The victory Kiss

Wren pov

The week blurred into a whirlwind of tape rolls, skate sharpenings, and learning which players preferred their sticks at what lie. I kept my head down like Eleanor had warned, but the cheer squad’s glares followed me everywhere. Brooke especially. Still, the work felt right—ice-cold air in my lungs, the crack of pucks, the rhythm of a team locking in for battle. And Rhett… he was everywhere. Not talking much, but watching. Those ice-blue eyes tracked me during practices, a half-smile appearing whenever I snapped back at a cocky freshman or hauled equipment twice my size.

By game night, the Fieldhouse was electric. First game of the season. Sellout crowd. Banners everywhere with Rhett’s number and face. My stomach hadn’t stopped flipping since I’d arrived early to set up the bench—water bottles perfect, towels stacked, tablets charged for injury logs. The Kane family sat in the booster box above, watching. I could feel their expectations pressing down like the cold air itself.

Stay focused. No distractions.

But Rhett made that impossible. During warm-ups he’d skated past the bench, tapping his stick against the boards right in front of me. “Keep that fire ready, Matthews,” he’d said, voice low enough that only I heard. Then he was gone, all power and grace on the ice.

The game exploded from the opening face-off. State versus their rival, Ridgewood. Hits rattled the boards. The crowd roared like thunder. I paced behind the bench, logging shifts, handing out water, trying not to stare at number 19—Rhett—dominating the ice. He was everywhere: winning puck battles, threading perfect passes, throwing checks that left opponents dazed. He played like a man possessed, faster and meaner than the polished clips I’d seen online. Something about it felt raw tonight, like he was proving something.

By the third period we were tied 2-2. Tension coiled in my chest so tight I could barely breathe. The coach barked orders. Players slammed onto the bench, sweat flying. I wiped down a visor for one of the defensemen, heart hammering with every shift.

Then it happened.

Rhett stole the puck in neutral ice, deked one defender, and barreled toward the net. The arena held its breath. He wound up—a blistering wrist shot that beat the goalie clean. The lamp lit. The crowd erupted.

Final score: State 3, Ridgewood 2.

Pandemonium. Horn blaring. Teammates piling on Rhett at center ice. I stood frozen at the bench, grinning so wide my cheeks hurt, adrenaline flooding my veins like I’d scored it myself. This was why I loved it—the energy, the fight, the release, the suspense For a second, the scholarship pressure, the cheer squad drama, the heavy Kane expectations all faded.

Then Rhett broke from the celebration. He skated straight for the bench, helmet off, dark hair sweaty and wild, eyes locked on me with an intensity that stole whatever breath I had left. The crowd noise dulled to a roar in my ears. What was he—

He didn’t slow down. One powerful stride and he vaulted the boards in a move that should’ve been impossible in full gear. Strong hands cupped my face, cold from the ice but burning hot with adrenaline. His ice-blue eyes blazed—wild, victorious, something deeper flickering underneath.

“Wren,” he growled, voice rough.

Then he kissed me.

Right there, in front of the entire arena, the team, the coaches, the screaming fans, his parents . His lips crashed into mine, urgent and fierce, tasting like salt and triumph and something electric that short-circuited my brain. One of his hands slid to the back of my neck, pulling me closer. I didn't know what to do. The world narrowed to the heat of his mouth, the scrape of his stubble, the thunder of my pulse drowning out everything else. For a heartbeat I kissed him back—shocked, exhilarated, completely lost.

He pulled away just enough to rest his forehead against mine, breathing hard. “Couldn’t wait anymore,” he said, that rough edge in his voice sending sparks down my spine. The half-smile was back, sharper now, like he’d won more than just the game, like he just won a lottery.

The arena lost its mind. Cheers, whistles, phones flashing. I caught a glimpse of Brooke’s furious face near the glass before security and teammates swarmed. Rhett let me go slowly, like he didn’t want to, then let the celebration pull him back toward the ice for the handshake line. But his eyes found mine again across the chaos.

I stood there, fingers pressed to my tingling lips, legs shaky. The team manager. The scholarship girl. Kissed by the captain in front of everyone. My face burned hotter than the arena lights. Part of me wanted to melt into the rubber mats. Another part felt alive in a way I’d never experienced.

What just happened?