Page 92 of The Players We Hate
He didn’t blink. His grip tightened. “Good. Let them talk. I want everyone to know you’re mine.”
Heat curled low in my belly. “Am I?” The question slipped out.
His eyes burned hotter. “Are you what?”
“Yours?”
His jaw tightened, but his answer came fast. “Yes. You’re mine, Wren. And I’m yours. I’m done pretending otherwise.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
Talon
I thought the nerves would hit me before the game. But it wasn’t the roar of the crowd or the weight of playoffs pressing on my shoulders that had my pulse racing. It was her.
Wren was already here. Not tucked away in a hotel room. Not pretending she belonged somewhere else. She stood in the lobby with Willow and Alisa, waiting by the doors while the team got ready to load the bus. She was planning to meet up with my sister and her friends—Beckham’s and Hayes’s girlfriends included—and she blended in with them like she’d always been part of the group.
I should’ve kept moving, should’ve followed the guys out to the curb, but my feet stopped the second I saw her.
My jersey hung loose over her frame, the sleeves brushing her hands. Seeing my name stretched across her back stopped me cold. It wasn’t just a jersey. It was her wearing me, claiming me in a way that hit harder than anything waiting for me on the ice.
She glanced up, and even with people moving around us—suitcases rolling, the front desk phone ringing, Willow and Alisa laughing near the doors—it all dropped into the background. Her hands were shoved into her pockets, her shoulders tight like she was bracing for something, but her eyes never left mine.
I stopped in front of her, my voice rough. “You have no idea what that jersey does to me.”
She arched a brow. “What?”
“Seeing my name stretched across your back.” My gaze dragged down, then back up to hers. “It makes me want to forget warmups, take you upstairs, and remind you exactly who you belong to.”
Her breath caught, her eyes searching mine. The corner of her mouth curved, teasing. “Don’t tempt me with something you can’t follow through on.”
I leaned in, close enough that only she could hear me. “Trust me, I can. And when this game’s over, I will.”
Her lashes fluttered, but instead of pushing, she whispered, “Go get your win.”
I glanced toward the doors, then back at her, pressing a quick kiss to her forehead before I let her go. “I already did.”
The look she gave me in return steadied me more than any pregame routine ever had.
Alisa called her name, and Willow waved her toward the exit. Wren lingered for one last heartbeat, eyes locked on mine, before finally turning. And as she walked out, my name bold across her back, I knew that image would follow me onto the ice—and stay with me long after the final whistle.
***
The roar of the crowd slammed into me the second I stepped onto the ice. It wasn’t background noise—it shook through the boards and straight into my chest. Braysen’s arena was packed, wall to wall with fans waving banners and painted numbers, every voice rising and crashing with the play.
Two periods in, it had already been a grind. Bodies into the glass, sticks cracking against each other, their goalie eating every shot we threw his way. Sweat burned my eyes under the cage, my legs screaming with every stride. The scoreboard glared 2–2, the clock bleeding down too fast. Every shift felt like it could decide the season.
Coach had been barking in the locker room, voice shredded, but it wasn’t his words I carried back onto the ice. It was Wren. The flash of her in the lobby. My name stretched bold across her back. Her whisper in my ear—Go get your win.
The third period started at a sprint. The puck snapped from stick to stick, hits coming hard on every line. I ate a shoulder into the boards, shook it off, and dug in deeper. No way were we going to let them control the pace. Not tonight.
With six minutes left, the break came. Owen leveled their winger clean, and the puck spilled free into the corner. I got there first, pinned it with my stick, and pulled it in tight. A defenseman crashed into my hip, but I spun off him, my skate carving hard into the ice.
The lane opened.
I dropped my head and drove. Lungs on fire, stride after stride, the puck tapping in rhythm against my blade. One defender lunged—gone. My eyes locked on the crease.
Their goalie crouched low, glove hand twitching. I held until the last second, then snapped my wrist. The crack of the shot cut through the noise.
