17. Wren
WREN
The arena hums with life as I weave my way through the final cluster of game night chaos.
Staff shouting over each other. Cameras flashing.
The blare of warm-up music rattles the air.
I dodge a trio of Kings players heading toward the locker room and snag a quick nod from one of the assistant coaches as I check off the final item on my clipboard.
Done.
Technically, I could stay and continue shadowing behind the scenes, but tonight, I got permission to watch the game from the stands.
Carver made such a deal about it that you’d think I’d asked him if I could dance naked for the pre-game show, and I know I’ll pay for this night off with grunt work and an increase in snide comments about my incompetence for the next week, but still.
Worth it. I just wanted one night to be a regular college girl, where I could pretend I was back at BSU, supporting my home team. Supporting Dylan.
Besides, after everything Dylan and I talked about, I’m not sure I can be around them right now. Ronan, Silas, and Lucian. Even now, Dylan’s words ring in my ear. Don’t let it take your future.
No matter how hard it is, how scared I am, I have to confront them about that night. I need to hear their side of the story. Find out what they know. What they remember.
As afraid as I am of reliving that night, I’m equally as terrified of how whatever they have to say might change things between us.
Ronan, Lucian, and Silas are fire and ice wrapped in varsity letters.
Ever-present and unavoidable. And if the last twenty-four hours have taught me anything, it’s that they are slowly—terrifyingly—getting under my skin.
Having finished with my jobs for the night, I duck into the bathroom and pull the bermuda blue and silver jersey from my backpack.
I slip it on, staring at myself in the mirror as a slow grin lights up my face.
I’ve never felt like a King, but in this jersey, with Dylan’s name on my back, I feel like a Steelhawk.
Stashing my backpack in the staff room, I join the fans in the stands. The buzz of their excitement is immediately infectious, and my smile grows wider as the pre-game lure seeps into my system, filling me with adrenaline.
I manage to snag an end-of-row seat right by the glass near center ice.
Perfect for witnessing every cut-throat moment.
Every clash of sticks and slice of blades.
Both teams are already out there, warming up, and I spot Lucian at the edge of the rink, yanking on gloves with an almost violent focus.
I take the opportunity to simply watch him, knowing he’s too intent on getting in the necessary headspace to notice me.
Gloves on, he cuts across the ice with speed that rivals a bullet let loose from its chamber.
Each movement is vicious. There’s a ferocity to him, even now as he shoulders past a teammate during a pass drill, not bothering to apologize.
When he slams the puck into the net, it rings off the metal with a sound audible above the din of the crowd and blaring music.
There’s an edge to him tonight. A wildness that is barely contained beneath all that steel and precision.
It’s not just game focus; I’ve seen that before.
This is something darker. Wilder. Something that reminds me of the way he looked at me in the library stacks when he showed me the tattoo.
When he cut himself open and exposed his inner demons while confessing that the dark nearly devoured him.
That what remains is the remnant of what wasn’t destroyed.
I shiver, even now.
My gaze drifts to Ronan next. He’s the antithesis of Lucian—all confidence and control.
Every movement honed, sharp, almost rehearsed.
Captain to his core. He skates backward effortlessly, tapping his stick against the ice to rally one of the rookies lagging behind.
His voice carries, low and commanding, but there’s an ease to it, too.
A charisma that makes people fall in line without realizing they’ve been led.
His words from my long-established nightmare filter through my head. For years, I feared that voice. Believed it belonged to someone who wanted to harm me. But looking at him now, I can’t reconcile the man I thought he was with the one in front of me. It’s no wonder my brain is short-circuiting.
Then there’s Silas.
He skates with such quiet power, like the ice is an extension of him. Where Lucian rages and Ronan commands, Silas glides. Silent and calculating. He’s not as flashy. Doesn’t showboat. But I can’t take my eyes off him.
When I close mine, I still see his note. We all survive something. We just do it differently.
What has Silas survived?
He hasn’t said a single word to me, and yet somehow, he sees me more clearly than anyone else ever has. Except perhaps Lucian and Ronan. All three of them seem to see me in a way no one else does. They see things I never wanted anyone else to notice. Things that I know I keep carefully buried.
Surely, only people who have suffered what I have would know what to look for.
What happens when they tell me the truth?
