Chapter 32
Chapter
Thirty-Two
WREN
Every inch of my body ached—from the tops of my feet to the muscles behind my eyes—and I was pretty sure I’d drunk enough coffee today to single-handedly keep my favorite café in business for the next quarter.
My throat was dry from too many press calls, and I had a half-dozen unread texts waiting for me about game-day coverage tomorrow.
But I still felt good. Tired, yes—but not defeated. The strategy was solid, the messaging tight. The league couldn’t twist our words if we gave them none to twist.
Still, I’d barely seen the guys. Not since this morning, when Jay brought coffee and Rhett teased me into laughing despite everything. And Roan—Roan had been laser-focused. The kind of locked-in that made everyone else step in line without question.
So when the dark silhouette of his SUV pulled to the curb just as I stepped onto the porch, my heart leapt before my brain could catch up.
I turned toward the sound of the engine shutting off. A moment later, his door opened.
Roan.
He stood there a beat, backlit by the streetlamp. His shoulders tense, his jaw shadowed with stubble. Then he started walking, slow, deliberate strides that made something flutter in my stomach.
“You’re supposed to be sleeping,” I called, voice lower than I meant.
“So are you,” he answered, and the corner of his mouth curved, just slightly.
“You okay?”
“I just needed to see you,” he said simply.
That was it. No dramatic reason. No fire to put out. Just… me.
I didn’t hesitate. “Come in.”
Inside, the house was dim and quiet, the soft click of the door shutting behind us the only sound. I toed off my shoes and set my bag aside, watching as he followed me through the front hall like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Maybe it was. Maybe we’d already passed the point of pretending otherwise.
Upstairs, I guided him toward my room with a touch to his wrist. My fingers barely grazed his skin, but the reaction was immediate. His breath shifted, his eyes dropped to where I touched him, then lifted back to mine. He let me lead.
In the bathroom, he shed his shirt first as I stripped out of my suit. I didn't mean to grab it—but once he took it off, my hands just... moved. The fabric was soft and still warm from his body. I tugged it over my head without thinking.
Roan caught the motion in the mirror, just as he rinsed his hands and braced them on the edge of the sink. His eyes met mine through the reflection.
And lingered.
That same shirt hung loose on me, hem brushing the tops of my thighs. He didn’t speak, but the heat in his gaze said enough.
He looked... undone in a quiet way. Not tired, exactly. Just stripped down, like the armor he wore all day was left somewhere out on the ice.
His gaze drifted to the bathroom counter, just for a second.
The bottle of suppressants sat there.
Unopened.
He didn’t ask. Didn’t comment. But I caught the faint tension in his jaw. Saw the question forming behind his eyes, even if he bit it back.
I didn’t offer an explanation. When I held out my hand, though, he closed his fingers around mine instantly, tight, warm and solid.
“You were there when I needed you,” I said softly, pulling him closer. “I’m here for you now.”
He didn’t move for a long beat. Then his forehead dropped to mine, his breath catching on the exhale.
“You have no idea how much I needed to hear that.”
“I think I do.”
He wrapped an arm around my waist, just holding me there in the soft, still air between us.
Neither of us said another word as we turned out the lights, moved toward the bed, and climbed under the covers.
It wasn’t about sex. Not tonight. It was something quieter. Stronger. A tether instead of a fire.
As I lay curled against him, his arm draped heavy and protective over my waist, I realized something:
We were building something. I couldn’t wait to see what we became.
The sound hit me first.
Even from behind the thick glass of the owner’s suite, the roar of the crowd rolled over my skin like a wave—electric, pulsing, alive. The stadium was packed, fans screaming, faces painted, jerseys in team colors flooding the stands like a crimson-and-blue tide.
Playoff energy wasn’t just different. It was primal.
And we were home.
I stood just behind the front row of the suite, arms crossed loosely as I scanned the rink, already tracking the players on the ice as they flew through warmups. Every sharp turn, every stop, every slap of blade to puck sent a shiver through the arena, and somewhere deep in my chest, it echoed.
I should have been exhausted. Two hours of sleep, max. A single cup of coffee on the way in. A to-do list longer than my arm. The press briefing I gave this morning already felt like it happened last week.
None of what happened before tonight mattered. This was the first game of the playoffs.
Everything from this moment mattered now.
