32. Wren
WREN
The exhibition game ends in a roar of applause loud enough to rattle the glass.
Kids crowd the edge of the rink the second the final buzzer sounds, bouncing excitedly while players from both teams skate over, tossing pucks into the stands and signing anything shoved in front of them. Jerseys. Programs. Hats. One little girl even hands Lucian a stuffed dinosaur to autograph.
“You’re surprisingly good with kids,” I tell him when he approaches.
Clapping a hand over his chest, he teases, “You wound me, Little Moth,” before adding, “Children are easy. Especially at that age,” he gestures toward the little girl who couldn’t be any older than five or six. “They haven’t had the chance yet to become assholes.”
I’d tell him off, but he’s not exactly wrong.
Looking around at all the boys and girls, their faces covered in paint and fingers sticky from popcorn and ice cream, it’s impossible to reconcile them with the types of people who grow up to be like Lucian’s cousin or whoever hurt me.
Before I can fall too far down that dark hole, large arms band around me, lifting me off the floor.
“Wrenny Roo!”
“Carson!” I smack at my brother’s arm, wriggling in his hold until he puts me down.
Now that the event is over, guests start heading for the exit while stalls are broken down, and players around us take last-minute photos with some of the kids or are huddled up talking to one another.
The entire arena hums with the aftermath of a successful event.
A successful event I ran.
Several members of Valehurst administration approach from across the rink.
Oh God. Professional people. My favorite.
Dean Carver trails behind them, looking like he’d rather voluntarily skate into traffic than participate in this conversation. Which honestly boosts my mood considerably.
“Miss Winslow,” the dean of Valehurst greets warmly as the group approaches. “I wanted to personally congratulate you.”
I blink in surprise.
He gestures broadly toward the arena around us. “This weekend exceeded every expectation we had. Attendance numbers nearly doubled projections.”
“And the sponsors are thrilled,” another administrator adds. “We’ve already had three separate inquiries about expanding the event next year.”
“You handled the coordination beautifully,” the dean continues. “The organization alone was impressive, but the atmosphere you created?” He smiles slightly. “That’s much harder to teach.”
Heat creeps up my neck. “Thank you.”
“And securing participation from the Serpents organization?” One of the board members shakes his head appreciatively. “That kind of networking ability is invaluable in this industry.”
Behind them, Dean Carver’s jaw tightens hard enough that I’m surprised his teeth don’t crack.
Good.
The dean glances briefly toward Wexler across the rink before returning his attention to me.
“I appreciate that, given who your family is, you’re probably destined to work in ice hockey, but in case you aren’t planning to, I wanted to encourage you to reconsider.
All I have heard are glowing reviews about your work here. ”
His remark catches me off guard.
“I…”
For a second, words fail me entirely.
Until recently, I’ve only been on this path because I was forced onto it.
I never wanted to do any of this. Work with a hockey team.
Own one. Not because it was something I thought I wouldn’t enjoy or because I thought I couldn’t do it, but because doing it meant surrendering.
Letting my parents dictate my future all over again.
Letting them shove me into the role they carved out for me before I was old enough to decide whether I even wanted it.
But standing here now?
Watching the aftermath of something I built from the ground up?
The answer doesn’t feel so simple anymore.
Before I can figure out how to respond, another familiar voice cuts in behind me.
“She’d be stupid not to.”
I glance over my shoulder to find Ronan approaching alongside Silas. They come to a stop beside Lucian and Carson, all four of them still partially geared up from the exhibition game.
Lucian hooks an arm over my shoulders without hesitation. “This woman bullied an entire NHL organization into rearranging travel schedules for a charity game on two weeks’ notice.”
“I did not bully anyone.”
“You absolutely did,” Carson says dryly.
Giving me an assessing once over, the dean remarks, “Something to consider, perhaps,” before shaking my hand a final time. Then he and his merry band of administrators move away to talk with some of the team’s senior management.
The second they’re out of earshot, Carson turns to me slowly.
“Well, isn’t this interesting.”
