Because the doctor hadn’t given me a choice.

  You need to stop taking the suppressants, Wren. Let your body regulate. When it’s time, take a few days. Let it pass.

  Right. Just “a few days.” Like I was coming down with the flu and not about to fall into hormonal hell surrounded by two alphas and a beta who already watched me too closely. But she was right, at least based on my bloodwork. If I didn’t stop now, the crash wouldn’t be optional. It would be catastrophic.

  I should have had a full three weeks, at least, but the window was closing on me far more swiftly than I expected. Particularly with my enhanced reactions. I had maybe forty-eight hours—tops—to get everything in order. Then I’d need to go.

  Coordinate next week’s playoff media push. Schedule Roan and Jay for post-practice interviews. Prep the owner's talking points. Update the fan engagement calendar. Answer twenty unread emails. Put out whatever dumb fire Rhett started next.

  And—if I had time—bury my rising panic in a neat little email auto-reply that read: “Taking a few personal days. No, I haven’t been kidnapped. Please contact Head of Comms for urgent requests.”

  I took a slow breath. Then another.

  No more suppressants. No more pretending my body wasn’t circling the edge of something dangerous.

  I just had to survive long enough to outrun the fallout.

  Easy.

  Chapter

  Two

  WREN

  Each day, my morning routine grew more challenging. No suppressants. No safety net. Just me, my to-do list, and a body I didn’t quite trust anymore.

  The morning started like usual. Alarm. Shower. Too much dry shampoo. Coffee I forgot to drink until it went cold. The only difference was the pill bottle on the bathroom counter—still full. Untouched. Waiting.

  It was fine. I felt fine.

  Okay, my pulse was a little fast. And I’d reapplied deodorant twice. But that could’ve been anxiety. Or the twelve deadlines I’d stacked on myself trying to beat my own body to the finish line.

  I pulled my coat tighter as I stepped into the frigid arena tunnel. The sound of skates on ice echoed ahead—practice in full swing. I could already hear Rhett’s voice over the others, loud and relentless, trash-talking Roan mid-drill like his life depended on it. He was one of the best defensive goalies in the league. Unfortunately, he also knew that and loved to rag on the others.

  "Come on, Cap! I’ve seen faster footwork in synchronized swimming!”

  Roan didn’t respond. He just hip-checked Rhett into the boards and kept moving.

  God, I loved this job.

  I made my rounds—checked in with the social team, flagged the arena ops guys about the power glitch in the west-side spotlight rig, then headed down toward the benches, where the Howlers’ post-practice interviews were supposed to start in fifteen minutes.

  Practice was over by the time I reached the locker room, which smelled like hard work and bad decisions. Not unusual. But today, the usual scent-cocktail hit me like a slap. Not overwhelming. Just… sharper. Like someone had turned the volume up on the air.

  I tugged at my scarf. Overreacting.

  This was fine.

  They were always sweaty and loud and too close. Today was no different.

  Except it felt different.

  Roan passed me first, towel around his neck, hair still damp, eyes catching mine for half a second longer than usual. Not suspicious. Not exactly. But my heart skipped anyway.

  “Interview lineup’s posted in the lounge,” I said as he passed. “Don’t disappear.”

  “I never do,” he replied, low and easy.

  Rhett came next, shirtless, of course, twirling a stick between his fingers like a baton. “Morning, PR Queen. You look⁠—”.

  “Finish that sentence and I’m sending your college highlight reel to the team’s TikTok.”

  He grinned, utterly unabashed. Terrible man. “You wound me.”

  “You’re not deep enough to be wounded.” But I did enjoy verbally sparring with him, it kept me sharp.

  “Wrong. I’m deeply offended. Which, if you ask Jay, is the same as foreplay.”

  Jay, right on cue, stepped out of the shower hallway, hair so black it gleamed blue under the fluorescents when it was slicked back like now, damp, clean, and cool as ever.

  “I don’t do foreplay,” he said. “I do exits.”

  “Great,” I muttered. “Then you can leave first after your media slot.”

