30. Ronan
RONAN
A dozen rookie files are spread across the long oak table in the conference room, along with scouting reports stacked in uneven piles and game footage looping on the projector screen at the front of the room. The smell of stale coffee and printer ink hangs in the air.
Coach Wexler sits at the head of the table with his reading glasses perched low on his nose, while Dean Carver occupies the seat beside him like he owns the damn building. Which, considering his role as Team Operations Manager, he practically does.
I lean back in my chair, one ankle hooked over my knee, only half paying attention as another grainy highlight reel flickers across the screen.
“Kid’s got speed,” Wexler mutters, scribbling something onto the file in front of him.
“Terrible defensive awareness,” Dean counters immediately. “He’ll get eaten alive at this level.”
The room hums with various opinions. Scouts argue.
Analytics staff pull up numbers. Through all of it, my attention keeps drifting to Wren.
She’s seated farther down the table with her laptop open, fingers moving quickly across the keyboard as she takes notes for Dean.
There’s a small crease between her brows while she concentrates.
Today, she is wearing indigo-framed glasses, which slip slightly down her nose every few minutes before she nudges them back up absently. The corner of my lips tilt upward as I think about how far she has come in the past month. How much better this team is because of her.
She has organized half the internship department, streamlined player travel reports, fixed the scheduling disaster for rink time with the ice skating team, and somehow convinced Wexler to modernize the post-game recovery tracking system after pointing out that three teams with higher player longevity all used the same setup.
Not that Dean gives her credit for any of it. The asshole seems physically incapable of acknowledging her competence, going so far as to take any opportunity to shoot her down, even when she notices something others have missed.
Just last week, one of the admin staff accidentally sent the wrong travel itinerary to half the team before an away game.
Flights were double-booked, hotel check-in times were wrong, and two of the rookies had somehow ended up assigned to a room that didn’t even exist. Wren caught the mistake before the team boarded the bus and stayed three hours late helping fix it, reorganizing the entire schedule before anyone higher up even realized there was a problem.
What did Carver have to say about it? “She only caught it because she grew up around NHL operations. Monkey see, monkey do.”
Condescending asshole.
Meanwhile, Wren stood there quietly, swallowing the insult like it was just another day for her. That pissed me off. Still pisses me off.
On-screen, another rookie takes a hit into the boards before recovering possession.
Wexler grunts. “Thoughts?”
A scout across the table shrugs. “Good hands. Weak under pressure.”
“He folds too easily,” Dean agrees. “We need players with composure.”
Wren’s fingers still over her keyboard. I notice it immediately. That slight pause she gets when she has an opinion but isn’t sure she’s allowed to voice it.
Coach notices too. Ever since she pointed out the flaw in his 1-2-2 play, he’s gained a newfound respect for her. I’ve caught him including her in his game plans and the two of them knocking heads during our last few games.
“You got something to say, Winslow?”
Her head snaps up. Like a deer caught in headlights, she points at herself. “Me?”
Dean sighs loudly before she can continue. “I think we’re capable of evaluating prospects without dragging the intern into it.”
The temperature in the room drops about ten fucking degrees. Or maybe that’s rage boiling my blood.
Wren immediately ducks her head, cutting herself off from the rest of the room. The fact that Dean Carver makes her want to curl in on herself has my eye twitching. I bite my tongue, but if this is the tone for the rest of the meeting, there’s no fucking way I’ll be able to stay silent.
“I want to hear what Gwendolyn has to say,” Wexler refutes.
He’s calm, collected, and yet, there’s a solid firmness to his tone.
One I know intimately from countless orders barked across the ice.
It’s his don’t fucking question me voice.
The entire time he stares down Dean Carver, daring him to contradict him.
Of course, the idiot just can’t help himself.
“With all due respect, Coach, she’s here to document the meeting, not participate in roster decisions.”
If possible, Wren’s shoulders hunch even more. Something sharp twists in my chest at watching her try to make herself as small as possible.
Fuck. I can’t stand it anymore. I’ve spent my entire life around politicians.
Men who smile while gutting each other alive behind closed doors.
Men who understand that timing is everything.
