“You’re welcome,” Rhett said with a wicked grin warming his expression. His honey brown skin held a glow in the morning sun, but nowhere near as much as the glee shining in his brown eyes.

  Roan’s shoulders shifted like he was trying not to laugh. It didn’t work. He turned away, the corner of his mouth betraying him.

  Without missing a beat, I smiled sweetly as Rhett took a deep drink of his coffee, probably as much to taunt Jay as to enjoy the caffeine himself, then said, “Thank you for volunteering our time later for Jay. I want him to orgasm as much as he needs.”

  Rhett sputtered coffee so violently it almost came out his nose. Roan outright laughed this time—low and rich—and my poor Jay looked like he was regretting every decision that had led to this conversation.

  “Guess I walked into that one,” Rhett said, wiping his chin with a napkin, still grinning.

  “Walked? You strutted,” I shot back.

  “Alright, fine.” He held up his hands in mock surrender. “I’ll be good.”

  “Doubtful,” Jay muttered, taking his pills with a swallow of water.

  We made quick work of unpacking the food, the clatter of dishes and easy ribbing filling the quiet corners of the kitchen. It felt… good. Comfortable, like something we’d all been pretending we didn’t need until it was right here in front of us.

  When we finally sat down, Roan caught my hand before I could take a seat. With a single tug, he pulled me down onto his lap instead. His arm settled around my waist, heavy and warm, his nose brushing just beneath my jaw in a lazy kiss that sent a shiver down my spine.

  His eyes—steel-gray and intent—held mine. “Mind if we share you this morning,” he asked softly, “or would you rather sit on a hard chair?”

  I snorted. “As opposed to your hard thighs?”

  It was Jay who nearly choked this time, on his orange juice. Rhett thumped the table, laughing outright.

  Mouth curving, Roan met my gaze entirely unrepentant. “Hard muscle and hard wood are totally different things.”

  “Lucky for you,” I said, leaning back against him with a smirk, “I’ve got experience with both.”

  Rhett let out a low whistle. Jay groaned again—but this time, there was laughter under it.

  Just like that, the morning light turned a little warmer. The pain and chaos of the night before faded beneath the hum of connection, messy, imperfect, but real.

  I rotated from Roan’s lap to Jay’s side mid-bite, teasing Rhett with a wink as I balanced a forkful of scrambled eggs. The coffee steamed between my fingers, the rich smell mingling with the buttery scent of croissants and the faint tang of orange juice.

  “Careful,” Rhett said, leaning forward to snag a bite from my plate. “You’re making me hungry and distracted.”

  “Good,” I said, sliding onto Roan’s lap again. “That’s the point.”

  Jay snorted beside me, reaching for his glass, while Roan kept his arm snug around my waist. We laughed, joked, rotated seating, passed food back and forth. It was lazy, easy, and for a brief time, completely ours.

  Then my phone buzzed on the counter and I popped up to grab it. The screen flashed Marchand’s name.

  “Oh, hell,” I muttered.

  Roan’s gaze flicked to me, steel-gray eyes unreadable, while Rhett leaned back, eyebrows lifting. Jay’s dark gaze narrowed in a mix of curiosity and anticipation.

  “Marchand?” I answered, lifting the phone.

  “Wren!” His voice was sharp, electric, laced with anger—but also that gleeful undertone that always made my teeth grit with excitement. “I don’t even know how the game went into overtime! And now the league decides after the fact?”

  I could practically see him pacing. “It’s gone all the way to the Vultures. Can you believe it? The audacity.”

  And then that undertone, that almost feral thrill he always had when there was a chance to annihilate a rival team—well, it slithered through the phone line like liquid fire. “I want the fans whipped into a frenzy. I want the Howlers howling while I’m speaking. You’re on press duty—now.”

  I inhaled, steadying my voice as my fingers tapped out notes in the air. “Understood. I’ll get the messaging out.”

  Marchand let out a bark of approval. “Good. Don’t waste a second. The next ten days are going to be vicious unless the Howlers lock down four wins immediately—best of seven. I don’t want excuses, Wren.”

  I exhaled into the phone. “No excuses here.”

  As I spoke, I felt their eyes on me, the three men in my dining room. Every so often, one of their phones buzzed. Likely Coach. Jay’s lips pressed into a thin line as he read whatever popped up. Rhett’s dimples flickered with restrained amusement at a text, and Roan’s calm demeanor didn’t falter, but I knew he had already scanned the alert before I even noticed.

  The air was charged already from the warmth of breakfast, the sunlight, and the feel of their bodies pressing into mine. But that same air now went electric as it pulsed with strategy, stakes, and the knowledge that the next ten days weren’t going to be gentle.

