3. Wren #3
I grab the latest edition of The Hockey Ledger from the side table and crawl beneath the heavy, cream throw blanket, tucking my legs under me. Everything aches. My shoulders. My temples. That ugly space between my ribs where the day keeps replaying itself on a loop.
However, that first sip of rich chocolate is heaven on my tongue.
I instantly feel better. More relaxed. Sinking deeper into the sofa, with my mug in one hand, I flip open the magazine.
It’s one I’ve read every week since I was a little girl.
At first, I read it in an attempt to bond with my parents, to understand what they were talking about at the dinner table and, pathetically, to make them like me, to make them take an interest in me the way they did with my brother… and all things hockey-related.
Now, I read it because, over the years, I developed my own love for the sport that has nothing to do with my parents or the NHL team we own, and everything to do with the rules of the game, the adrenaline rush as a player races toward the net, the hint of savagery when a fight breaks out and blood sprays across the ice.
This week’s edition contains an in-depth interview with the Timberwolves player, Logan Astor.
I try to focus on his answers to the questions the interviewer asks him, but my gaze keeps sliding back to the full-page photograph of him.
Except, it’s not Logan I see; it’s Lucian.
The way his lips curved earlier, the gleam in his eyes, like he was enjoying my panic. Not confused by it—thrilled by it.
I freeze, blinking at the page before shaking the lingering image of Lucian’s face from my mind. Not thinking about them.
Giving up on the interview, I flick to another article on players to watch this season. However, instead of photos of the players, hazel eyes swim in my mind. A perfectly trimmed beard, and strong, lean body made for cutting up the ice.
Ronan.
My stomach clenches. My pulse betrays me.
Skimming over the article, I flip aggressively to the next page. It’s a “fun piece” on dating a hockey player, and my mind immediately jumps to Silas. The way his eyes tracked me earlier. There was something far too possessive in that stare...
The magazine falls against my chest, and I groan. “Nope.”
I toss it aside, dragging my hands down my face. My cheeks are hot. I swear I can still feel their eyes on me, even now, even when I know I’m safe and alone inside my apartment. Still, I can’t help but glance toward the windows.
Forcing myself to look away, I grab my phone instead. There’s an unread message from Dylan.
Dylan
How did today go?
Me
About as well as your first day as a Steelhawk.
She responds immediately.
Dylan
That badly?
Tell me everything. Wait, no. Do you need a Wren rant, or do you want solutions?
I smile, just a little. The kind of smile that feels like a bandage over a bullet wound.
Me
Everything sucks. Everyone hates me. I nearly cried in a janitor’s closet.
Groaning at my own self-pity, I toss the phone onto the sofa before carrying my half-drunk drink to the sink and pouring it down the drain.
My phone pings from the other room, but I ignore it.
Instead, I go around the apartment, turning off the lights and triple-checking the windows and deadbolt before retrieving my phone and heading to bed.
I wait until I’ve brushed my teeth and gotten comfy beneath the covers before reading Dylan’s response.
Dylan
Firstly, crying in a janitor’s closet is a rite of passage. Secondly, they can’t hate you. They don’t even know you. Who they think you are and who you are aren’t the same person. Show them what a sarcastic badass Wren Winslow really is.
I can’t help but laugh, my throat thick as I type out a response.
Me
Pretty sure sarcastic badass wasn’t a requirement for getting this internship.
Dylan
Nope, just an added bonus to go alongside your hardcore work ethic and sunny personality.
Before I can compose a response, another message from her pops up.
Dylan
That internship may have your last name on the paperwork, but it’s your fight that’s going to keep you there.
You’re not some silver-spoon legacy kid.
You’re Wren fucking Winslow. I know you don’t want to be there.
And I know you have some sort of history with the Kings that you don’t want to talk about, but remember: you don’t answer to anyone but yourself.
Setting my phone on the nightstand, I turn off the light and roll over, letting the dark settle around me like fog. Dylan’s words echo in the quiet. I don’t answer to anyone but myself.
But who is Wren Winslow?
Who am I beyond a legacy I didn’t choose? Beyond a night I’ve spent three years trying to forget? Beyond the silence I wrapped around myself like armor?
I didn’t ask to come here.
Didn’t ask to reopen a wound I never let heal.
But maybe…it's time.
Not to forgive. Not to forget.
To remember.
To face it. To face them.
To claw my voice back from everything that tried to steal it.
And maybe, just maybe, to finally figure out who I am when no one but me is writing the story.