WREN
Game 3
The desert sun hammered down outside the arena, a dry heat that pressed against the glass and seemed to seep into the stands, carrying the same hostility we’d feel the second they stepped on the ice. I tightened my grip on the tablet, scrolling through stats, updates, and last-minute adjustments while the crowd built into a roar, the air thick with anticipation. The Vultures had a chip on their shoulder, and we needed to feed it right back to them.
From the moment the puck dropped, it was clear that the brutality from the first two games was about to be amped up considerably. Every pass, every shot, every check carried the weight of revenge, and I could feel the Howlers responding in kind. Jay was everywhere, moving with the precision and composure that made him a cornerstone, threading plays, setting up shots.
Then it happened. A blindside hit from Rylan, like he’d been waiting for the exact moment, sent Jay sprawling into the boards. My stomach dropped.
The bench erupted immediately. Rhett shot halfway up the ice before he had to be physically restrained, growling like a predator. Roan’s hand on his shoulder brought him back, the calm authority cutting through the surge of anger. I took a deep breath, forcing my own pulse to steady. Focus. The team needed me right here, right now, not lost in worry.
Jay was grimacing, but the doc had cleared him as day-to-day, no complications from the previous concussion. He’d shake it off. I kept my eyes on him anyway, tracking every shift, every touch of the puck. I could see the fire in his dark eyes whenever he got close, the controlled beta energy keeping him in the game despite the pain.
Late in the third, everything came together. Roan exploded into Rylan with a hit that shook the ice. Thunderous. Primal. Pure captain energy. The arena went wild—Howlers fans were in the house—and the energy surged down the bench as the puck slid to Jay, who buried the go-ahead goal with effortless precision.
The final buzzer sounded, and we had it. Howlers 5 – Vultures 3.
Relief and adrenaline mixed into a potent rush, but I stayed sharp. Jay’s injury had me on edge the whole game, but the doc confirmed, again, post game that it remained minor. I exhaled, letting my shoulders relax just a fraction, eyes still tracking the team as they celebrated on the ice.
The win felt hard-earned. The Vultures had come at us with everything, and we’d responded, not just with skill, but with focus, composure, and the pack mentality that bound us together. I smiled briefly, quietly, letting the sense of control and connection settle over me.
This wasn’t just about the wins. It was about keeping them safe, keeping them steady, and making sure we were ready for whatever came next.
In the series, we led two to one.
Chapter
Thirty-Eight
WREN
TWO-DAY BREAK – SATURDAY & SUNDAY
The hotel room felt like a furnace. I could feel my body gradually descending into heat again, a slow, insistent tide beneath the scent blockers. Every breath, every movement of Roan, Rhett, or Jay amplified the pull. Even in the empty hotel corridor, I sensed Rylan’s presence like a predator’s ghost, teasing the edges of my restraint.
I layered blockers constantly, drank cold water obsessively, and excused myself often from communal areas. Roan noticed. The subtle brush of his hand when I shifted, the barely-there check-in across the room. It helped. Jay stayed professional but close, a quiet anchor. Rhett, seemingly oblivious in his cheerful stubbornness, occasionally bumped me in passing, and I suppressed a shiver that had nothing to do with the temperature.
Alone in my room, journal open, I wrote:
This heat will be as brutal as the last. I will make it through the Finals. I will survive. I will support them. I am not prey.
Game 4 – Tuesday (Home)
Home again. The arena smelled of ice polish and primal tension. My blockers were holding, barely, and every goal, every hard hit, every surge of alpha aggression made me acutely aware of my own body’s state.
I stayed near the bench, clipboard in hand, scanning. I was ready to intercept the press and to answer any questions.
“Wren,” Roan said, leaning slightly toward me, jaw tight, protective. “Keep eyes on the lines. Watch Rylan on the first shift, he’s circling.”
“Already on it,” I murmured, masking the faint tremor of my pulse in my voice.
Rylan’s gaze found me repeatedly. I could feel it, slicing through the blockers, a silent challenge. Every time he came near during pregame media scrums, Roan’s shoulder brushed mine, subtle, protective.
The game itself was brutal. Rhett was outstanding, but Rylan capitalized on a defensive lapse, scoring twice. My body screamed beneath the layers of control, but I stayed grounded, focused on the team, not on the pull I felt toward either Alpha.
Final Score: Vultures 3 – Howlers 0. Series tied at 2–2.
I left the arena exhausted, the pre-heat gnawing at my muscles, my mind still racing from Rylan’s provocations and the intensity of the physical play.