Because I will ask. I have to.
But what if they confirm everything I thought I knew? What if they tell me something worse? Or…what if they tell me something I can’t bring myself to believe?
And maybe scarier still—what if I believe them?
What does that make me?
The buzzer blares as the teams clear the ice. The lights dim. The crowd roars in anticipation. I press my back to the seat and try to breathe through the swirl in my gut. Tonight is supposed to be a break. A chance to support Dylan and pretend everything is normal.
But nothing about this is normal anymore.
The buzz in the arena spikes as the Kings and Steelhawks return to the ice, players gliding out beneath the overhead lights, blades cutting sharp lines into the surface.
I’m watching the flow of them, picking out Dylan near the middle—helmet tilted back, her braid spilling out the bottom as she shouts something to one of her teammates—when Lucian skates into view.
He’s doing a slow skate of the rink, showing off for the crowd…until he sees me. Recognition hits like a slap to the face. His eyes latch onto mine, narrowing before they drop…to the blue and silver jersey I’m wearing.
He comes to a complete stop, oblivious to the game starting up as he stares at the Steelhawk logo on my chest, like his brain is struggling to compute what he is seeing.
When it finally catches up, his mouth presses into a firm, unreadable line. There’s no mistaking the spark of something hot and territorial in his eyes before he tears his gaze away—only to twist around and grab Ronan’s jersey.
Lucian mutters something low to him, jerking his head in my direction.
Ronan scans the crowd, his stare locking onto me. His expression doesn’t change. Not the way Lucian’s outwardly did, but I see the tension coil in his shoulders. The cool steel in his eyes sharpens as his jaw tightens by a fraction.
A second later, Silas rolls up behind them, and Lucian flicks a hand toward the glass. Toward me. Silas follows the motion, his gaze cutting clean across the rink until it lands squarely on mine.
Great, let’s invite the entire team over.
The three of them are beginning to garner attention, people in the rows in front of me shifting in their seats to see what they are looking at.
I shift in my seat, heart stuttering beneath the weight of eyes on me. Not because I feel guilty—I don’t—but because it’s suddenly hard to breathe with that much heat trained directly on me.
It’s just a jersey.
Just a show of support for my best friend.
But the way they’re looking at me?
You’d think I’d incited a war.
The game is chaos.
Not the kind that comes from disorganization or lack of skill, but from the beautiful, brutal chaos of two rival teams who hate each other and aren’t trying to hide it.
Every pass is a risk. Every hit is calculated.
The Kings are fast and surgical—Lucian carving through the ice like he’s born to bleed precision, Ronan commanding the defense like he sees the game five steps ahead, Silas ghosting down the boards so smoothly that you’d miss him if you blinked.
The Steelhawks, for all their differences, are just as relentless. Dylan especially. She’s ruthless with the puck, pinwheeling around defenders, shouldering through contact, snapping orders, and setting plays like a general.
The puck slams off the boards.
Someone checks hard against the glass, the force rattling through my seat. I’m entirely locked in—eyes sweeping across the ice, adrenaline spiking like I’m part of the game—when there is a tap on my shoulder.
I glance up to find a guy in a Kings warmup jacket standing beside my seat. Early twenties. Baby-faced. A rookie I vaguely recognize from practice runs. Giving me an awkward grimace, he holds out a jersey—a purple and gold one.
I stare at it, not reaching out to take it.
“This is from Ronan,” he says stiffly when the awkward moment stretches between us.
I stare at it. I stare at the rookie.
Then I scoff.
“Tell Ronan I don’t want or need his jersey.”
The rookie’s eyes flare, like the thought of going back to his captain with anything other than confirmation of a job completed is unacceptable.
“I can’t do that,” he blurts. “He said to make sure you knew, you’re a King now, not a Steelhawk.”
My nostrils flare in irritation. In outrage. I might be attending Valehurst. Might be forced to wear the Kings’ colors when I’m working for the team, but at my core, in my heart and soul, I will always be a Steelhawk.
I fold my arms, making no move to take it. “I am not a King, and I am most certainly not wearing Ronan’s jersey like I’m his property or some other eighteen-hundreds bullshit,” I snap, possibly unfairly, at the rookie. “I’m supporting Dylan, end of conversation.”