Rhett owned the crease. He was a wall—unshakable. Every shot found him, every rebound he controlled. Thirty-nine saves, each one keeping our lead alive. I was moving like a shadow, threading passes, driving the net, staying deadly calm in the middle of chaos. I could feel Roan’s temper simmering under the surface, could see the mental calculation behind every movement, every check.

  Then, it broke.

  A sloppy rebound snuck past Rhett late in the game. One. Two. The Vultures pounced, exploiting every turnover, shutting down our top line. I kept my cool, let the frustration roll through me, tucked it into the cold efficiency of my skating. Stay composed. Stay lethal. That was the only way forward.

  Midway through the second, the inevitable happened. Roan and Rylan dropped gloves in center ice. Savage. Personal. Primal. It was so beyond Roan’s normal behavior, the feral buzz set the arena on fire as well as the team. Every swing, every shove, every collision carried old grudges, unspoken history and just raw fury. I stayed low, watching, ready to move, letting the fight unfold as it had to.

  Rhett faced forty shots by the final buzzer. Forty. He kept us in the game longer than we deserved at times, but the relentless pressure finally cracked the wall.

  Final: Vultures 4 – Howlers 1. Series tied 1–1. Roan got a game misconduct and a fine. We left the ice simmering, the sting of defeat raw. The Vultures had come out with intent and executed, exploiting every weakness. But I didn’t panic. Calm. Composed. Determined.

  We’d bounce back.

  We always did.

  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.

  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, leaning subtly 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 to never let 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 a second 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.”

  A reporter leaned forward. “What about your own role? There was a lot of tension off the ice — some say you were a target.”

  I swallowed. “My job is to support the team. Behind the scenes, in the locker room and on the bench, I handle communications, strategy, and coordination. Yes, there’s pressure. Come on, it’s hockey. There’s always pressure. But it’s the same for every team staffer in a finals series.”

  A murmur ran through the crowd when Rylan shifted in his seat. I felt the subtle, familiar pull. His scent, alpha-strong and teasingly provocative, brushing against my awareness despite the distance. My throat tightened, but I forced a smile.”

  And just to clarify,” I added, “any distractions off the ice did not change our focus on winning. As you can clearly see by who won the finals.”

  Was that a dig at Rylan? Yes. I wasn’t even ashamed of it.

  Questions came faster after that, about the injuries, the future of the roster, and the team’s next steps. I answered each with a professional tone, careful to stay neutral, to stay safe. But all the while, I felt him watching, a silent echo of the chaos on the ice, the tension that Roan had carried and that now, somehow, rested in the room with me.

  When the conference finally ended, I walked away from the podium with my hands pressed together, exhaling slowly. The flash of cameras followed me, but my mind lingered on the look Rylan had given me from the back row, as if I needed a reminder that the war on the ice wasn’t quite over.

  The hallway outside the press room smelled faintly of bleach and stale coffee, but beneath it all, I could sense him—Rylan—like a predator who refuses to take the hint. My pulse quickened despite my blockers. He was already stepping toward me, slow, confident, smirk curling, as if he had every right to corner me.

  I pivoted instinctively, moving toward the exit. “Excuse me,” I said, keeping my tone clipped, professional, but the tremor in my pulse betrayed me just slightly.

  Rylan mirrored me. “Wren. You’re not just going to⁠—”

  Before he could finish, Marchand appeared, a solid presence between us. He raised one hand, blocking Rylan with a calm authority only he could wield. “Step back, Beckett. She’s leaving.”

  Rylan hesitated, lips twisting, then nodded once, a silent acknowledgment of defeat for now. Security flanked him, and I exhaled quietly, forcing my pulse to slow as I slipped past. Marchand’s eyes met mine briefly, just enough to reassure me, and I didn’t need words.

  Outside the arena, night had fallen. Cool air hit my face, almost shocking after the heat of the hotel and pressrooms. Security paced me as I walked briskly, the click of my boots on pavement the only sound except for the distant buzz of traffic. I kept my head down, blockers working overtime, and avoided any glance toward the parking lot where I knew Rylan might linger. The guards were professional, keeping an eye out until I was safely in my car.

  By the time I reached the cabin, my body was still simmering under control, each step a small victory. I knew the guys would start their post-game celebration soon. Normally, I’d make an appearance—share a toast, a cheer, even a small laugh—but not tonight. Not after this week. Not after the Finals, the heat, the closeness, the way Rylan’s presence gnawed at the edges of my restraint.

  But I couldn’t just vanish without leaving a breadcrumb. My fingers shook slightly as I punched in Roan’s voicemail. I kept my voice low, teasing, playful, yet full of the tension I couldn’t otherwise release:

  “Same place as last time… and consider this an open invitation to chase. I’ll be the omega on the run… claim me if you can.”

  I hung up, letting the words linger in the air like a spark. No one would expect it, not after the championship. It was a promise, a challenge, a tease—but most of all, it was mine.

  Inside the cabin, I poured a glass of water, layered on extra blockers, and sank into the couch. The silence felt like salvation, a distance I desperately needed. My pulse still hummed beneath the surface, but for the first time all day, I allowed myself to relax just a little. I had survived the Finals. I had protected the team.

  Soon… very soon, I hoped. They would come for me.

  As I promised Roan, we’d settle this between the four of us.

  I hoped.

  Chapter

  Thirty-Nine

  JAY

  The morning after the finals always hit differently. Normally, it was hangovers, scattered champagne bottles, and that hollow kind of exhaustion that comes after you’ve climbed a mountain you weren’t sure you could survive.

  This time, though, it was quiet. Too quiet.

  We’d celebrated late. Like, obscenely late. The locker room had turned into a blur of champagne sprays and beer cans, Rhett leading a round of shots before Marchand cut him off for trying to drink from the trophy again.

  When the party rolled over to the owner’s suites, Roan had been his usual stoic self, taking it all in, watching over the guys like a proud, bruised sentinel. And me? I’d parked myself between him and Rhett, shoulder throbbing, half-grinning through the pain because, hell, we were champions.

  But even as the night rolled on, one thing kept needling at the edge of my mind.

  Wren never showed.

  At first, it was easy to explain away. She probably got buried under post-game press, coordinating with Marchand or handling the interviews. She always worked harder than any of us, and she’d been running on fumes for weeks. But then the night stretched on. The crowd thinned. The trophy made its way around the room twice. And still, no Wren.

  By the time the bar lights came up, Roan was frowning into his glass like it had personally offended him. Rhett, who’d spent most of the evening alternating between jokes and borderline-decent karaoke, finally slumped into a chair and muttered, “You think she ditched us?”