Chapter 33
Chapter
Thirty-Three
ROAN
The final buzzer didn’t sound so much as it cracked through the tension like a hammer on ice.
We won the game, even though it didn't feel like it.
I didn’t skate the handshake line. Neither did Rhett. We left that to the rest of the guys while we headed straight for the tunnel, our gear still on, helmets in hand, every muscle tight enough to snap.
Jay should’ve been here.
That hit had been dirty as sin. The player aimed high, adjusted his timing and went specifically for Jay.
The kind of move that was supposed to have been outlawed a decade ago.
I’d watched it play out in real time and I still couldn’t wrap my head around the angle.
Jay hadn’t even seen the bastard coming.
I had.
Too late.
My jaw hurt from clenching. My gloves had blood in the lining. It wasn’t Jay’s, thankfully, but mine, from punching the wall of the locker room tunnel when they’d taken him off the ice.
The moment I stepped into the medical wing, I found him in the exam room, hooked up to the monitors, his eyes open now but glassy. Pupils still sluggish. Doc was with him. One of the trainers. The lights were dimmed.
"You're fine," I muttered under my breath, a prayer to the universe as much as a report to myself. "You're gonna be fine."
“You here to babysit me?” Jay’s voice was hoarse, but there was a thread of life in it.
I moved to the side of the bed, planting one hand on the rail. “No. I'm here to break both your kneecaps if you try to put skates back on too soon.”
Jay grinned. It didn’t last long. The wince that followed twisted something in my gut.
“He's lucky,” the doc said, stepping back. “Concussion, yes. But it could’ve been a lot worse. He’s already more alert. We’ll keep him monitored for the next twelve, twenty-four hours. But he’s off the ice until I clear him.”
“No arguments,” I said.
Jay raised a hand in surrender. “I'm concussed, not stupid.”
I was going to kill someone for this.
“Coach is in the locker room.” Rhett's voice came from the hallway. “Livid.”
“He mad about the hit?” I asked.
Rhett snorted. “He’s mad I nearly threw hands in the middle of the third period. Gave me the whole ‘play smarter, not hotter’ speech.”
I stepped out into the hall and found the other alpha, shirt off with a bag of ice pressed against his jaw. His knuckles were raw, still smeared with the evidence of his restraint.
“He thinks I cost us momentum,” Rhett said, tone sharp enough to cut. “Even though we won. Even though they tried to fucking murder Jay out there—”
“Hey.” I stepped in front of him, blocking the nearest bench he looked one second away from launching across. “We don’t waste energy chewing glass. You want to kill someone, wait until the league review drops.”
Rhett’s nostrils flared, his jaw ticking.
Then—a very decisive click of heels.
She was there.
Wren.
Hair pulled back, coat still on — and a look in her eyes like she’d just walked through fire and hadn’t noticed. The moment her gaze hit Rhett, he stilled. That wildness in him pulled back like the tide retreating from the shore.
When she shifted that look on me, it was all I could do not to wrap her in my arms and bury my face in her neck.
“You okay?” she asked. It wasn’t just her words, but how her voice was low, soft, and checking on me, even as she held herself under the firm grip of control.
I nodded. “You?”
She didn’t answer. Just moved past me and into the medical room, crouching next to Jay’s bed like she belonged there.
Jay blinked at her. “Hey, boss lady.”
She smiled. Then curled her hand around his, brushing her thumb gently over his knuckles.
I stepped back, gave her space. Rhett did too, watching the quiet scene from the hallway.
It hit me then what just happened. Not the win or the rage bubbling beneath my ribs or the violence of what happened and needed to be repaid in kind. It was Wren. The three of us and her.
The way she’d come in and calmed Rhett with a look. The way Jay lit up when he saw her. The way my heartbeat evened out knowing she was with us now.
She had become our gravity.
Despite everything I promised her about not using her heat to bind her to us, every damn one of us was already caught in her orbit. I couldn’t be mad about it. It was her.
Jay's eyelids fluttered again, half-lidded and heavy. He was fighting the fog, but not well.
“His pupils are better, but I don’t like the way he’s still drifting,” Doc said with a frown that didn’t ease even as he pulled back from the bed.