“Nice turnout,” Marchand murmured beside me, holding a tumbler of something probably older than I was. His suit was sharp, and his tie in team colors, of course, was bold. I’d nearly smiled when I noticed.
“We sold out in under four hours,” I said, cool and measured. “Merch sales spiked, too. Ticket bundles for rounds two and three already pushed capacity limits. If we advance, we’re golden.”
“When,” he said, not bothering to hide the pride in his voice. “Not if.”
A quiet laugh escaped me, despite myself. “You’d better knock on wood.”
He did—with one knuckle, against the edge of the bar behind us.
The suite was crowded tonight, and I knew nearly every person in it.
Press, sponsors, a couple of league executives who made polite conversation but were clearly more interested in whether the Howlers could keep up the performance we’d delivered all season long.
There was pressure in the air, disguised as small talk.
I kept my posture open, my tone smooth, my game face firmly on.
The puck dropped five minutes later, and the temperature in the building spiked like someone had lit a match.
Roan dominated the first shift. Not flashy, he never played that way. He was always controlled, like he was the hinge the entire game swung on. Jay was pure speed, weaving through the defense with balletic precision. And Rhett… God. Rhett was fire.
He sprawled across the crease like a menace, pads slamming, crowd roaring.
Marchand took a slow sip of his drink. “That man is going to get fined.”
I didn’t bother to argue.
Because two minutes later, Rhett stacked the pads on a two-on-one, popped back up grinning, and launched the puck down the ice in a pass so filthy it set up Jay for a clean, effortless goal.
Just like that, we were up by one.
The crowd exploded. Fans jumped to their feet, the chant rolling through the arena like thunder—Howlers, Howlers, Howlers.
I didn’t sit. Couldn’t. My pulse was high and steady, my palms tingling. My gaze never left the ice.
It wasn’t just a game.
It was a declaration.
This wasn’t about Rylan, or the Vultures, or whatever narrative the league thought it could spin. It wasn’t about gossip or scandal or smear tactics.
It was about the ice. The team. Us.
My phone buzzed once in my pocket.
Jay:
You standing up? Thought I felt it. ;)
I bit back a laugh and sent a quick reply:
Maybe. Play harder and I’ll scream.
Another buzz.
Jay:
God, please. Roan will check me into the glass.
My smile faded only slightly as I tucked the phone away and focused back on the game.
Because the other team came to play, too.
And this? This was just the beginning.
The second game was blood and blades.
If the first had been a show of dominance, the second was a straight-up brawl with a puck in the middle.
From the opening shift, I knew it was going to be ugly.
The air in the arena was charged, the noise sharper, more frantic.
Fans were louder, more rabid. Every slap of the puck, every scrape of a blade on the ice sounded like a challenge.
And the opposing team had clearly watched film and come in swinging.
They wanted to rattle us. They wanted to slow us down.
They wanted Roan.
I knew it the moment he took his first shift. He skated clean, precise, measured, but I didn’t miss the faint stiffness in his shoulder, the way his right arm didn’t extend quite as far when he checked another player. Most people wouldn’t notice. But I did.
I felt it.
And it made my pulse pound.
Roan didn’t show pain, not even in the locker room last night after the win.
He let the team doc look at the hit he took in the third, kept it light, let Jay and Rhett rib him a little, even smirked when I arched an eyebrow at him.
But I’d seen the way his jaw clenched. The way he rotated the shoulder when he thought no one was watching.
He could play through it.
But I hated that he had to.
Even now, watching from the owner’s suite again, surrounded by sponsors and execs and media handlers pretending not to sweat, I had to fight the urge to bolt downstairs, grab a stick, and start knocking heads myself.
My skin buzzed under my blazer, nerves stretched taut and tuned to my guys on the ice below.
Marchand didn’t hover, but he lingered nearby. “They’re targeting him.”
“They’re trying to find a weak point,” I agreed, keeping my voice even. “They think if they get Roan off the ice, the rest will unravel.”
“They’d be wrong,” he said after a beat. “But not completely.”
No. They wouldn’t unravel. But Roan was more than our captain. He was gravity. Rhythm. Pulse. Without him… things would fracture.
Jay was working overtime to keep the plays flowing, and Rhett—my beautiful, reckless, wild thing—was putting on a show in the net. He’d already stolen three sure goals and earned a penalty for taunting a forward who tried to crowd his crease.