The guys leaned in, eyes sharp, voices low but buzzing. They wanted this. Theyneededthis.
Jay’s bench was quiet, at least compared to the rest of us. Doc had just finished a final check, nodding slowly. Jay flexed his fingers, tested his knees, then gave me a look that said: “I’m cleared, but don’t expect me to go easy.” I didn’t.
Rhett was pacing near the lockers, spinning a puck with his stick, half-grin on his face, half-serious, fully dangerous. “They won’t know what hit them,” he said. “If Rylan opens his mouth, I’m gonna—” He let the sentence trail off in the way that made everyone in the room imagine exactly what would happen, and it made them laugh. Tension broken, energy higher.
I turned my attention to the screen above the benches. Wren’s face appeared on the close-circuit feed, crisp and commanding, smiling like a challenge as much as encouragement. Her voice was calm, measured, but every word struck like lightning. She was speaking directly to the team and the fans simultaneously, building fever pitch in the arena. They’d been streaming in for an hour already, the crowd growing louder with every second, chanting our name.
For a beat, I swore it felt like her sharp whiskey-colored eyes met mine for just a beat, and I felt that grounding pull—the same one she always gave me. Then she was off again, voice cutting through the roar:“This is your time, Howlers. Own it. Play hard. Play smart. Play for each other.”
I let the words sink in for the guys. They didn’t need me to translate. She didn’t just hype us up, she reminded us who we were.
Rhett leaned closer, voice low. “She’s terrifying and perfect at the same time.”
I didn’t answer. I only nodded, letting the focus settle. The adrenaline, the fire, and the noise were all fuel. Jay’s eyes flicked to me, a subtle smirk breaking through the tension. He was ready. So were we.
The arena was coming alive outside, and inside, our pack tightened. One heartbeat. One purpose. The finals were here.
The locker room emptied faster than I expected, the team moving toward the ice like predators on instinct. I followed last, giving a final glance to Jay, who was stretching deliberately,testing each muscle, each joint. His black hair fell into his eyes, but I didn’t need to see his face to know he was ready. Doc had cleared him, but the fire in those narrow eyes told me he’d push himself to the edge anyway.
Rhett was already at the far end of the rink, gliding lazy circles through his crease, stick flashing as he played keep-away with a couple of overconfident forwards who thought they could sneak one past him during warm-ups. He exaggerated every save—dramatic glove flashes, sprawling pad slides, even a mock slapshot clear that sent the puck ringing off the boards.
Even in warm-ups, he demanded attention.
His grin was wide, dimples flashing, but there was precision beneath the chaos. Every movement was deliberate. He knew exactly how to hype the team without breaking their focus.
“Come on, rookies!” Rhett called from the crease. “If you can’t beat me in warm-ups, you’re not scoring all night!”
It drew laughter and groans, but also sharpened something in the younger players. They started skating harder, shooting faster.
I stepped onto the ice, keeping my pace steady, deliberate. My eyes swept the rink, tracking lines, posture, tension. I spoke sparingly, correcting positioning with a tap of my stick or a shift of my shoulder. Leadership wasn’t loud—it was controlled, measured, and earned.
“Head up, Carter! Eyes wide! Don’t let them dictate the tempo!” I barked, and the forward adjusted instantly.
Rhett skated up to the edge of his crease as I passed, knocking his mask up with a laugh. “Steely glare, huh, Captain? Relax a little. You’ll scare the Vultures before they even make it to my net.”
I shot him a glance, flat and sharp. “They already think we’re weak if we laugh too much. Don’t give them reason to change their minds.”
He raised his hands, still grinning, but let it drop into the rhythm of the warm-up. That’s what made him invaluable. He could lift spirits without ever breaking the focus we needed.
I caught Jay weaving through drills, movements clean, careful, measured—but with that edge in his stride that said,don’t get in my way today. My shoulders relaxed just a fraction; the team was ready.
The Vultures’ presence was a weight even on the ice. I could feel the tension in every pass, every fake, every slapshot bouncing off the boards. The crowd’s energy had started to seep in, the chants and roars through the arena creating a pulse that mirrored ours. Every player was keyed in, but they fed off the electricity rather than letting it control them.
I took a deep breath, feeling Rhett’s easy confidence brushing against the edge of my focus, Jay’s steady intensity, the way our lines flowed together. Our team was cohesive. Fierce. Dangerous. That mattered more than anything the Vultures could throw at us.
RHETT
GAME 1
The Vultures skated onto the ice like they owned the place. Their lines were tight, their hits sharp, their eyes full of challenge. The adrenaline hit me like a punch, muscles coiling, heart thundering. This wasn’t a warm-up. This was war on ice, and I was the last line of defense.
The arena was alive, the fans already howling, the energy rolling over the boards and into the crease like electricity. I caught a flicker of Wren’s face on the overhead screens—calm, commanding, setting the crowd on fire—and instinctivelyscanned the stands toward where she’d be. That grounding pull, that tether to something beyond the rink, steadied me just enough to lock in harder.
Rylan was first. Of course it was Rylan. Former Howler, now Vulture, jaw set, eyes cold and sharp, a constant physical and mental threat. He crashed our zone with a sneer, throwing cheap shots, slashing sticks, crowding the net every chance he got. Every time he drifted into my crease, my blood boiled. He wasn’t just a rival—he was a problem I fully intended to shut down.
The puck dropped, and I went feral.
Every shot, every deflection, every ugly bounce across the blue paint was met with ruthless focus. My glove snapped up, my pads flared wide, my stick cutting angles before they even opened. I felt the ice under my skates, the thrum of the crowd behind me, the roar vibrating through my ribs. I was locked in. Nothing existed except puck, posts, and the relentless pressure of the Vultures.