  “Alright, Marchand,” I said, my tone tight and professional now, though my body hummed from breakfast and the morning’s playfulness. “Fans are about to get very excited. And you’ll have the Howlers behind you all the way.”

  “Good,” he growled, and the line went dead.

  I set my phone down, letting out a slow breath. The playful chaos of our morning hadn’t vanished, just… shifted. Now the work was about to hit, full force. I had three very patient, very aware men here to keep me grounded, entertained, and maybe a little dangerously distracted.

  I set my coffee down, finally letting myself acknowledge the truth I’d been skirting all morning. They couldn’t be a distraction for me, and I didn’t need to be one for them. Not now. Not with the Vultures breathing down our necks. Especially Rylan. That bastard had an axe to grind, and the rest of his team wasn’t far behind.

  Roan sighed softly, just once, but it was enough to make me glance at him. He wasn’t tense, at least not outwardly. Yet the quiet weight in his shoulders told me he had already begun bracing himself. Rhett scowled at my words, muttering creatively about every slight Rylan had ever inflicted, and even Jay, usually sharp with his humor, gave a slow, deliberate nod. The pain around his eyes had eased, but he was still fragile. I knew him well enough to recognize the subtle twitch of restraint he used to keep from moving too soon. But if he sensed even a hint of weakness in the team, he’d be on the ice.

  And they needed Roan focused. I could see him already steeling himself, setting aside his personal wants, his desires. The captain the Howlers needed, not the man I wanted to press against in moments like these. That ability to hold himself apart from his own urges. It was one of the things I loved most about him. Despite Rhett’s bitching, which was relentless, loud, and increasingly creative about Rylan and the rest of the Vultures, no doubt existed within me that he would back Roan’s plays every step of the way.

  Jay’s voice broke through my thoughts, quiet but firm. “Your work starts now.”

  I offered him a small smile, the warmth softening the tension. “Yes,” I said, “but you can still stay here…”

  Both Roan and Rhett raised their brows, amused, incredulous, maybe even slightly scandalized. I grinned. “All of you can.”

  They knew, though. Once the finals started, this cozy, messy, sunlight-filled breakfast, this teasing and laughing and leaning on each other, would have to be put on hold. Their focus would need to be absolute. I wouldn’t pressure them, wouldn’t pull at them. I’d be there to support however I could, quiet and steadfast, from wherever they needed me to be.

  Roan’s clear steel gray-eyed gaze found mine, unwavering and serious. “When the finals are done—we talk.”

  There was no question in that statement. None of the others intervened. I didn’t fight it, didn’t push. None of them had asked about the suppressants, and I hadn’t volunteered a word.

  “Yes.” My voice was simple. Clear. Certain.

  Win or lose, when the finals were done, we would figure out our pack.

  Chapter

  Thirty-Seven

  ROAN

  PRE-GAME

  The locker room smelled like sweat, leather, and raw adrenaline, and I thrived in it. The Howlers were fired up, bouncing on the balls of their feet, sticks tapping against benches and floors like they were trying to drum the arena itself awake. I moved down the line, clapping hands, bumping shoulders, letting my voice cut over the roar before the game even started.

  “Listen up!” I said, forcing calm over the surge of energy. “This isn’t just any series. This is ours. The Vultures think they can push us around. They think Rylan’s antics intimidate anyone here. They’re wrong. Every hit, every check, every shot—we take it to them.”

  The guys leaned in, eyes sharp, voices low but buzzing. They wanted this. They needed this.

  Jay’s bench was quiet, at least compared to the rest of us. Doc had just finished a final check, nodding slowly. Jay flexed his fingers, tested his knees, then gave me a look that said: “I’m cleared, but don’t expect me to go easy.” I didn’t.

  Rhett was pacing near the lockers, spinning a puck with his stick, half-grin on his face, half-serious, fully dangerous. “They won’t know what hit them,” he said. “If Rylan opens his mouth, I’m gonna—” He let the sentence trail off in the way that made everyone in the room imagine exactly what would happen, and it made them laugh. Tension broken, energy higher.

  I turned my attention to the screen above the benches. Wren’s face appeared on the close-circuit feed, crisp and commanding, smiling like a challenge as much as encouragement. Her voice was calm, measured, but every word struck like lightning. She was speaking directly to the team and the fans simultaneously, building fever pitch in the arena. They’d been streaming in for an hour already, the crowd growing louder with every second, chanting our name.

  For a beat, I swore it felt like her sharp whiskey-colored eyes met mine for just a beat, and I felt that grounding pull—the same one she always gave me. Then she was off again, voice cutting through the roar: “This is your time, Howlers. Own it. Play hard. Play smart. Play for each other.”