Every instinct in my body immediately goes on high alert. “What is?”
His gaze drifts deliberately across the three men surrounding me before settling back on my face with the sort of smug amusement only an older brother can possess.
“This.” He gestures vaguely between me, Lucian, Ronan, and Silas. “Knew you were up to something with the way you were staring at my baby sis at that gala, man,” he says, mock glaring at Ronan.
Heat instantly floods my cheeks. “No one is up to anything!” I argue.
“Nah, he’s right,” Ronan says with a casual shrug. “I was only at that gala so I could get close to you.”
I splutter.
My brother snorts a laugh. Lifting his chin, he asks, “What about you two?”
“Wren is mine,” Lucian states with all the finesse of a bull.
Groaning, I bury my face in my hands. Kill me now.
A lingering silence has me peeking out from between my fingers to discover Silas has written something and is showing it to my brother. Catching sight of what he’s written, I plead with the ground to swallow me whole.
She’s all of ours.
Nice, guys. Thanks for that one. Now my brother is going to think… well actually, I’ve no idea what the heck my brother is going to think, but it surely can’t be good.
Instead of any sort of angry outburst, my brother laughs, like finding out his little sister is dating three guys at once is no big deal.
“Damn, Wrenny, you’re trying to outdo me. If my telling Mom and Dad I wanted to play for their team instead of running it didn’t give them a heart attack, finding out you are sleeping with three of their next season’s rookie players definitely will.”
“Shut up,” I groan. I do not need to think about what my parents will say when they find out about…this.
“They can either get on board or keep their opinions to themselves,” Lucian growls protectively. Reaching out, I place a hand on his arm, giving him a soft smile in thanks.
“Hey,” my brother says, raising both hands in a defensive manner. “Nothing meant by it. I’m all for anything that ruffles our parents’ feathers. God knows they could do with someone removing the sticks from their asses.”
My nose scrunches in disgust. “Gross.”
Laughing, my brother nudges me. “Good for you, Wrenny.” There’s a sincerity behind his words now as he smiles down at me. “You deserve some happiness.”
Blushing, I glance down. “Thanks,” I mumble awkwardly.
Before this situation can become any more uncomfortable, one of the arena coordinators jogs toward us, looking frazzled.
“Sorry to interrupt, but we need help moving equipment and clearing the auxiliary rink.”
Lucian groans dramatically. “Manual labor? On a Sunday?”
“You’ll survive,” Ronan says with an exasperated sigh.
Lucian grumbles something that sounds like “Debatable” as Silas leads him away. With a squeeze of my shoulder, Ronan goes with them, and leaves me alone with my brother.
Carson watches them walk away before slowly looking back at me.
“So,” he says casually. “You’re in love with them, huh?”
I nearly inhale my own tongue.
“What? No!”
“Wren.”
“There is literally nothing happening.”
“You’re blushing so hard your ears are red.”
I immediately clap my hands over them. “You’re insufferable.”
“And you deflected the question.”
Groaning, I start toward the seating area before he can continue interrogating me. “I hate when you visit.”
“You love me…nearly as much as you love those boys.”
“They aren’t boys,” I grumble petulantly. “They’re only one year younger than you!”
“Same difference,” my brother retorts with an unaffected shrug.
The arena is quieter now as we climb into the stands, the buzz of cleanup echoing faintly through the mostly empty building.
Carson stretches his legs out in front of him once we sit.
For a moment, neither of us says anything. We simply look out over the ice.
“You did good today, Wrenny.”
The quiet sincerity in his voice catches me off guard enough that I glance sideways at him.
“You don’t have to look so shocked,” he says dryly. “I can compliment you occasionally. It won’t kill me.”
“Are you sure about that?”
He snorts softly before his expression settles into something more thoughtful as he looks back toward the rink. “No, seriously. This was…impressive.” He gestures vaguely toward the arena.
Warmth creeps into my chest again, quieter this time. Deeper.
“I liked it,” I admit softly.
His head turns immediately. “Yeah?”
