Ronan adds, with the precise, devastating timing of a man delivering a punchline he has been constructing since arrival: "Do you know he actually says that in his sleep? Heard him on the couch muttering it. Three times. 'Wildcard... Wildcard... Wildcard.' Like a lullaby he was singing to himself."
My eyes widen.
The involuntary dilation that occurs when the body receives information it was not prepared for and the brain requiresadditional visual bandwidth to process the implications. I turn my head slowly toward the twins, the rotation carrying the controlled, menacing precision of a man whose glare has been sharpened by years of practice and is now being deployed at its maximum setting.
They shut up.
Immediately. The laughter cutting off mid-syllable, replaced by a sudden, intense commitment to whistling that is so transparently guilty it might as well be accompanied by a neon sign reading WE REGRET NOTHING BUT WISH TO SURVIVE.
Sage looks at me.
Her green eyes carrying the specific, delighted curiosity of a woman who has received intelligence about my unconscious behavior and intends to weaponize it.
"Why are you saying my name in your sleep, huh?" She tilts her head, the helmet wobbling. "I rebuke it."
"They're lying." The denial exits at a speed that undermines its credibility. "And second, I can say whatever I want in my sleep. What are you going to do about it? Sleepwalk into my room?"
She hisses. Her skate blade stamping the ice with the emphatic, percussive force of a woman punctuating her outrage through footwear.
"I did NOT sleepwalk into YOUR room!"
I laugh. The sound genuine and warm and carrying the specific, infuriating amusement that I produce when Sage denies a reality I personally witnessed.
"You don't even remember! You were asleep!"
"S-S-S-SOOOOOOO!" The stutter erupts before her composure can intercept it, the syllable repeating in rapid fire before elongating into a vowel that stretches across the ice like a verbal banner. "I know! I'm fucking confident!"
"Yeah, confident my ass." I tilt my head, matching her angle. "You're stuttering."
"From the ALPHA CAPTAIN who was FULL ON CUDDLING ME!"
The arena receives this information with the collective, silent inhale of fifteen hockey players who have just been provided with details about their captain's sleeping arrangements that their captain did not authorize for distribution.
My face ignites.
The blush arrives with the instantaneous, comprehensive coverage that I have spent my entire adult life training my facial muscles to prevent and that this woman has rendered impossible through the simple mechanism of being louder than my composure can contain.
I narrow my eyes. Even behind the contacts that replaced my glasses for practice, the expression carries its full diagnostic weight.
"I do NOT cuddle."
"Yeah, the fuck right you do!" she fires back, her voice climbing in both volume and conviction with each syllable. "Arms around my waist! Face in my hair! Full-body, championship-level, gold-medal spooning that would make a weighted blanket jealous! Don't you DARE stand on this ice and tell me you don't cuddle when I woke up pinned to your chest like a throw pillow you were afraid someone was going to steal!"
I growl. The sound low, involuntary, vibrating in my chest with the designation-specific frequency that my vocal cords produce when an Alpha's territorial instincts are activated and his rational mind has temporarily lost the administrative password required to override them.
"I will legit put a camera in my room so I can catch your ass sleepwalking into my space."
"It's OUR space!" She jabs a finger toward me, the gloved digit pointed at my chest with prosecutorial precision. "Because YOU said I can sleep in YOUR bed! So who's in the wrong now, HUH?!"
We are snarling at one another. The distance between our faces reduced to inches that neither of us closed deliberately but that the escalation has been eliminating in increments, each volley bringing us closer through the unconscious geometry of two people whose bodies interpret confrontation as an excuse for proximity.
The twins sigh.
In unison. The synchronized exhalation carrying the specific, affectionate exasperation of two men who have been watching this performance with the patience of a theater audience and have decided the intermission has lasted long enough.
"Damn." Rowan shakes his head. "Just go fuck in the locker room and come back later."
We turn.
