Eventually, time did what it always had, and we needed to get out of there. She slipped off her stool and headed upstairs to change while Rhett and I made short work of cleaning the kitchen up. After, we walked out together.
We piled into our respective vehicles—Rhett still smug in his—and by the time we rolled into the arena, the whole day had shifted gears.
Wren peeled off toward her office, phone already in hand, heels clicking with purpose.
And I wasn’t surprised when I pushed into the locker room to find Roan already there—changed, stretching, focused.
He looked up as Rhett and I came in, his eyes narrowed as he focused on Rhett and I didn’t miss the way his nostrils flared. Faint amusement touched his expression before he went all business.
“Let’s do this,” he ordered.
The ice had bite that morning.
Not just the usual crisp cut beneath our blades or the sharp sting in the air. No—this wasmentaltension. Static coiled tight and humming under the surface. The brackets were coming.Every player knew it, and no matter how long they’d been in the league, this time feltdifferent.
Because we weren’t just fighting for position.
We were the team to beat.
Roan skated tight circles near the blue line, barking corrections at Nate and Lewis, his voice cutting through the ambient echo of puck strikes and blade turns like a whip.
“You drop that left shoulder again, you’re going to hand them the puck gift-wrapped.Again, Lewis!”
I didn’t even flinch. That tone wasn’t new. Roan didn’t yell for the sake of yelling—hecorrected. Pinpointed flaws like a surgeon and expected you to fix them like your job depended on it. Because right now, it did.
But guys tightened up when he got like that. Lewis started skating more mechanically. Nate’s shoulders hunched. Focus wavered. Tension crept in.
So I adjusted.
“Lewis,” I called, tone calm, voice lower but firm. “Eyes on the outside edge. Don’t worry about Roan, worry about the lane. Again. Let’s go.”
He nodded. Just that small reminder pulled him back into the present.
That was how it worked between the three of us. Roan demanded precision. Rhett fired them up. I pulled them steady.
It was a rhythm. A pulse. An ecosystem.
And on mornings like this, itmattered.
Across the ice, Rhett flung himself into a drill, full sprint toward the crease, burning hot as ever. He weaved with sharp, reckless agility, passed off to Anders, doubled back for the puck—and damn near collided with Paxton when the defenseman cut the angle wrong.
The sound of their sticks clashing echoed hard. Rhett spun out of it with that grin he always wore when shit almost went sideways, and clapped Paxton on the shoulder.
“Dude,” Pax snapped. “Warn me before you come in hot like that.”
“Wouldn’t be a surprise play if I warned you.” Rhett winked and skated backward, but I caught the slight flicker of heat under the humor.
Pax wasn’t alpha, but he was close enough on the spectrum to bristle when Rhett got like that.
Before Roan could snap at both of them, I coasted in between, cutting the tension like a scalpel.
“Save the full-contact chaos for game day,” I told Rhett, firm but light. Then to Pax, “His fault, yeah. But that’s why we drill it. You’re both better than that.”
Roan’s eyes flicked over to me. A flicker of acknowledgment passed between us.
He saw it. I’d taken the edge off before it spiked too far.
He turned back to his line. “Again! Top line reset!”