  He held my gaze just a moment too long. “Sure. Just say when.”

  I blinked. That had sounded… loaded. Or maybe I was reading into it. He often looked at people in that calculating, calm, vaguely threatening way that didn’t make sense until hours later. He always seemed to know so much more than everyone around him. Or maybe he was just really good at pretending.

  Me too.

  The guys filtered into the lounge one by one. I followed, clipboard in hand, headset snug, pretending my skin wasn’t prickling every time one of them got too close.

  Roan sat on the edge of the leather couch, answering questions like a man who’d studied diplomacy in another life. Focused. Steady. Unreadable. But when the reporter leaned in—too close, too friendly—I caught Roan’s eyes flick toward me. Fast. Flicker of something. Then gone.

  Jay went next. Efficient. Dry humor. Didn’t crack once. But when I handed him a mic, his fingers brushed mine—deliberately or not—and the contact crackled up my arm like static.

  Rhett was last. Always the wildcard. Shirt still open, energy turned up to eleven. He threw his arm around my shoulder between interviews like he always did—but this time it lingered. Warm. Heavy.

  “You okay?” he asked, mouth near my ear so no one else could hear.

  I stiffened. “What do you mean?”

  He paused, smile faltering for half a second. “I mean… you good? You’ve got that whole Ice Queen with a secret vibe dialed up to max.”

  I stepped out from under his arm, brushing him off with a laugh. “If I had a secret, you’d be the last one I’d tell.”

  “Ouch,” he said, but there was something like concern under the theatrics.

  By the time the interviews were wrapped, I felt like I’d run a damn marathon. And the worst part was nothing had happened.

  No one said anything weird. No one looked at me like they knew. No sudden scent-spiral. No forced dominance. No accidental bonding marks or heat triggers or primal chase initiated by a coffee spill.

  Just the team. Being the team.

  And yet…

  My head felt too full. My pulse kept stuttering. And every glance from one of them—Roan’s flicker, Jay’s pause, Rhett’s weight at my side—felt like I was walking a wire I couldn’t see the end of.

  Paranoia. Had to be.

  They’d always flirted. Always hovered too close. Always bantered and bantered and never crossed the line.

  I was the one changing, not them.

  But I also knew this wasn’t even the hard part.

  That came soon.

  When the clock ran out.

  When the real instincts kicked in and I stopped being able to pretend.

  I was halfway through collecting the mic packs and mentally reciting my to-do list—schedule edits, budget approvals, cry in a closet somewhere—when the air changed.

  Not dramatically. Not like a thunderclap or a scent spike. Just a shift. A pause in the noise. Like the room took a breath—and didn’t exhale.

  I looked up.

  And there he was.

  Walking through the open lounge doors like he owned the place, even though he hadn’t worn our jersey in five years.

  Beckett Rylan.

  Former Howler. Now captain of the Bay City Vultures. Rival team. Big name. Bigger ego. Even bigger scent—dark cedar and ozone, the kind of alpha musk that belonged on magazine covers and late-night scandals.

  He had the kind of face that made photographers forgive their lighting—handsome in a rough-edged, too-many-fights sort of way. A nose that had clearly met more than one right hook and lost. Jaw shadowed with stubble, mouth carved for sin, but the eyes ruined any illusion of softness—hard, assessing, always looking for an angle.

  His grin slid toward me the moment our eyes met. Slow. Knowing. Sharp.

  “Foster,” he drawled. “Still looking like trouble in heels.”

  Every nerve in my body screamed not to react. I smiled—professional. Smooth. Like I hadn’t just felt the tension in the room spike by a hundred degrees.

  “Rylan,” I said evenly. “Still not cleared to speak without a media handler, I see.”

  He laughed, deep and lazy. “Some things never change.”

  Behind me, I practically felt Roan shift his weight. Subtle. Controlled. But I didn’t have to look to know his jaw had locked tight.

  Rhett, less subtle, stepped up beside me like he might physically block Beckett from getting closer. “What the hell are you doing here?”

