“No,” she admitted. “But I will be.”

  Closing the distance, I pressed my forehead to hers. “We’re right behind you.”

  Her hands curled in my shirt, just for a second. Just long enough.

  “I know,” she whispered. Then, just like always, she pulled herself together. Straightened her spine. Smoothed her expression. Composed, she headed out of the medwing on a direct course for the press room like she was going to war.

  Because she was.

  And damn if I didn’t love her for it.

  The thought hit with the weight of a freight train and the gentleness of a whisper. No fanfare. No dramatic revelation. Just truth—solid and steady in my chest like it had always been there, just waiting for me to stop trying to explain it away.

  I loved her.

  Not the idea of her. Not just the fierce firebrand who could command a room, or the woman who’d tangled herself in my sheets and scent.

  I loved the way she carried the weight of the team without complaint. The way she reached for Jay’s hand when she thought no one was looking. The way she spoke Rhett’s language in jokes and sideways glances and never tried to rein him in, only anchored him.

  The way she looked at me like I was both her shield and her soft place to fall.

  And yeah, I realized I’d been in love with her for a long damn time. Maybe since before she even knew what she meant to us.

  Maybe since before I did.

  So I stood there in the quiet left behind, watching her disappear down the corridor, heels sharp on concrete, hair catching in the harsh light, already halfway into her next battle—and I knew with unshakable certainty, whatever came next, however far this went...

  She was it for me. Always had been. Absorbing that knowledge, I blew out a breath then stopped wasting time.

  Threw on a clean team polo, tugged off the pads and gear with the kind of speed I usually saved for third period tie-breakers. Barely took a second to wipe the sweat off my face, and splash water on the back of my neck.

  There wasn’t a bruise on my body that mattered more than being close enough to see her hold that line.

  Because Wren was out there, already fielding questions, already shielding Jay from rumors and controlling the narrative with that deceptively calm voice and those razor-sharp eyes. Even if she didn’t need backup, and she never looked toward the wings once—I needed to be there.

  Not as a captain. Not for the team. For her.

  So I slipped into the media gallery, off to the side where the spotlight didn’t quite hit. Arms crossed. Jaw tight. Watching.

  God, she was already in motion and absolutely stunning. Standing at the podium, headset on, crisp blouse under her jacket, a Howlers pin gleaming silver at her collarbone. That cool, clear voice projected across the room like she was commanding an entire battalion.

  “Jay Kim’s condition is stable,” she said evenly, eyes scanning the sea of reporters. “He was evaluated on-site, and our medical staff, under Doctor Halvorsen’s direction, made the call to transfer him for further observation. No official statement on his return will be made until that evaluation is complete.”

  A hand went up from someone in local press—Salazar. Always fishing. “Is it true he was unconscious for over a minute? Is this a potential season-ending injury?”

  Her eyes narrowed by a degree. “I won’t speculate on a player’s health when the final call belongs to a physician. But I will say this: Jay Kim is one of the strongest athletes I’ve ever had the privilege of working with. If there’s a way for him to come back this season, he’ll find it.”

  Clean. Calm. But there was steel under every word. The room knew it too, because the usual murmurs were replaced by scribbling pens and the sharp click of keyboards.

  Another voice cut in, this one was national press, maybe even league-affiliated. “There’s speculation the injury was avoidable. That it stemmed from the Howlers’ aggressive formations this series. Is the team playing too recklessly?”

  My jaw ticked, and my arms tensed, but Wren didn’t so much as blink.

  “Physical play is a part of the sport,” she said, “and if anyone is suggesting that players should hold back in the playoffs, then I’d question whether they’ve ever actually watched a game. The Howlers are aggressive. But we are not reckless. We are trained. Tactical. Committed.”

  She paused, then added, “If there’s concern about recklessness, I’d suggest reviewing the tape of the hit that took Jay down. Because my concern isn’t our style, it’s that a deliberate charge like that wasn’t flagged.”

