Chapter 37 #2
Warmups were charged. I skated through the drills, eyes forward, hands tight on my stick.
Then I saw him. Beckett Rylan. Circling where Wren stood talking to the press near the ice, during the warmups, visor down, smirk sharp, a predator marking territory.
My jaw tightened. I felt more than saw Roan’s gaze flare across the ice before it settled back into his composed stare.
I needed no warning. Rylan wanted to get a rise out of Roan. This was going to be brutal.
All too soon, the puck dropped. Game on.
Rhett owned the crease. He was a wall—unshakable.
Every shot found him, every rebound he controlled.
Thirty-nine saves, each one keeping our lead alive.
I was moving like a shadow, threading passes, driving the net, staying deadly calm in the middle of chaos.
I could feel Roan’s temper simmering under the surface, could see the mental calculation behind every movement, every check.
Then, it broke.
A sloppy rebound snuck past Rhett late in the game.
One. Two. The Vultures pounced, exploiting every turnover, shutting down our top line.
I kept my cool, let the frustration roll through me, tucked it into the cold efficiency of my skating.
Stay composed. Stay lethal. That was the only way forward.
Midway through the second, the inevitable happened.
Roan and Rylan dropped gloves in center ice.
Savage. Personal. Primal. It was so beyond Roan’s normal behavior, the feral buzz set the arena on fire as well as the team.
Every swing, every shove, every collision carried old grudges, unspoken history and just raw fury.
I stayed low, watching, ready to move, letting the fight unfold as it had to.
Rhett faced forty shots by the final buzzer. Forty. He kept us in the game longer than we deserved at times, but the relentless pressure finally cracked the wall.
Final: Vultures 4 – Howlers 1. Series tied 1–1. Roan got a game misconduct and a fine. We left the ice simmering, the sting of defeat raw. The Vultures had come out with intent and executed, exploiting every weakness. But I didn’t panic. Calm. Composed. Determined.
We’d bounce back.
We always did.
WREN
Game 3
The desert sun hammered down outside the arena, a dry heat that pressed against the glass and seemed to seep into the stands, carrying the same hostility we’d feel the second they stepped on the ice.
I tightened my grip on the tablet, scrolling through stats, updates, and last-minute adjustments while the crowd built into a roar, the air thick with anticipation.
The Vultures had a chip on their shoulder, and we needed to feed it right back to them.
From the moment the puck dropped, it was clear that the brutality from the first two games was about to be amped up considerably.
Every pass, every shot, every check carried the weight of revenge, and I could feel the Howlers responding in kind.
Jay was everywhere, moving with the precision and composure that made him a cornerstone, threading plays, setting up shots.
Then it happened. A blindside hit from Rylan, like he’d been waiting for the exact moment, sent Jay sprawling into the boards. My stomach dropped.
The bench erupted immediately. Rhett shot halfway up the ice before he had to be physically restrained, growling like a predator.
Roan’s hand on his shoulder brought him back, the calm authority cutting through the surge of anger.
I took a deep breath, forcing my own pulse to steady.
Focus. The team needed me right here, right now, not lost in worry.
Jay was grimacing, but the doc had cleared him as day-to-day, no complications from the previous concussion.
He’d shake it off. I kept my eyes on him anyway, tracking every shift, every touch of the puck.
I could see the fire in his dark eyes whenever he got close, the controlled beta energy keeping him in the game despite the pain.
Late in the third, everything came together.
Roan exploded into Rylan with a hit that shook the ice.
Thunderous. Primal. Pure captain energy.
The arena went wild—Howlers fans were in the house—and the energy surged down the bench as the puck slid to Jay, who buried the go-ahead goal with effortless precision.
The final buzzer sounded, and we had it. Howlers 5 – Vultures 3.
Relief and adrenaline mixed into a potent rush, but I stayed sharp. Jay’s injury had me on edge the whole game, but the doc confirmed, again, post game that it remained minor. I exhaled, letting my shoulders relax just a fraction, eyes still tracking the team as they celebrated on the ice.
The win felt hard-earned. The Vultures had come at us with everything, and we’d responded, not just with skill, but with focus, composure, and the pack mentality that bound us together. I smiled briefly, quietly, letting the sense of control and connection settle over me.
This wasn’t just about the wins. It was about keeping them safe, keeping them steady, and making sure we were ready for whatever came next.
In the series, we led two to one.