Chapter 38
Chapter
Thirty-Eight
WREN
TWO-DAY brEAK – SATURDAY Rhett’s saves were flawless.
Jay pushed through pain, assisting the game-winning goal late in the third.
I exhaled quietly, coating myself in blockers mid-game, muttering under my breath: Stay in control. This is not about you.
Final: Howlers 2 – Vultures 0. Series: Howlers lead 3–2.
Game 6 – Saturday (Away, Elimination Game)
The hotel room was stifling. Every sound, every shift in the locker room made my senses flare. My heat was fully active now, subtle but undeniable. Roan, Rhett, and Jay moved around me with silent awareness, protective but respectful, anchors against the storm inside me.
Rylan arrived early, lingering near the press entrance. His Alpha scent teased me, testing the limits of my restraint. I layered blockers, paced, sipped cold water, and journaled quietly: You will survive. You will support them.
The game was a physical war. Rylan was everywhere, aggressive, taking every opportunity to test Jay’s shoulder and Roan’s patience.
Rhett’s saves were miraculous, holding them in the game.
Jay endured punishing hits but still contributed.
I hovered near the bench, using every ounce of willpower to suppress instinctive reactions to both Rylan’s presence and the draw I felt toward my pack.
Final buzzer had the series at Howlers 3 – Vultures 3 (forcing Game 7). My knees weakened slightly with relief and exhaustion, but I stayed upright, masking every tremor.
Game 7 – Monday (Home, Championship Decider)
The arena vibrated with tension, scent of ice and competition thick in the air. My blockers barely held. Rylan prowled, leaning subtly in my direction, calculating, Alpha instincts teasing me. My pulse raced.
The game was a brutal chess match. Roan and Rylan collided repeatedly, hits echoing across the ice. Rhett made incredible saves, Jay pushed past shoulder pain, and Jay moved with careful precision.
Every time Roan took a hit, my instincts flared, protective and primal. I caught his eye across the ice. An unspoken understanding passed between us: we would survive this, together.
Late in the third period, the Howlers executed a perfect play. Roan’s defensive block led to a rebound, Jay tapped it in. The crowd erupted. I clamped my hand over my mouth, suppressing a gasp as my blockers nearly failed from the intensity of the moment and the surge of my heat.
Final: Howlers 3 – Vultures 2. Series: Howlers win 4–3. Champions.
Post-Game / Locker Room & Press
The locker room reeked of sweat, blood, and celebration. Roan immediately came to me, brushing a strand of hair from my face.
“You did great,” I told him, then swept my gaze to each of them.
“All of you did. It was—amazing.” I was so damn proud of them.
Beating the Vultures had been as much about the team as it had been personal.
If nothing else, they’d served Beckett Rylan his ass and giving Marchand a reason to never let that prick back on our team.
All I had to do was make sure that remained the case. I left the locker room before I could be persuaded to stay even a second longer. Even with blockers on my scent, close quarters with them were going to reveal the need.
I stepped up to the podium, the weight of the Apex Trophy Finals finally behind us, though the temperature in the room reminded me how close we had come to losing it all. The press had already begun their questions, cameras flashing, recorders buzzing.
My pulse was steady, but my mind wandered to the last moments of Game 7 — to Roan limping off the ice, the rookie forward who had buried the winning rebound, and Jay smiling through pain, his taped shoulder a testament to sheer determination.
“Wren, congratulations,” one reporter began. “How does it feel to see the Howlers lift the Cup?”
I cleared my throat. “It’s surreal. Every single player left everything on the ice. Whittaker led with heart, Rhett Navarro was incredible in net, and even the guys like Jay Kim fighting through their injuries showed why this team is special.”
Another hand shot up. “There were some particularly heated moments between Roan Whittaker and Beckett Rylan this series. How did that affect the team?”
I paused, letting my gaze sweep the room before landing on a shadow near the back.
Beckett Rylan sat there, arms crossed, expression unreadable.
My stomach clenched. I hadn’t expected him to attend, maybe I should have.
