26. Wren
WREN
My gaze flicks up to check.
Yeah, a neutral zone trap just like I thought.
One forward applying pressure with two more supporting just behind, and two defenders hanging back.
It’s a pretty standard sequence designed to force the opposing team to dump the puck.
It’s safe. Effective in theory. However, something about it isn’t playing out quite right.
The team has been running this drill for a while now and hasn’t managed to get the sequence down yet.
“What was that, Winslow? I didn’t quite catch it.”
Coach’s gruff tone freezes me in place.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
I hadn’t known he was standing so close to me. Last I’d seen, he was barking orders on the other side of the rink.
“Nothing.” I hurriedly stand, face burning as I brush my hands on my thighs. “Just muttering to myself.” I try to laugh it off, like I’m just some crazy girl talking to herself.
“Didn’t sound like nothing to me.” Shrewd eyes bore into me, making me sweat. Coach has that grizzled veteran look—weathered, sharp-eyed, but not unkind. He’s a magnificent coach, but he’s also intimidating as hell.
“It wasn’t anything. Really.” I can feel my cheeks flaming now. The last thing I need is to draw unwanted attention. I already get enough criticism and belittling from Dean. I don’t need Wexler thinking I’m so entitled that I know better than he does with his decades of experience.
Except it’s clear he’s not going to let me off the hook. He folds his arms across his chest, clipboard tucked underneath as he waits.
I swallow hard, knowing I’m not getting out of here without giving him something.
“I just…Isaac’s not closing down fast enough.
He’s a power winger, not a pressure guy.
Lucian is faster; more aggressive on the forecheck.
If they switch, Isaac can support the second layer and pick off a pass if it gets chipped up the wall.
Lucian forces the play faster, meaning the other team’s D has to make a quicker decision—which typically ends up being the wrong one…
” I trail off, bracing for the brush-off.
For Coach to tell me to stop talking crap and get back to my job.
Or worse—for him to go to Carver and complain.
However, instead of doing any of that, Wexler turns toward the ice. His gaze roams over the players as though taking each of them in, seeing the play through a new lens. Then, to my complete and utter surprise, he cups his hands around his mouth and yells, “Isaac, Lucian! Flip it!”
Both boys look toward Coach, but where Lucian simply nods before returning to the play, there’s a beat of hesitation from Isaac, like he's weighing whether to question the order. Before he can make up his mind, Ronan calls his name. “You heard Coach. Let’s run it again.”
When they go again, Lucian surges forward like a shot from a cannon, cutting the breakout at the half-wall. The defenseman panics under the pressure and fumbles the puck. Lucian pounces before anyone else can react, ripping it into the back of the net. Goal!
Coach nods once. “Better,” he calls. “Go again.”
Unlike the rest of the team, who raise their sticks in celebration of finally getting the play down, Isaac skates back to the line, ignoring everyone else, his jaw tight and expression like steel.
Unable to help himself, Lucian tosses a smirk Isaac’s way as he skates past him, and I sigh internally, knowing my suggestion is going to cause tension between the two of them—more than there already is.
Isaac doesn’t look at him. Doesn’t say a word, but his shoulders are rigid as he waits for the whistle to blow again.
The play resets.
Lucian once again shoots forward, proving he was the right player for that position, resulting in another easy goal.
At the end of another successful play, Coach turns to me. He’s not smiling per se, but there’s something in his expression that’s measured. Dare I say, impressed, even. Like he’s actually seeing me for the first time.
“Good eye, Wren.”
That’s all he says, but it hits me like a punch to the chest. His simple praise is unexpected, sharp, and startlingly satisfying, like a jolt of adrenaline straight to the system.
I blink, stunned. “Uh, thanks.”
Coach Wexler has already turned back to the ice, barking another command, like it’s nothing.
Unaware of how hard his little bit of praise has hit me.
It’s the first time anyone at this internship has looked at me like I’m not just some clueless tag-along.
Like maybe I have something to offer beyond coffee runs and silent obedience.
Like maybe I know something. Dean and some of the others are so stuck on the point that my family name got me this internship that they haven’t stopped to consider that perhaps growing up in an ice hockey family means I actually know a thing or two about ice hockey. A crazy concept, I know.
As I return to collecting water bottles, warmth unfurls beneath my ribcage, soft and bright, like a live wire jolt of something dangerously close to pride. For the first time since I started here, I feel a spark of something I thought I’d lost a long time ago.