  A ripple moved through the room. She’d done it. Turned the question inside out without even breaking stride.

  That was the moment she glanced up, just for a second. She didn’t say my name or nod, but my awareness of her hummed and climbed up a notch as she found me in the shadows and stayed on me.

  That look grounded me. Hit deep and true like my knot when I’d taken her. I was exactly where I wanted to be—here for her.

  Chapter

  Thirty-Four

  WREN

  It was late—so late the streets felt half-dreamed—when Roan pulled the SUV up in front of my house. The hum of the engine died, leaving only the faint tick of cooling metal and the low hiss of the wind. Jay had been quiet most of the drive, slouched against the window, the soft rhythm of his breathing just uneven enough to keep me glancing over at him.

  The doctors had said his concussion was serious but not dangerous. Clean scans, steady vitals. They’d kept him longer than he liked, of course, poking and shining lights in his eyes, asking the same questions over and over. He’d answered them with that same lazy charm that fooled no one, least of all me. He was hurting, but trying not to show it.

  Rhett followed behind us in my car, headlights a steady presence in the mirror. We’d all agreed it made more sense that way—Roan and I had driven separately, but there was no way I wasn’t riding home with Jay. After everything that night, I needed to see him safely through my front door, into my house, into a bed that wasn’t sterile and white and humming with machines.

  We’d won the third game. The Howlers were advancing. The finals were close enough to taste. But none of that mattered with Jay having gone down. The arena seemed almost preternaturally too quiet, when his body had gone limp on the ice. Even now, hours later, the image made my stomach twist.

  As Roan slowed to park at the curb, I caught the flicker of flashbulbs—brief, sharp bursts that turned the night electric. My pulse spiked. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” I muttered. “Who the hell⁠—”

  “Press,” Roan said flatly. His jaw was already tightening. “They must’ve been waiting since the hospital release.”

  “Roan, I’ve got it.” I reached for the door handle, but he shot me a look—alpha calm over alpha fury.

  “Your job is to protect the team,” he said, voice low and even. “My job is to protect you.”

  Before I could argue, he was out of the car, shutting the door behind him and cutting across the street like a wall of intent. Cameras flared, voices rose—sharp, fast questions about Jay’s condition, the team’s odds, my supposed relationship status. Roan didn’t raise his voice, didn’t even have to. His presence alone was enough to make most of them backpedal.

  From inside the car, the world out there looked almost cinematic—Roan standing there, broad shoulders blocking the glare, the press retreating with muttered complaints. Rhett pulling my car in behind us, lights going off, and I could already picture his expression when he saw the scene. Roan was right to get out first. He’d have words otherwise, and none of them gentle.

  Jay stirred beside me, blinking awake. The movement was slow, like surfacing from deep water.

  “Hey,” I said softly. “Home.”

  He looked around, then smiled—a hint of teasing in his warmth despite the pain visible around the corners of his eyes, and so him. “Home,” he echoed. “Good word.”

  I wanted to reach for him, but I didn’t. Not yet. He was still pale, and his pupils—though finally even—made me ache to check again.

  Jay exhaled, shoulders sinking. “You know, I could’ve handled a little press. Given them my good side.”

  I gave him a sidelong look. “You don’t have a good side right now. You look like you wrestled a brick wall.”

  “Won, though,” he murmured, smiling again.

  I shook my head but couldn’t help returning it. “Barely.”

  He was still grinning when he said, voice quiet but sure, “At least this story has a fun ending.”

  I arched a brow. “Does it?”

  His grin widened, dimple flashing even through the exhaustion. “Yeah. I get to sleep with you tonight.”

  I rolled my eyes, heat creeping up my neck despite myself. “You’re concussed.”

  “Still true.”

  He leaned back, eyes closing again, a small, satisfied smile on his lips. Blowing out a breath, it felt like I was releasing my first real exhale in hours.

  Outside, the flashes stopped. Roan had sent them off, likely with a warning look designed to keep them away. No matter what, we’d be the story. And I’d deal with it when I had to. The press wasn’t the important one right now.

