Game 5 – Thursday (Home)
Morning brought a dull ache and sharp awareness. My pre-heat had peaked overnight. I knew my blockers wouldn’t fully mask me this time. Every breath carried a tremor of scent, but I forced calm.
“Good morning, Wren,” Jay said, bumping into me in the hallway. His shoulder taped tight, he smiled.
“Hey Jay,” I said, forcing a neutral smile and not letting myself react. I wanted their focus on the ice and not on me. I could do this for them.
The arena roared. I stayed near the press area, clipboard always at the ready. Roan’s eyes flicked toward me occasionally—vigilant, silent—but I met none of his glances directly, keeping professional distance. Rhett and Jay were visibly fatigued, and Jay’s movements were careful. He protected his shoulder.
Rylan prowled near the press area, smirk curling. I felt the predator scent brush past me despite blockers, heart jumping.
The Howlers played brutally smart. Roan blocked Rylan’s attempts at disruption; Rhett’s saves were flawless. Jay pushed through pain, assisting the game-winning goal late in the third. I exhaled quietly, coating myself in blockers mid-game, muttering under my breath:Stay in control. This is not about you.
Final: Howlers 2 – Vultures 0. Series: Howlers lead 3–2.
Game 6 – Saturday (Away, Elimination Game)
The hotel room was stifling. Every sound, every shift in the locker room made my senses flare. My heat was fully active now, subtle but undeniable. Roan, Rhett, and Jay moved around me with silent awareness, protective but respectful, anchors against the storm inside me.
Rylan arrived early, lingering near the press entrance. His Alpha scent teased me, testing the limits of my restraint. I layered blockers, paced, sipped cold water, and journaled quietly:You will survive. You will support them.
The game was a physical war. Rylan was everywhere, aggressive, taking every opportunity to test Jay’s shoulder and Roan’s patience. Rhett’s saves were miraculous, holding them in the game. Jay endured punishing hits but still contributed. I hovered near the bench, using every ounce of willpower to suppress instinctive reactions to both Rylan’s presence and the draw I felt toward my pack.
Final buzzer had the series at Howlers 3 – Vultures 3 (forcing Game 7). My knees weakened slightly with relief and exhaustion, but I stayed upright, masking every tremor.
Game 7 – Monday (Home, Championship Decider)
The arena vibrated with tension, scent of ice and competition thick in the air. My blockers barely held. Rylan prowled, leaningsubtly in my direction, calculating, Alpha instincts teasing me. My pulse raced.
The game was a brutal chess match. Roan and Rylan collided repeatedly, hits echoing across the ice. Rhett made incredible saves, Jay pushed past shoulder pain, and Jay moved with careful precision.
Every time Roan took a hit, my instincts flared, protective and primal. I caught his eye across the ice. An unspoken understanding passed between us: we would survive this, together.
Late in the third period, the Howlers executed a perfect play. Roan’s defensive block led to a rebound, Jay tapped it in. The crowd erupted. I clamped my hand over my mouth, suppressing a gasp as my blockers nearly failed from the intensity of the moment and the surge of my heat.
Final: Howlers 3 – Vultures 2. Series: Howlers win 4–3.Champions.
Post-Game / Locker Room & Press
The locker room reeked of sweat, blood, and celebration. Roan immediately came to me, brushing a strand of hair from my face.
“You did great,” I told him, then swept my gaze to each of them. “All of you did. It was—amazing.” I was so damn proud of them. Beating the Vultures had been as much about the team as it had been personal. If nothing else, they’d served Beckett Rylan his ass and giving Marchand a reason toneverlet that prick back on our team.
All I had to do was make sure that remained the case. I left the locker room before I could be persuaded to stay even asecond longer. Even with blockers on my scent, close quarters with them were going to reveal the need.
I stepped up to the podium, the weight of the Apex Trophy Finals finally behind us, though the temperature in the room reminded me how close we had come to losing it all. The press had already begun their questions, cameras flashing, recorders buzzing.
My pulse was steady, but my mind wandered to the last moments of Game 7 — to Roan limping off the ice, the rookie forward who had buried the winning rebound, and Jay smiling through pain, his taped shoulder a testament to sheer determination.
“Wren, congratulations,” one reporter began. “How does it feel to see the Howlers lift the Cup?”
I cleared my throat. “It’s surreal. Every single player left everything on the ice. Whittaker led with heart, Rhett Navarro was incredible in net, and even the guys like Jay Kim fighting through their injuries showed why this team is special.”
Another hand shot up. “There were some particularly heated moments between Roan Whittaker and Beckett Rylan this series. How did that affect the team?”
I paused, letting my gaze sweep the room before landing on a shadow near the back. Beckett Rylan sat there, arms crossed, expression unreadable. My stomach clenched. I hadn’t expected him to attend, maybe I should have. Still, I refused to give him the privilege of my reaction and kept my voice steady.
“Their rivalry is… part of the narrative of this series,” I said carefully. “But the Howlers stayed focused on the game. It was about the team, not any personal vendettas.”