Confidence.
The gym is mostly dark when I enter, only a few overhead lights still humming softly. I figured everyone had cleared out after practice, and I’d come in to wipe down the benches before I’m done for the day.
Except I’m greeted with the clang of weights being lifted, so someone must still be here. Typically, the guys filter out straight after practice, go eat or attend classes, then steadily filter back in later in the day to get their workout in.
Stepping further into the room, I recognize Isaac at the weights bench.
He’s alone, pounding out reps like he’s trying to punish the bar into submission.
The sound is almost too loud in the empty room—metal on metal, breath rasping, weight plates rattling like bones.
Each rep lands heavier than the last, echoing off the walls.
Sweat beads across his bare shoulders, his chest rising and falling with each sharp breath. His jersey and shirt are tossed in a heap beside him, and earbuds dangle around his neck, forgotten.
I don’t move. He hasn’t seen me yet, and part of me considers backing out quietly, giving him his space—especially after the way he stormed off the ice at the end of practice today. I knew he was pissed about that drill, but the fury in his gaze as he’d stomped past me was a tad terrifying.
Before I can so much as lift a foot, his head turns, and his eyes catch mine. The bar slams into the rack with a harsh metallic clang that has me flinching.
Then everything goes very, very still.
Except for my heartbeat, which is suddenly loud in my ears.
“Didn’t expect company,” he says, voice rough. “Or are you here to clean up after me, too?”
I blink. “I didn’t know anyone was still here.”
He sits up slowly, swiping a towel across his face and neck. His muscles tense with the movement, shoulders flexing like he’s still keyed up—coiled too tight.
“Came to cool off,” he adds, voice deceptively casual. “Got a little…heated earlier.”
I hover by the entrance, the wipe cloth still in my hand, stupidly out of place.
“Are you okay?” I ask with genuine concern. I might not know Isaac well, but he is always chatty with me, always flirting. He seems like a nice enough guy, and he’s a strong player. While switching positions was the best call for the team, I do feel bad for him if he’s this annoyed over it.
His head tilts.
That same smirk I’ve seen a dozen times curves his lips…but it’s lacking his usual warmth. It’s reflexive. Hollow.
“Never better,” he says, voice slightly off from its usual charm. “Though I gotta admit…wasn’t the best feeling getting swapped out mid-drill like that.”
My stomach tightens.
I don’t know if he knows it was me who suggested the change. It’s unlikely, but impossible to know for sure.
“I’m sorry—”
He waves a hand dismissively, cutting me off. “Don’t worry about it.” He tosses the towel down, standing to face me. “Coach knows best, right?” He scoffs, and I’ve never felt more awkward around him than I do at this moment.
He’s shirtless, sweat-slicked, and with his six-foot-two frame, he towers over me, causing the space between us to suddenly feel a hell of a lot smaller than it did a second ago.
Uncomfortable, I take a step back. My heel bumps into something, but I don’t dare glance down to see what is blocking my path.
My focus is solely on the man in front of me, who is watching me like a hawk.
His lips are hooked up in a smirk, but there’s a deadness in his eyes that makes my mouth run dry.
“And so enigmatic, taking advice from an intern,” he says, voice smooth again, sliding into flirtation—but it’s off. The smile doesn’t reach his eyes.
Shit. He does know.
“You must have a sharp eye, Wren. Smart. Confident. Hot, too. That’s a dangerous combo.”
My stomach drops. Heat floods my skin, then drains just as fast, leaving me cold and prickly.
“I wasn’t—” I try, flustered. “I didn’t mean to—”
“You don’t have to explain yourself.” He takes a slow step closer, muscles shifting. “Lucian should thank you. You practically gift-wrapped that goal for him.”
He’s closer now. Close enough that I can smell sweat and deodorant and something sharp underneath. Close enough that my lungs forget how to pull in a full breath. There’s something in his tone I can’t quite name. Something that makes the hairs rise on the back of my neck.
“He didn’t—” I start, but the look in his eyes stops me.
Isaac laughs under his breath. “You’re really close with those three now, huh?”
I go still.
“Silas. Ronan. Lucian.” He draws that last name out like it tastes bitter. “I ask you out—what, three times? Nothing. But you’re studying with them. Hanging out. Sleeping over?”
I bristle. “I’m not sleeping with anyone.”
He smiles again, but it’s sharp. Mean. “Didn’t say you were. Just noticing a pattern.”
Something cold curls in my gut.