  When the last car pulled away, Roan came to open the back door to help Jay. The fact Jay didn’t argue was all the confirmation I needed that he was hurting way more than he was saying.

  I hurried ahead to the front door, keys trembling a little in my hand as I fumbled with the lock. Behind me, I could hear Roan murmuring to Jay, steady and patient, while Rhett’s footsteps crunched up the walkway.

  The door finally gave, swinging open on the soft scent of home—cedar, laundry detergent, something faintly floral from the unlit scented candles in the living room. I flipped on the entry light just as Roan and Rhett came in, Jay’s arms slung over their shoulders, his feet dragging a little.

  “Upstairs,” I said quietly. “My room.”

  They nodded without question, the three of them moving in practiced sync, like they’d done this a hundred times before—though never quite like this. I led the way, every creak of the staircase feeling amplified in the stillness of the hour.

  When we reached my room, I turned down the covers and helped guide Jay to the edge of the bed. Rhett set his hand briefly on Jay’s shoulder, eyes scanning him with quiet worry.

  “I’ll grab water,” he said. “And the pain meds.”

  “Thanks,” I said, and he disappeared down the hall.

  Jay groaned softly as I knelt in front of him, fingers working at the buttons of his shirt. “There are easier ways to get me in bed, you know,” he murmured, that crooked half-grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.

  I couldn’t help the answering smile that curved mine. “Who asked for easy?”

  He laughed, low, rough, and a little pained. The sound hit me straight in the chest. When I helped him out of his shirt, then eased him down to his boxers, he didn’t protest. He just looked at me, eyes soft, dark, and full of that quiet affection that always seemed to undo me.

  “Don’t get any ideas,” I said, cupping his cheek with one hand. His skin was warm beneath my palm, his lashes heavy with exhaustion. “You need to get better first.”

  He turned his face slightly into my hand, that faint, dizzy smile still there. “I already am better,” he whispered. “’Cause I’m here.”

  Before I could respond, Rhett came back in carrying a glass of water and a couple of pills. “Doctor-approved,” he said, handing them over.

  Jay managed to take them without complaint, then sank back against the pillow, out cold almost before I’d pulled the blanket up over him. I brushed a hand through his hair once, gently, before stepping back.

  Roan and Rhett both lingered near the doorway, their postures saying what their words didn’t. Neither of them wanted to leave.

  I sighed softly. “The bed’s not big enough for all of us.”

  “I’ll take the couch,” Rhett offered immediately, already halfway to the hall.

  “You could use the guest room,” I pointed out. “It’s more comfortable.”

  “Yeah,” he said with a small smile. “Alright.”

  Roan didn’t move, though. His gaze stayed on me, steady, assessing. “I’m staying in here,” he said simply.

  “I figured,” I murmured.

  Before the silence could thicken, I stepped forward and wrapped an arm around each of them. “Congratulations, by the way,” I said, my voice roughening with emotion I’d been holding back since the rink. “You guys played your hearts out tonight.”

  Rhett gave a soft huff of laughter, squeezing me back. “Wouldn’t have it any other way.”

  When I started to shake, it took me a second to realize it was happening. The adrenaline, the fear, the relief—it all hit at once, leaving me trembling in their arms. Roan pulled me tighter against his chest, solid and grounding, while Rhett closed in behind me, his chest blanketing me in warmth from the contact.

  I was caught between them, surrounded by strength and safety, and for the first time since Jay went down, I let myself cry.

  The tears came hot and quiet, hidden against Roan’s shirt. Neither of them said anything, and they didn’t need to. The only sounds were the slow rhythm of their breathing and the faint, steady heartbeat pressed against my ear.

  For a few minutes, that was enough.

  The house had gone still after Rhett settled across the hall. I could hear the faint creak of the floorboards, the distant rush of water from the guest bathroom’s sink, and then nothing but the soft sound of Jay’s breathing.