  I let the words sink in for the guys. They didn’t need me to translate. She didn’t just hype us up, she reminded us who we were.

  Rhett leaned closer, voice low. “She’s terrifying and perfect at the same time.”

  I didn’t answer. I only nodded, letting the focus settle. The adrenaline, the fire, and the noise were all fuel. Jay’s eyes flicked to me, a subtle smirk breaking through the tension. He was ready. So were we.

  The arena was coming alive outside, and inside, our pack tightened. One heartbeat. One purpose. The finals were here.

  The locker room emptied faster than I expected, the team moving toward the ice like predators on instinct. I followed last, giving a final glance to Jay, who was stretching deliberately, testing each muscle, each joint. His black hair fell into his eyes, but I didn’t need to see his face to know he was ready. Doc had cleared him, but the fire in those narrow eyes told me he’d push himself to the edge anyway.

  Rhett was already at the far end of the rink, gliding lazy circles through his crease, stick flashing as he played keep-away with a couple of overconfident forwards who thought they could sneak one past him during warm-ups. He exaggerated every save—dramatic glove flashes, sprawling pad slides, even a mock slapshot clear that sent the puck ringing off the boards.

  Even in warm-ups, he demanded attention.

  His grin was wide, dimples flashing, but there was precision beneath the chaos. Every movement was deliberate. He knew exactly how to hype the team without breaking their focus.

  “Come on, rookies!” Rhett called from the crease. “If you can’t beat me in warm-ups, you’re not scoring all night!”

  It drew laughter and groans, but also sharpened something in the younger players. They started skating harder, shooting faster.

  I stepped onto the ice, keeping my pace steady, deliberate. My eyes swept the rink, tracking lines, posture, tension. I spoke sparingly, correcting positioning with a tap of my stick or a shift of my shoulder. Leadership wasn’t loud—it was controlled, measured, and earned.

  “Head up, Carter! Eyes wide! Don’t let them dictate the tempo!” I barked, and the forward adjusted instantly.

  Rhett skated up to the edge of his crease as I passed, knocking his mask up with a laugh. “Steely glare, huh, Captain? Relax a little. You’ll scare the Vultures before they even make it to my net.”

  I shot him a glance, flat and sharp. “They already think we’re weak if we laugh too much. Don’t give them reason to change their minds.”

  He raised his hands, still grinning, but let it drop into the rhythm of the warm-up. That’s what made him invaluable. He could lift spirits without ever breaking the focus we needed.

  I caught Jay weaving through drills, movements clean, careful, measured—but with that edge in his stride that said, don’t get in my way today. My shoulders relaxed just a fraction; the team was ready.

  The Vultures’ presence was a weight even on the ice. I could feel the tension in every pass, every fake, every slapshot bouncing off the boards. The crowd’s energy had started to seep in, the chants and roars through the arena creating a pulse that mirrored ours. Every player was keyed in, but they fed off the electricity rather than letting it control them.

  I took a deep breath, feeling Rhett’s easy confidence brushing against the edge of my focus, Jay’s steady intensity, the way our lines flowed together. Our team was cohesive. Fierce. Dangerous. That mattered more than anything the Vultures could throw at us.

  RHETT

  GAME 1

  The Vultures skated onto the ice like they owned the place. Their lines were tight, their hits sharp, their eyes full of challenge. The adrenaline hit me like a punch, muscles coiling, heart thundering. This wasn’t a warm-up. This was war on ice, and I was the last line of defense.

  The arena was alive, the fans already howling, the energy rolling over the boards and into the crease like electricity. I caught a flicker of Wren’s face on the overhead screens—calm, commanding, setting the crowd on fire—and instinctively scanned the stands toward where she’d be. That grounding pull, that tether to something beyond the rink, steadied me just enough to lock in harder.

  Rylan was first. Of course it was Rylan. Former Howler, now Vulture, jaw set, eyes cold and sharp, a constant physical and mental threat. He crashed our zone with a sneer, throwing cheap shots, slashing sticks, crowding the net every chance he got. Every time he drifted into my crease, my blood boiled. He wasn’t just a rival—he was a problem I fully intended to shut down.

  The puck dropped, and I went feral.

  Every shot, every deflection, every ugly bounce across the blue paint was met with ruthless focus. My glove snapped up, my pads flared wide, my stick cutting angles before they even opened. I felt the ice under my skates, the thrum of the crowd behind me, the roar vibrating through my ribs. I was locked in. Nothing existed except puck, posts, and the relentless pressure of the Vultures.

  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 chants feeding 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.