Rylan tried again, barreling into one of our defensemen, then drifting too close to my crease like he wanted a reaction. I didn’t even blink—dropped low, smothered the puck, and let my pads shove him back just enough to make the point. He spat something sharp at me as he peeled away, and my gloves tightened around my stick.
Oh, it was personal now.
Roan was everywhere, controlling lanes, directing traffic, blocking shots like a man built for war. I tracked him mid-pass to Jay, their timing perfect, rehearsed, lethal. My focus snapped back to the slot just as Rylan charged again—I cut the angle and swallowed the shot before it even had a chance.
No goals today. Not on my watch.
Late in the third, tied 2–2, the tension was a living thing. Every save I made punched through the crowd, the chantsfeeding straight into my bloodstream. Then Roan threaded a perfect pass to Jay, and he buried it.
The bench exploded.
I slammed my glove into the post and pumped a fist, letting the roar wash over me. Controlled chaos. Statement made.
Final: Howlers 3 – Vultures 2.
Series: Howlers lead 1–0.
As I skated toward the bench, still breathing like I’d just survived something feral, my eyes flicked back to the overheads—Wren’s calm, commanding face still there, still fueling the crowd. Roan gave me a quiet nod. Jay was grinning, shaking his head at my running commentary and muttered threats about Rylan.
And me?
I leaned on my stick and muttered, just loud enough for the nearest forwards to hear,
“Come at me, Rylan. You’re not getting past this crease again.”
Home ice.
Team intact.
Net locked down.
We were going to slaughter them.
JAY
Game 2
The roar of the crowd was different today—edgier, louder, as if they knew we were walking into a storm. Coming off last night’s win, the energy should have been electric, but Roan’s focus kept it tethered, grounded. He moved among us like a lighthouse, quiet but unyielding, making sure we didn’t ride the high too far. I leaned into it, inhaled the rhythm of the locker room, letting my beta nature keep the guys centered.Calm, composed—ruthless when the puck dropped. That was me today.
Warmups were charged. I skated through the drills, eyes forward, hands tight on my stick. Then I saw him. Beckett Rylan. Circling where Wren stood talking to the press near the ice, during the warmups, visor down, smirk sharp, a predator marking territory. My jaw tightened. I felt more than saw Roan’s gaze flare across the ice before it settled back into his composed stare. I needed no warning. Rylan wanted to get a rise out of Roan. This was going to be brutal.
All too soon, the puck dropped. Game on.
Rhett owned the crease. He was a wall—unshakable. Every shot found him, every rebound he controlled. Thirty-nine saves, each one keeping our lead alive. I was moving like a shadow, threading passes, driving the net, staying deadly calm in the middle of chaos. I could feel Roan’s temper simmering under the surface, could see the mental calculation behind every movement, every check.
Then, it broke.
A sloppy rebound snuck past Rhett late in the game. One. Two. The Vultures pounced, exploiting every turnover, shutting down our top line. I kept my cool, let the frustration roll through me, tucked it into the cold efficiency of my skating. Stay composed. Stay lethal. That was the only way forward.
Midway through the second, the inevitable happened. Roan and Rylan dropped gloves in center ice. Savage. Personal. Primal. It was so beyond Roan’s normal behavior, the feral buzz set the arena onfireas well as the team. Every swing, every shove, every collision carried old grudges, unspoken history and justrawfury. I stayed low, watching, ready to move, letting the fight unfold as it had to.
Rhett faced forty shots by the final buzzer. Forty. He kept us in the game longer than we deserved at times, but the relentless pressure finally cracked the wall.
Final: Vultures 4 – Howlers 1. Series tied 1–1. Roan got a game misconduct and a fine. We left the ice simmering, the sting of defeat raw. The Vultures had come out with intent and executed, exploiting every weakness. But I didn’t panic. Calm. Composed. Determined.
We’d bounce back.
We always did.