Dean is making a big fucking mistake right now, because the more he talks, the more room he gives me to bury him with his own bullshit.
“Or have you forgotten that she is only an intern?” he tacks on snidely.
“Funny how the person you keep dismissing is the one fixing everyone else’s mistakes,” I cut in.
“She probably knows more about front office operations than half the people sitting at this table,” I state flatly.
Not once have I ever spoken out of turn at one of these meetings.
In fact, for the most part, I don’t say anything.
As captain, I’m included in meetings such as these, but my role is negligible.
However, years of campaign dinners and donor galas have taught me exactly how influence works. Sometimes the quietest voice in the room carries the most weight.
Dean’s eyes slide toward me, narrowed in irritation. His arrogance likely can’t comprehend being called out by a player. A student. “Excuse me?”
I sit forward slowly. “You heard me.”
“Ronan,” Coach warns lightly, knowing I’m treading a dangerous line.
“I’m serious.” My gaze locks on Dean’s. “Wren has overhauled the entire team, caught mistakes others have missed, and streamlined players’ schedules.” I glare him down. “We’re the most efficient we’ve ever been—because of her.”
From the corner of my eye, I can tell Wren is staring at me, wide-eyed.
Not as though she’s telling me to shut up, but as though she’s shocked someone has stood up for her.
I’m kicking myself for not saying something sooner.
I’ve been listening to her complain about Dean at our late-night diner dates.
I should have spoken up weeks ago, but now I’m going to make certain Carver doesn’t try to shit on her parade ever again.
“Not to mention,” I add, “she grew up inside an NHL organization. She’s been around hockey operations her entire life. You treating her like she’s clueless just because her last name opened the door is bullshit.”
My declaration is followed by silence. Heavy silence.
Dean’s face darkens. “Careful, Sterling.”
“Or what?” I practically goad, knowing he can’t actually touch me.
Coach clears his throat. “Gwendolyn,” he says, ignoring the tension entirely as he redirects the conversation. “What do you have to say about the prospect?”
Her lips part slightly. I can practically see the uncertainty battling with the confidence she’s been slowly building these past few weeks.
Then she straightens in her seat.
And there she is.
My Wren.
“The issue isn’t that he can’t handle the pressure,” she says carefully, eyes shifting from person to person around the table.
“It’s hesitation.” She gestures toward the paused footage on the screen.
Coach presses play. “There!” She points at the screen.
“He keeps deferring the play half a second too long before committing. At lower levels, he gets away with it, but at a collegiate pace?” She shakes her head slightly.
“That delay is the difference between scoring a goal or missing the shot.”
One of the scouts leans forward, rubbing at his stubble as he studies the footage replaying on the screen. Others around the table do the same. Dean is the only one who looks put out. Well, fuck him.
Wren keeps going, growing more confident with every word.
“If he’s paired with an aggressive defenseman who communicates well, he could develop out of it. But if you throw him into a passive system, you’ll make the problem worse.”
Coach Wexler slowly leans back in his chair.
“She makes an excellent point,” one of the scouts states, looking mildly impressed.
Wren blinks in surprise, clearly not expecting anyone to agree with her. Christ, when her lips curl in a cautious yet optimistic smile, it nearly kills me.
For the next hour, Wren contributes cautiously whenever Coach prompts her, and every single time, she’s insightful. Sharp. Instinctive in a way only someone who truly loves and understands the game could be.
She’s a fucking natural. It’s the most stunning thing to watch—my little serpent coming out of her shell.
By the end of the meeting, the scouts are asking for her thoughts directly. Dean looks one inconvenience away from a stroke. All around, I’d say this is one of the best meetings of the season.
People start filtering out as soon as the meeting adjourns. Wren stays behind, gathering files into neat stacks and disposing of discarded coffee cups.
I move toward her, casting an eye toward the door to make sure no one else is lingering.
“You were good in there,” I tell her quietly.
She glances up, startled. “Thanks,” she says softly. “You didn’t have to…do all that.”
“Yes, I did.” I step closer, lowering my voice as the last few staff members disappear out the door. “Because you belong in rooms like this, Wren. More so than half the people sitting at that table.”
Her breath catches slightly.