MY HOCKEY ALPHAS' SHARED OBSESSION

WREN'S POV Rain hit my windshield so hard I almost missed the turn into the players' lot. "You can do this," I said out loud, gripping the wheel until my knuckles ached. "It's a job. Just a job." It was not just a job. It was the Blackpine Wolves, the most talked about hockey team in the league, and in eleven minutes I was supposed to walk in there as their new sports therapist like I had not spent the last year rebuilding myself from nothing. I parked, cut the engine, and sat there a moment longer than I should have. My last patient's face still came to me sometimes, the one I could not save fast enough. I pressed my palm flat against the steering wheel until the memory let go of me. "New start," I whispered. "Prove you still know what you're doing." The arena rose out of the rain like something carved from ice itself, all glass and steel, banners the size of buses hanging from the rafters inside. I could hear pucks cracking against boards before I even reached the door. A woman with a silver bob and a clipboard met me in the lobby before I could finish shaking the rain from my coat. "Wren Hendrix?" she asked. "That's me." "Ingrid Pryce. I run this building, more or less." She was already walking. "Locker rooms, medical bay, the ice, then the team. Keep up." "I can keep up." "We'll see." She glanced back at me, not unkindly. "Most new hires cannot." "Can I ask you something?" I said, hurrying to match her pace. "You can ask. I might not answer." "Why did the last therapist leave?" Ingrid's steps slowed, just slightly. "She didn't leave. She transferred to the accounting side of things and never looked back." "That's not really an answer." "It's the only one I'm giving you on your first day." She pushed through a set of double doors without waiting for me. "Ask me again in a month." We passed the locker room hallway, and that was when I felt it, a strange pull in my chest, like the air itself had changed pressure. Four men stood there, and every one of them turned to look at me at exactly the same moment, like they had heard something I could not hear at all. "That's them," Ingrid said under her breath. "Try not to stare." I failed immediately. The tallest one leaned against the wall with his arms crossed, calm in a way that felt almost unnatural, like stillness was a skill he had trained for. His eyes were a strange pale gold, and when they landed on me, something in my stomach dropped straight through the floor. "New therapist," he said. Not a question. "Wren Hendrix," I said, holding out my hand. He looked at it for a second too long before he shook it. "Roman Sterling. I'm captain." "Good to meet you, Captain." "We'll see if you still think so by Friday." There was no threat in it, just a strange, quiet certainty, like he already knew something about how this would go that I did not. Beside him, a broader man did not move from the shadows at all. His eyes tracked me head to toe, slow and unhurried, and he said nothing, which somehow felt louder than if he had shouted. "That's Cassius," Roman said. "Our goalie. He doesn't talk much." "I talk when it matters," Cassius said, proving himself wrong immediately, his voice low and rough. A third man pushed off the wall and closed the distance between us before I even saw him move, grinning, easy, dangerous around the edges. "Dax Holloway," he said, taking my hand before I offered it, his skin far too warm for a man standing in a cold hallway. "Enforcer. I hit things for a living." "Good to know," I said, pulling my hand back carefully. "You smell like rain," he said, tilting his head. "It's raining outside, Dax," I said flatly. He grinned wider, like I had said something clever instead of obvious. "Sure. That's it." The last one bounced on his heels, younger than the rest, grinning like he already liked me. "Finn Castellan," he said. "Rookie. Don't let them scare you off, they're all bark." "Some bite," Dax muttered. "Enough," Roman said, and the hallway went quiet so fast it made my ears ring. "That happens a lot," I said, mostly to myself. "What does?" Finn asked, still grinning. "Everyone listening to him like that. Instantly." "He's the captain," Finn said, like it explained everything. "Nobody argues with the captain." "I might," I said. Dax laughed, low and delighted. "Oh, I like her." "Nobody asked you," Roman said, not even turning around. Ingrid cleared her throat. "Practice starts in ten. Ms. Hendrix, with me." The ice, when I finally saw it, was louder than I expected, blades slicing hard, sticks cracking, shouted plays bouncing off the rafters. I stood at the boards with my clipboard, trying to look like I belonged there. Roman skated like the ice owed him something, sharp turns, total control, and every time he passed my side of the boards his eyes flicked to me for exactly one second before returning to the play, like he was checking I was still there. Dax found excuses to skate close, once faking a stumble hard enough that I actually moved to catch him before I caught myself. "Nice reflexes," he said, straightening without a scratch on him. "You weren't hurt at all." "Wanted to see if you'd notice." His grin did not waver. "You did." Cassius never left his crease, but I felt his attention the entire practice anyway, steady, unblinking, like being watched by something patient enough to wait a very long time for whatever it wanted. By the time practice ended, my shoulders ached from holding them so tight. "You survived day one," Ingrid said, walking me back toward the lot. "Barely." "They're intense." "That's one word for it." Ingrid stopped at the door, studying me for a moment like she was deciding something. "Do yourself a favor, Wren. Keep your work professional and your questions to yourself for the first few weeks." "Is that a rule, or a warning?" "Both," she said. "You have no idea," she added, and something in her voice made me wish I had asked her to explain that before she turned and walked back inside. The rain had softened to a drizzle by the time I reached my car, the lot nearly empty, security lights buzzing faintly overhead. I unlocked the door, already thinking about a hot shower and my own bed. Then I heard it, low, rolling through the empty lot like distant thunder that never quite stopped, a sound with no engine behind it and nothing else nearby that could have made it. A growl. I spun around, heart slamming, scanning the shadows between the parked cars. Nothing moved. No dog, no animal, nothing at all, just row after row of empty cars and rain sliding down glass. My hand shook as I reached for the door handle, and that was when I saw it, tucked under my windshield wiper, a single folded piece of paper already damp at the edges. I unfolded it with fingers that would not quite stay still. Four words, written fast, like whoever wrote it had not wanted to be seen doing it. "They are not human."