Falling For The Wrong Kane

Wren pov

The wind coming off the lake sliced right through my thin coat like it had a personal grudge. I hugged my duffel bag tighter against my side, boots crunching over the salted sidewalks as I made my way toward the hockey arena. State University looked exactly like the pictures—stone buildings heavy with snow, sleek athletic facilities glowing under the lights, and that constant buzz of energy even in early November.

This is it, I told myself, breath fogging in front of me. No more scraping by. No more showing up late to everything because life kept kicking me down.

The anonymous scholarship that had been hitting my account every semester for three years had changed everything. Tuition covered. Books paid for. A tiny living space that meant I didn’t have to choose between eating and textbooks. I still didn’t know who the donor was, just some private foundation with strict rules: stay out of trouble, graduate, pay it forward someday. I planned to do exactly that. Starting today.

The Fieldhouse doors were already open. The second I stepped inside, the smell hit me ice, sweat, rubber mats, that sharp metallic tang of cold air. The main rink stretched out like a cathedral, ok maybe an exaggeration but still the place was huge , pristine and gleaming under the lights. A couple of players were already out there doing practice, blades carving clean lines into the fresh sheet.

“New manager?” A deep voice echoed from the tunnel behind me.

I turned fast. Coach Harlan stood there—tall, grizzled, whistling around his neck, State Hockey polo stretched across his chest, he was even bigger in person. His reputation was legendary: old-school hardass who’d taken the program to the Frozen Four twice.

“Yes, sir. Wren Matthews.” I stuck out my hand, hoping he couldn’t feel how clammy my palm was. “Reporting for the equipment and training support position.”

He crushed my hand in a grip that could probably snap a puck in half. “Matthews. Scholarship kid. You’re early—most managers roll in the day before the opener looking like lost puppies.” He jerked his chin toward a side hallway. “Come on. Let’s get you sorted.”

The next hour disappeared in a blur of instructions. Where the skate sharpener lived. How to log every injury in the tablet system. The exact way the team wanted their water bottles lined up on the bench—blue caps facing out, no exceptions. Mac, the equipment manager, grunted more than he talked, but he showed me the storage systems without complaint. The coach gave me a keycard that apparently opened half the athletic buildings on campus.

“Big shoes to fill,” Coach said as we walked back toward the main lobby. “The previous manager graduated and left us hanging. Keep your head down, do the job clean, and we won’t have issues. The season's already heating up. The Kane family’s got their eyes on us this year.”

My stomach twisted at the name. Everyone knew the Kanes. Their money basically bankrolled half the department. I nodded, keeping my face blank. I wasn’t here for any of that. I was here to work, stay invisible, and eventually thank whoever had been generous enough to fund my future without ever asking for anything in return.

My phone buzzed in my pocket as Coach left me to finish organizing the training room. I pulled it out, expecting a dorm check-in text or something from my roommate.

Unknown Number:

Ms. Matthews, the Kane family requests your presence at the residence this evening at 7 PM. A car will be sent for you. Address attached. Regards, Eleanor Kane.

I stared at the screen, heart slamming against my ribs. The Kane family? As in the ones whose name was on half the buildings? I’d always pictured my benefactor as some distant old alum, not… this.

A second message popped up:

We look forward to finally meeting our star recipient in person. Dress warmly.

I swallowed hard and glanced around the empty training room. Distant pucks cracked against boards somewhere out on the ice. This was supposed to be my fresh start, quiet, controlled, focused on repaying every single cent I could scrape together. Not whatever this invitation meant.

By 6:45, I was standing outside my new dorm in my only decent sweater and dark jeans, hair pulled into a tight braid. I didn't want to look too tacky . The black SUV that pulled up looked expensive enough to make my stomach flip. The driver didn’t say much, just held the door and drove us out of the college town, winding up into the hills where the big houses overlooked the frozen lake.

The Kane estate rose out of the snow like something from a movie—stone, glass, warm golden light pouring from tall windows. A polished woman in a tailored coat waited on the sweeping front steps.

“Wren,” she said with a perfect smile. “I’m Eleanor Kane. Thank you for coming on such short notice.”

She led me inside. The house smelled like generational wealth: expensive leather, faint cigar smoke, polished wood. Framed jerseys and championship photos lined the foyer walls, most of them featuring the same tall, dark-haired player with the captain’s C. My pulse kicked up. This was real. My anonymous donor was tied to this world.

Eleanor guided me into a formal sitting room with a massive stone fireplace. “Please, make yourself comfortable. We have a few things to discuss about your scholarship and how the family supports our student-athletes and staff.”

I sat on the edge of a leather couch that probably cost more than my mom’s car, hands folded tightly in my lap. Whatever came next, I’d listen, say thank you, and make it clear I intended to repay every cent. No charity. No strings.