Chapter 42: Kael
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The packet hits myphone before morning skate even starts.
A short buzz.A preview line: REAPERS OPS: CROWD FOOTAGE – SECTION 118.
I don’t open it on the bench.Not in front of her.Not with Finn leaning against the glass and Atlas drilling holes in passing players just by staring.
I pocket the phone and wait.
Practice is a ghost version of a normal session.The boys go through the motions—passing drills, positional work, battle corners—but everyone’s eyes flick to Wren more than they should.Finn catches every glance she throws at her clipboard.Atlas never takes his back off the lane closest to her.Even the rookies feel the shift in the air.
I blow the whistle harder than necessary to break a scrum in front of the crease.
“Reset,” I bark.“Again.”
Bodies scatter.Sticks reset.Finn skates by the boards and taps the glass twice where she stands—his new habit, a signal that says I see you, I’m here, it’s okay.
Normally I’d tell him to stop skating to the wrong spots.Today I don’t.
After the final rep, I skate to center ice and tap my stick for everyone to gather.“Good work,” I say, loud enough to fill the rink.“Hit the room.”
As they scatter, Finn peels away from the pack and makes a beeline for Wren, skates carving too sharply in his hurry.Atlas goes slower but reaches her first because he takes the shortest path every time.
“Need help with anything?”Finn asks her, breath fogging the glass.
She smiles, tired but real.“I’m fine.Go shower.”
Atlas doesn’t move.“You eat this morning?”he asks.The concern comes out like a threat.It always does with him.
She shakes her head.“Coffee.”
He grunts.Finn groans dramatically.“Coffee isn’t food, Wren, for the love of—”
“Finn,” I say.
He shuts up instantly.
“We’re meeting ops in five,” I tell both of them.“Locker room conference room.”
Their backs go straight.
Wren’s forehead creases.“Do I need to go?”
“Not yet,” I say.“We’ll talk after.”
She nods slowly, like she’s trying to trust that.I let myself look at her a second longer than I should—hair tucked behind one ear, cheeks pink from the cold inside the rink, fingers fidgeting along the edge of her clipboard.
“I’ll see you after,” I add, quiet enough only she hears.