I nod slowly, trying to untangle the knot of emotions sitting heavily beneath my ribs. “I liked all of it. The planning. Organizing everything. Solving problems.” I huff out a small laugh. “Even the stress.”
“That’s because you’re a psycho.”
I flash him a smile. “Probably.”
Carson watches me carefully for a second before saying quietly, “You know, you don’t have to hate this just because Mom and Dad are shoving it down your throat.”
Straight to the emotional core.
“I don’t hate hockey,” I murmur. “I never did.”
“I know,” he says softly.
“I hated…” I exhale shakily, trying to find the right words. “Feeling trapped. Feeling like my entire life was already decided before I got any say in it.” My fingers twist together in my lap.
“Then you had to go and mess up Mom and Dad’s plans, and at the drop of a hat, I was no longer the ‘spare’, but the one meant to take over.” I shake my head. “It made me realize how little say I had. How little they actually cared about what I want.”
“Yeah.” His mouth twists bitterly. “Because God forbid either of us become actual people outside of what they planned.”
Silence settles briefly between us again.
Below, Lucian nearly drops an entire stack of folding chairs onto one of the equipment managers.
“You wanna know something funny?” Carson says eventually. “I think Mom and Dad genuinely convinced themselves I was supposed to take over the team.” He lets out a quiet laugh. “Meanwhile, everyone else could see it was never meant to be me.”
I frown slightly. “What do you mean?” In my mind, it was always meant to be him.
That’s all Mom and Dad talked about—ever.
Carson was going to take over the team, and I was going to marry someone with the right connections and enough zeros in their bank account, and produce lots of little babies to continue on the family line.
He turns toward me fully now, his expression unusually serious.
“Wren, I love hockey. Playing it. Living it. But all the front office shit?” He shakes his head. “I’d lose my damn mind doing what you did this weekend.”
“You say that now, but—”
“No.” His tone sharpens slightly. “Listen to me.”
I fall silent.
“You were born for this.”
The words hit me hard enough that I physically stiffen. Not because of the statement itself, but because, for once, it doesn’t sound like pressure. Doesn’t sound like expectation.
It sounds…right.
“You see things other people miss,” he continues. “You understand how all the moving parts connect. You know how to manage people without making them hate you.” He snorts. “Which already makes you more qualified than half the owners in the league.”
I laugh softly despite myself.
“But more than that?” His gaze sweeps over the arena below us.
“You care.” Turning his head to capture me in his stark gaze, he adds, “I saw you today. You weren’t just running an event.
You were watching every kid that walked through those doors.
Every volunteer. Every player interaction.
You wanted everyone here to have a good experience. ”
Well, sure, because I know what it feels like to stand in a crowded room and still feel invisible.
“You make people feel seen, Wrenny.”
Emotion clogs unexpectedly in my throat.
Carson leans back slightly in his seat. “That matters in this business more than people realize.”
I stare out over the rink again, my thoughts loud and tangled.
“I just…” I swallow hard. “I don’t know how to separate what I want from what they want.”
“That’s easy.”
I glance over at him skeptically. “It is?”
“Yes.” He points toward the arena below us. “Did they force you to care about this?”
No.
“Did they force you to stay up until three in the morning fixing sponsorship packages because you wanted the event to succeed?”
No.
“Did they force you to smile like a maniac every time one of those kids got excited today?”
I huff out a reluctant laugh. “Maybe.”
Carson bumps his shoulder lightly against mine. “You need to stop acting like wanting something they also want automatically means they win.”
The words hit with startling force.
Because…God. That’s exactly what I’ve been doing. Rejecting anything tied to my parents on principle alone. Even things I might actually love.
“You don’t have to let them control the narrative anymore,” he says quietly. “If you take over the team one day, it doesn’t have to be because they told you to.” His gaze locks onto mine. “It can be because you chose it.”
Choice.
Control.
The realization settles slowly through my chest, unfamiliar, fragile, and terrifying all at once.
For years, every conversation about my future has felt like a cage slowly closing around me.
But now, for the first time, it feels less like a cage and more like an open door.