Still, I refused to give him the privilege of my reaction and kept my voice steady.
“Their rivalry is… part of the narrative of this series,” I said carefully. “But the Howlers stayed focused on the game. It was about the team, not any personal vendettas.”
A reporter leaned forward. “What about your own role? There was a lot of tension off the ice — some say you were a target.”
I swallowed. “My job is to support the team. Behind the scenes, in the locker room and on the bench, I handle communications, strategy, and coordination. Yes, there’s pressure. Come on, it’s hockey. There’s always pressure. But it’s the same for every team staffer in a finals series.”
A murmur ran through the crowd when Rylan shifted in his seat. I felt the subtle, familiar pull. His scent, alpha-strong and teasingly provocative, brushing against my awareness despite the distance. My throat tightened, but I forced a smile.”
And just to clarify,” I added, “any distractions off the ice did not change our focus on winning. As you can clearly see by who won the finals.”
Was that a dig at Rylan? Yes. I wasn’t even ashamed of it.
Questions came faster after that, about the injuries, the future of the roster, and the team’s next steps.
I answered each with a professional tone, careful to stay neutral, to stay safe.
But all the while, I felt him watching, a silent echo of the chaos on the ice, the tension that Roan had carried and that now, somehow, rested in the room with me.
When the conference finally ended, I walked away from the podium with my hands pressed together, exhaling slowly. The flash of cameras followed me, but my mind lingered on the look Rylan had given me from the back row, as if I needed a reminder that the war on the ice wasn’t quite over.
The hallway outside the press room smelled faintly of bleach and stale coffee, but beneath it all, I could sense him—Rylan—like a predator who refuses to take the hint.
My pulse quickened despite my blockers. He was already stepping toward me, slow, confident, smirk curling, as if he had every right to corner me.
I pivoted instinctively, moving toward the exit. “Excuse me,” I said, keeping my tone clipped, professional, but the tremor in my pulse betrayed me just slightly.
Rylan mirrored me. “Wren. You’re not just going to—”
Before he could finish, Marchand appeared, a solid presence between us. He raised one hand, blocking Rylan with a calm authority only he could wield. “Step back, Beckett. She’s leaving.”
Rylan hesitated, lips twisting, then nodded once, a silent acknowledgment of defeat for now. Security flanked him, and I exhaled quietly, forcing my pulse to slow as I slipped past. Marchand’s eyes met mine briefly, just enough to reassure me, and I didn’t need words.
Outside the arena, night had fallen. Cool air hit my face, almost shocking after the heat of the hotel and pressrooms. Security paced me as I walked briskly, the click of my boots on pavement the only sound except for the distant buzz of traffic.
I kept my head down, blockers working overtime, and avoided any glance toward the parking lot where I knew Rylan might linger.
The guards were professional, keeping an eye out until I was safely in my car.
By the time I reached the cabin, my body was still simmering under control, each step a small victory.
I knew the guys would start their post-game celebration soon.
Normally, I’d make an appearance—share a toast, a cheer, even a small laugh—but not tonight.
Not after this week. Not after the Finals, the heat, the closeness, the way Rylan’s presence gnawed at the edges of my restraint.
But I couldn’t just vanish without leaving a breadcrumb. My fingers shook slightly as I punched in Roan’s voicemail. I kept my voice low, teasing, playful, yet full of the tension I couldn’t otherwise release:
“Same place as last time… and consider this an open invitation to chase. I’ll be the omega on the run… claim me if you can.”
I hung up, letting the words linger in the air like a spark. No one would expect it, not after the championship. It was a promise, a challenge, a tease—but most of all, it was mine.
Inside the cabin, I poured a glass of water, layered on extra blockers, and sank into the couch.
The silence felt like salvation, a distance I desperately needed.
My pulse still hummed beneath the surface, but for the first time all day, I allowed myself to relax just a little.
I had survived the Finals. I had protected the team.
Soon… very soon, I hoped. They would come for me.
As I promised Roan, we’d settle this between the four of us.
I hoped.