  Not for the first time, I was grateful for the heels on my boots. I needed to get taller ones. It kept them from towering, especially when they went all alpha like Rhett was now. His personality seemed to flood around me, making him seem even bigger, stronger… hotter.

  Beckett lifted a hand, mock-innocent. “Easy, goalie. I come in peace. Marchand invited me.”

  Of course he did.

  Adrien Marchand loved a spectacle—and Beckett was a walking PR headline. Bringing him in during playoff press week? Classic power move. Even if it was a reckless one.

  I put on my best diplomatic smile and stepped between the testosterone minefield before it exploded. “Well, if that’s the case, welcome back. You’re just in time to charm the press. They’re still packing up.”

  He winked. “Didn’t know I needed an audience to see you again, but hey—bonus.”

  Don’t react. Don’t engage. Don’t let him scent blood in the water.

  Jay moved next, quiet and precise, his eyes tracking Beckett with a chill I hadn’t seen in him before.

  “Thought you burned this bridge on the way out,” Jay said coolly.

  “Thought you were mute,” Beckett shot back.

  Jay smiled, razor-sharp. “Only when I’m bored.”

  Roan was still silent, but I could feel the tension radiating off him like heat. His shoulders drawn, his stance just a little wider. If Beckett noticed—and of course he did—he didn’t seem intimidated.

  He just looked back at me.

  Like he could smell something.

  Like he knew I was a little off. That the balance I held so tightly was slipping just enough to be interesting.

  I took a breath and shifted my stance, reclaiming control. “You’re welcome to stay for the rest of the media rounds, Beckett, but only if you keep out of the way.”

  “Wouldn’t dream of interfering,” he said, flashing teeth. “Just here to observe. Maybe stir the pot a little.”

  He turned and walked toward the press pit like he belonged there, like he hadn’t just set a lit match down in a room full of gas.

  I glanced at Roan. His jaw was clenched, eyes locked on Beckett’s back like he was calculating how fast he could check him into a wall without causing a PR crisis.

  “Let it go,” I muttered under my breath.

  He didn’t answer.

  Rhett’s hand twitched at his side, fists curling, but his voice was bright when he spoke. “If he breathes on you wrong, I’m breaking both his kneecaps.”

  I arched a brow. “Is that a goalie thing or just your love language?”

  “Yes,” he said flatly.

  Jay was last to pass me as the guys filed out, still watching Beckett like he was waiting for an excuse.

  When he brushed past, he murmured just loud enough for me to hear: “He’s sniffing for changes.”

  My heart stuttered. But I didn’t flinch. Didn’t pause. Just stood there, spine straight, breath shallow, smile sharp even as I kept silently counting the hours until this week was over.

  The boys filed out in a loose pack, leaving the room ten degrees colder in their absence, and somehow Beckett still managed to take up all the air.

  He didn’t follow. He lingered by the press table, casually flipping through a branded press booklet like he actually gave a shit.

  One of the junior reporters from a local sports blog hovered nearby, badge tilted, mic clutched a little too tightly.

  I saw it coming before she even opened her mouth.

  “Mr. Rylan—just a few quick questions? For our coverage on the playoff dynamic and your former role with the Howlers?”

  He smiled, teeth like a wolf in a well-tailored coat. “Sure. Anything for the home crowd.”

  His voice dropped into that rich, media-polished alpha tone that always came across well on camera and even better in clickbait quotes. The reporter swooned a little—visibly—and I resisted the urge to roll my eyes hard enough to sprain something.

  The easiest journalists were the betas. They could probe and press without aggravating the situations. Omegas, when they weren’t in heat and their partners didn’t mind, were good for eliciting less ethical reactions. Particularly if they wanted to set the players up.

  I preferred the alpha journalists, though. They didn’t play these stupid games. They just pissed off their targets to get the clickbait they wanted. It was why I was so damn careful about who I gave credentials too.

  “I imagine it’s strange being back,” Molly prompted. She didn’t carry much of a scent mark at all. Neutral beta. Though she was cute. “Especially with your new position across the ice. Any tension with your former teammates?”

