phone swap. I’ll take you.”
“You don’t have to,” I say.
He side-eyes me with the quietest, deadliest disbelief. “Yes I do.”
I don’t argue.
The warmth of that—not romantic, not sexual, just... protective—settles somewhere deep under my ribs.
This is why I need to go home tonight.
Because if I don’t reclaim that space, I’ll lose pieces of myself I didn’t even know were slipping.
Practice wraps. Kael loudly praises the rookies. Finn chirps at a defenseman until the guy chases him onto the bench. Atlas shoves Rowan (gently, for Atlas) for mouthing off.
It feels almost normal.
And then it’s not.
Because the second my phone (the burner they gave me temporarily) vibrates in my pocket, all three men look at me at once.
I pull it out.
A message.
From Ops.
NEW CAMERA ANGLES RENDERED. MATCH INCONCLUSIVE. MORE TONIGHT.
Just a routine update.
Nothing dangerous.
But I can feel the way their attention spikes like I’ve just yelled fire.
“I’m fine,” I say to nobody in particular.
Finn: “We know.”
Atlas: “Still.”
Kael: “Let me see.”
I show him. He reads it fast, jaw ticking once. “Nothing new.”
“Good,” I say, because someone should.
But the unease creeps in anyway.
Not because of the message.
Because of the night I chose.
My night.
My apartment.
My choice.
God help me, I feel proud of that.
And terrified of it.
And both feelings coexist without canceling each other.
Finn appears at my side. “Hey. Hey. Look at me.”
I do.
His eyes soften. “You’re doing great.”
Atlas stands close enough that I feel the heat of him at my back. “Too great. It’s suspicious.”
“I hate to be the reasonable one,” Kael mutters, “but shut up, both of you.”
Finn snorts. Atlas grunts. Kael rubs his forehead like we’re children.
And for one fleeting, impossible moment—
I am okay.
***
The walk to my apartment is scheduled for after I shower in the trainer’s office and finish my post-practice logs. They insist on staying with me until then.
They don’t say it out loud.
They don’t need to.
I finish my work. Lock up the cart. Tie my wet hair back. Shoulder my bag.
The hallway outside the locker room is quiet.
My pulse isn’t.
Finn waits first—hands in pockets, bouncing lightly on his toes like he’s trying to burn nervous energy through the soles of his shoes. He smiles when he sees me, but it’s a smaller smile than normal.
Atlas steps out of a doorway behind him, eyes scanning. He looks carved from stone. Heavy. Immoveable. Like he’s preparing for a fight that hasn’t come yet.
Kael emerges last, adjusting the sleeves of his hoodie. Calm on the surface, but I know him now. And that calm is hiding a storm.
“All set?” he asks.
I nod. “Ready.”
We walk out of the rink together.
It’s early evening—sky darkening, streetlights flickering on. The air is crisp, a hint of winter threading through the breeze. People bustle on the sidewalks, bundled in coats, carrying coffee, talking loudly.
A normal night in Boston.
And my last night—not forever, but for now—to prove I can choose normal.
We fall into a formation we never discussed but always use:
Kael in front.
Atlas behind.
Finn beside me.
To anyone watching, we must look like a weird celebrity entourage. Or security. Or three guys trying way too hard to impress one girl.
But we’re just... us.
A block from my building, Finn clears his throat. “We can stay outside all night. Like last night. Or we can rotate. Or we can—”
“I’ll be okay,” I say gently.
Atlas’s voice comes out low. “Don’t say that like it’s a spell.”
I look up at him. “You cleared my apartment. Twice.”
“And I’ll clear it again,” he growls.
Kael steps beside us. “Wren. This is your call. But it’s also our reality. You’re not alone unless you want to be. That’s the difference.”
“I know,” I whisper.
We stop in front of my building.
I expect fear.
I expect shaking hands and adrenaline and that twisted-stomach feeling I get when I sense danger.
Instead... I feel something else.
Calm.
Not perfect calm.
Not fearless calm.
The kind of calm you get after choosing something for yourself.
“Thank you for walking me,” I say.
Finn bites his lip. “We’re coming up.”
“Obviously,” Atlas mutters.
“Checking every room,” Kael adds.
“Fine.”
We go upstairs.
Third floor.
Second door on the right.
Atlas unlocks it because he still has the key from last night. He steps inside first, sweeping the place again with that unnerving quiet precision.
My apartment looks exactly how I left it.
Clean.
Soft.
Small.
Mine.
Atlas runs a full perimeter sweep.
Kael checks the windows.
Finn checks the closet because he knows he’s the only one who won’t accidentally rip the door off its track.
“It’s clear,” Kael says.
Atlas nods. “Clear.”
Finn looks at me. “You can still change your mind.”
“I won’t.”
He swallows hard. “Okay.”
They move toward the door.
I follow.
The hallway light flickers.
I try not to read into that.
Atlas definitely does.
At the elevator, I stop all three with one small hand.
“Thank you,” I say again. “Really.”
Finn tries to smile. It wobbles. “Text every thirty minutes.”
“I will.”
Atlas leans in—not touching, just close enough that his presence blankets me in heat. “Lock the bar. Chain. Deadbolt. Twice.”
“Yes.”
Kael meets my eyes last. “If you need us—”
“I’ll call.”
He nods once. “Good.”
Finn presses the elevator button. The doors slide open—too loud, too bright.
And I feel something shift again.
“I’ll be okay,” I say, softer this time. “I know I will.”
Kael steps in first, looking back at me one more time. Atlas follows, slow, like he doesn’t want to turn his back.
Finn hesitates, almost reaches for my hand, then tucks his own in his pocket instead. “Goodnight, Wren.”
“Goodnight, Finn.”
The doors start to close.
He holds my gaze until they shut completely.
Silence wraps around me.
And for the first time in a long time...
I let it.
I lock my door.
Set the deadbolt.
Slide the bar.
Turn off the lights.
The quiet is big.
A little eerie.
A little comforting.
I breathe in.
Out.
Then I lean against the door and close my eyes.
I’m alone.
But I’m not lonely.
And I’m not afraid.
Not tonight.
Tonight, I get to be brave.