“I’d prefer he get a CT and full evaluation.
I want to transport him to the hospital, rule out anything more serious before I even think about letting him out of my sight. ”
Jay groaned. “Doc…”
Wren didn't flinch.
“That’s fine,” she said, already rising from the chair beside him. “I’ll follow you. As soon as I handle the press, I’ll meet you there.”
Jay shifted, brow furrowing. “You don’t have to—”
“Yes, I do,” she said simply, smoothing her hand down his arm. “So try not to fight me about it. You’re staying with me tonight once we get the all clear.”
There was no anger in her words. No push. Just certainty and it worked.
Jay blinked up at her again, like she’d hung the moon. “Okay.”
My shoulders loosened a fraction. That right there—that’s what he needed. Not orders. Not pressure. Just her, steady as hell, making it all make sense.
“I’ll ride with him,” Rhett said, stepping up beside the bed, and I knew without him saying it—he was making sure I didn’t have to go. He was covering Jay. And leaving me to cover Wren.
I caught his eye and gave him the smallest nod. Got it.
Doc still didn’t look thrilled. “You’re not family,” he pointed out, directing that at Wren.
She gave him a cool smile. “According to team documentation, I’m listed on every one of their emergency contact forms. Including Jay’s.”
Jay hummed, clearly trying not to grin. “She made me do it.”
“That may be.” Doc crossed his arms. “Still doesn’t make it protocol.”
“I’ll sign whatever release you want,” Wren replied. “You’re taking him to St. Luke’s?”
Doc hesitated, then nodded. “I’ll allow it. But I’ll be the one clearing him for release. Not hospital staff.”
“Understood.” She was already reaching for her phone.
Jay glanced at Rhett. “You okay driving?”
“I’m better than you,” Rhett said dryly. “And I don’t have a head injury.”
Doc muttered something about alphas being terrible patients as he turned to prep for transport.
“Not an alpha, Doc,” Jay mumbled, but that didn’t seem to help his case. It was my turn to hide a smile.
I stayed where I was, still braced in the doorway, watching as the pieces clicked into place around her. Wren didn’t raise her voice, didn’t bark commands, didn’t posture. Yet everything shifted as soon as she took control. Rhett backed her play. Jay relaxed. Even Doc fell in line.
Then the door opened again.
Marchand.
Of course.
He didn’t speak right away, but I didn’t miss the way his gaze cut from Wren to Jay to Rhett before landing on me. Assessing. Calculating. He didn’t miss much, but I knew that look. He wasn’t thrilled with what he’d heard.
Still, to his credit, he didn’t interrupt the medical decisions being made. Not until Doc and Rhett wheeled Jay out ahead of them, headed for the back entrance and the waiting transport van.
Only then did Marchand speak.
“You’ve got the press wrangled?” he asked Wren, voice low and careful.
She didn’t turn around. “I will. Give me ten minutes. Then I’ll be at the podium.”
“You’re really taking him home?” There was a sharpness to the question, one he tried to temper but didn’t quite manage.
Turning slowly, Wren arched one eyebrow. “Do you have an issue with your head of PR ensuring a key player gets medical clearance and support in a stable environment?”
“I have an issue with optics.” Marchand exhaled slowly. “And unnecessary exposure.”
I stepped forward. “He’s already exposed. The hit was in front of a stadium full of fans. You think the press aren’t already all over it?”
His jaw tightened.
Wren, cool as ever, didn’t take the bait. “I’ve already drafted the statement. We’re controlling the narrative. But I won’t pretend that Jay’s going to be sitting home alone with a bell to ring if he needs help. That’s not who we are.”
Marchand’s gaze slid between us again. Measuring. Finally, he just gave a clipped nod. “Handle it.”
“Always do,” Already tucking her phone into her blazer, she just gave him a return nod.
I watched him go, jaw tight. Distrust swarmed through me. I had no idea what he was up to, but I wanted to be ready to intercept.
“You okay?” I asked once we were alone again.
She turned to look at me, that calm exterior finally cracking just enough to show the wear underneath.
“No,” she admitted. “But I will be.”