  Beckett’s gaze flicked to me. Lingered.

  “Let’s just say… the temperature’s different,” he said. “But some things are worth the heat.”

  The reporter blinked. “Could you clarify⁠—”

  “I’m sure he could,” I cut in smoothly, stepping forward with my best ‘wrangle the chaos’ smile. “But I’ll be reviewing all quotes before they go to print, per Marchand’s media policy.”

  Beckett tilted his head, amused. “Still cleaning up after us, huh?”

  “Someone has to be the adult in the room,” I said sweetly.

  Before he could reply, a new voice joined the room—smooth, expensive, and laced with calculated authority.

  “Wren. Beckett. Excellent,” said Adrien Marchand, owner of the Snowvale Howlers and professional puppet master. “Just the two I was hoping to find.”

  He glided into the lounge like a man who’d never once been denied anything. His coat was cashmere. His shoes were suede. His smile didn’t reach his eyes.

  “We’re due in the owner’s box for lunch,” he continued. “Come.”

  I opened my mouth to politely decline, already bracing for my out: work, scheduling, blood pressure, but Marchand lifted one manicured hand, already anticipating me.

  “I need you there, Wren. Beckett’s return needs framing. Context. You’re the best at shaping narrative into digestible bites.”

  His return.

  “He’s coming back to the team?”

  “Maybe,” Beckett said, his breath teasing my ear as he leaned a little too close to me.

  “That’s why you and I are going to have lunch with him. You’re going to help me persuade him.” There it was. The compliment as a command. The leash in a velvet glove.

  I forced a breath through my nose. “Of course.”

  “Excellent.” He turned, already walking. “Let’s not keep the chef waiting.”

  Beckett smirked at me as we followed. “You always were the one holding the leash around here.”

  I shot him a look. “Keep testing me and I’ll tighten it.” Until it strangles you. I didn’t add that last part out loud though.

  His grin widened. “You promise?”

  I didn’t answer.

  Mostly because I wasn’t sure if my next words would be professional or a snarl.

  I still had a couple of days to go before I was officially a problem.

  Chapter

  Three

  RHETT

  Ishould’ve been feeling good.

  Practice was clean. Interviews were smoother than usual. I hadn’t punched anyone.

  And yet, walking down the hall away from the press lounge, my whole damn body was buzzing like I’d missed something big.

  Jay was quiet beside me, which wasn’t unusual. What was unusual was the way he kept glancing back over his shoulder.

  “Spit it out,” I said finally, stripping off my jersey and half-tossing it at the laundry cart.

  He didn’t answer right away. Just slowed his steps and tilted his head slightly, like he was tracking a sound no one else could hear.

  Then he said, low, “Did she smell… different to you?”

  That stopped me dead.

  I looked at him, heart already picking up speed. “Wren?”

  He gave a small nod.

  I tried to laugh it off like I should’ve. “She always smells good. That’s kind of her thing.”

  “That’s not what I meant,” Jay said, voice flat. “Not perfume. Something else.”

  I opened my mouth. Closed it again.

  Because the truth was, I’d noticed it earlier too. Not strong. Not like someone in heat—or at least, not like any heat I’d ever scented before.

  Just... a pull. Subtle. Magnetic. Dangerous in a way I didn’t have language for.

  That intoxicating aroma had been coming from her.

  “Could be nothing,” I said. Even I didn’t believe it.

  Jay shrugged, but it looked more like he was mentally filing it away to dissect later. I’d seen him do that before games—take mental notes on opposing players like he was pre-writing how to dismantle them.

  “Maybe,” he said. “But Beckett noticed it too.”

  I clenched my jaw. “Yeah. I saw.”

  We didn’t need to say more than that. We hated Beckett Rylan. Always had.

  Not just because he was a dirty player or a smug asshole or the kind of alpha who walked into a room like he owned it and left it smelling like trouble.

  No—we hated him because of the way he used to look at Wren when he still wore our jersey.