  Roan stood near the door a moment longer, watching Jay with that steady, protective focus of his. Then, when he seemed satisfied that our beta was truly asleep, he returned his attention to me.

  “Go get ready,” he said quietly. “I’ll stay with him.”

  There was no arguing with that tone. There rarely was.

  I nodded, slipping into the bathroom for a fast shower to wash away the last of the night from the scent of the hospital to the sting of fear I’d been carrying. By the time I came out, face damp, hair loose and brushed, Roan was at the edge of the bed, kicking off his boots and pulling his shirt over his head.

  The sight of him, all solid lines and quiet restraint, did something to the remaining tremor in me. He didn’t say anything—just folded his clothes neatly, the motion unhurried, grounded, like he was doing it as much for me as for himself.

  “Get in,” he said softly, once I hesitated near the bed.

  I did. The mattress dipped beneath my weight, the warmth of Jay’s sleeping form nearby comforting in its own right.

  “I’ll be right back,” Roan said, pressing a kiss to my head. Then he vanished into the bathroom. One fast shower later, he was back, sliding in behind me, his bare skin brushing mine as he settled. The contact made me inhale sharply, not out of surprise, but because it felt safe. Like my body finally believed we were home.

  He rested a hand at my waist, not possessive—grounding. My faint trembling hadn’t stopped completely, but the steady rise and fall of his chest against my back helped slow it.

  “Talk to me,” he murmured after a long silence.

  “I’m okay,” I whispered. “Mostly.”

  “That’s not what I asked.”

  I smiled faintly. “You never actually asked anything.”

  He huffed out something close to a laugh. “Fair. Then let me try again.” His thumb traced a slow, absent line over my hip. “You dazzled me tonight, cool, competent, in control as always and you stepped in front of the press in their feeding frenzy like the damn champ you are.”

  A smile tugged at my lips. “That’s the job.” My smile faded as a small shudder rippled over me. “Jay scared the hell out of me.”

  He didn’t deny it. Just breathed out and pressed his forehead briefly to the back of my shoulder. “Yeah.”

  The warmth in my throat caught for a second. “I’m tougher than I look.”

  “I know that,” he said, voice low, almost reverent. “That’s half the problem.”

  For a while, we just listened to Jay’s soft breathing and the wind brushing the windowpanes. The world outside felt far away—the arena lights, the noise, the cameras.

  “We’ve got a day,” I said after a while. “Before we know who we’re facing next.”

  “Then we rest,” Roan murmured. “When the time comes, we fight like hell again.”

  “That’s the plan.”

  He was quiet, long enough that I thought maybe he’d fallen asleep. But then his hand tightened gently at my waist, grounding me again.

  “Wren,” he said, and I could hear the shift in his tone—the careful edge that meant he was thinking too much, weighing his words. “After all this—after the playoffs are done, win or lose—can we talk?”

  “Talk,” I echoed softly.

  “About this.” His breath brushed the back of my neck. “You and me. The guys. Figure it out.”

  The words wanted to be a request, but the way they came out—steady, certain, laced with command—made it something else entirely. Typical Roan. Trying to ask, and still leading.

  The funny thing was, I didn’t mind. Not even a little. Because Roan was doing his best for me. For us.

  “Yeah,” I whispered, turning my head enough to catch his gaze over my shoulder. “We can talk.”

  His eyes softened, something like relief passing through them. “Good,” he said quietly. Then, almost under his breath, “I just need to know we’re not losing this too.”

  I reached down, finding his hand and threading my fingers through his. “You’re not,” I told him. “We’ll figure it out.”

  He pressed a kiss to the curve of my shoulder, simple and sure, before his hold on me eased just enough to let me breathe again.

  Within minutes, Roan’s breathing evened out completely, following Jay into sleep. As tired as I was, I stayed awake a little longer, feeling the steady weight of them both there—one beside me, one behind me—three hearts still beating after everything that night had thrown at us.