Closing the distance, I pressed my forehead to hers. “We’re right behind you.”
Her hands curled in my shirt, just for a second. Just long enough.
“I know,” she whispered. Then, just like always, she pulled herself together. Straightened her spine. Smoothed her expression. Composed, she headed out of the medwing on a direct course for the press room like she was going to war.
Because she was.
And damn if I didn’t love her for it.
The thought hit with the weight of a freight train and the gentleness of a whisper. No fanfare. No dramatic revelation. Just truth—solid and steady in my chest like it had always been there, just waiting for me to stop trying to explain it away.
I loved her.
Not the idea of her. Not just the fierce firebrand who could command a room, or the woman who’d tangled herself in my sheets and scent.
I loved the way she carried the weight of the team without complaint. The way she reached for Jay’s hand when she thought no one was looking. The way she spoke Rhett’s language in jokes and sideways glances and never tried to rein him in, only anchored him.
The way she looked at me like I was both her shield and her soft place to fall.
And yeah, I realized I’d been in love with her for a long damn time. Maybe since before she even knew what she meant to us.
Maybe since before I did.
So I stood there in the quiet left behind, watching her disappear down the corridor, heels sharp on concrete, hair catching in the harsh light, already halfway into her next battle—and I knew with unshakable certainty, whatever came next, however far this went...
She was it for me. Always had been. Absorbing that knowledge, I blew out a breath then stopped wasting time.
Threw on a clean team polo, tugged off the pads and gear with the kind of speed I usually saved for third period tie-breakers. Barely took a second to wipe the sweat off my face, and splash water on the back of my neck.
There wasn’t a bruise on my body that mattered more than being close enough to see her hold that line.
Because Wren was out there, already fielding questions, already shielding Jay from rumors and controlling the narrative with that deceptively calm voice and those razor-sharp eyes. Even if she didn’t need backup, and she never looked toward the wings once—I needed to be there.
Not as a captain. Not for the team. For her.
So I slipped into the media gallery, off to the side where the spotlight didn’t quite hit. Arms crossed. Jaw tight. Watching.
God, she was already in motion and absolutely stunning. Standing at the podium, headset on, crisp blouse under her jacket, a Howlers pin gleaming silver at her collarbone. That cool, clear voice projected across the room like she was commanding an entire battalion.
“Jay Kim’s condition is stable,” she said evenly, eyes scanning the sea of reporters.
“He was evaluated on-site, and our medical staff, under Doctor Halvorsen’s direction, made the call to transfer him for further observation.
No official statement on his return will be made until that evaluation is complete. ”
A hand went up from someone in local press—Salazar. Always fishing. “Is it true he was unconscious for over a minute? Is this a potential season-ending injury?”
Her eyes narrowed by a degree. “I won’t speculate on a player’s health when the final call belongs to a physician. But I will say this: Jay Kim is one of the strongest athletes I’ve ever had the privilege of working with. If there’s a way for him to come back this season, he’ll find it.”
Clean. Calm. But there was steel under every word. The room knew it too, because the usual murmurs were replaced by scribbling pens and the sharp click of keyboards.
Another voice cut in, this one was national press, maybe even league-affiliated. “There’s speculation the injury was avoidable. That it stemmed from the Howlers’ aggressive formations this series. Is the team playing too recklessly?”
My jaw ticked, and my arms tensed, but Wren didn’t so much as blink.
“Physical play is a part of the sport,” she said, “and if anyone is suggesting that players should hold back in the playoffs, then I’d question whether they’ve ever actually watched a game. The Howlers are aggressive. But we are not reckless. We are trained. Tactical. Committed.”
She paused, then added, “If there’s concern about recklessness, I’d suggest reviewing the tape of the hit that took Jay down. Because my concern isn’t our style, it’s that a deliberate charge like that wasn’t flagged.”
A ripple moved through the room. She’d done it. Turned the question inside out without even breaking stride.
That was the moment she glanced up, just for a second. She didn’t say my name or nod, but my awareness of her hummed and climbed up a notch as she found me in the shadows and stayed on me.
That look grounded me. Hit deep and true like my knot when I’d taken her. I was exactly where I wanted to be—here for her.