You told me nothing would get out of control.

  Fix it.

  We’re meeting first thing tomorrow. No excuses.

  I stared at it for a second, chest tight with frustration. No “hope you’re well.” No acknowledgment that I’d taken leave with full sign-off. No consideration. Just accusation. Just pressure.

  But he wasn’t the only name in my inbox.

  I had five new emails from Rylan, all variations on “we need to finalize my terms before the offer window closes” and “I’ve got three agents sniffing around now that the Vultures are playoff-bound.”

  Because, of course he did.

  I sat back, scrolled through the avalanche, and watched the shape of the world reassert itself—loud, fast, and sharp-edged. My heat was over, but the aftermath was just beginning.

  The playoff bracket updates were flooding in. League PR was scrambling to spin the sudden wildcard spot the Vultures had landed. Every agency with a decent roster was eyeing the chaos, waiting to make a move.

  This was my world.

  One I was damn good at navigating.

  Something in me resisted the rhythm of it now as if I’d stepped off a moving sidewalk and needed a second to reorient. My instincts still worked, but the urgency that used to drive me felt dulled by something else.

  Maybe because I wasn’t just thinking about press angles and spin cycles anymore. I was thinking about Roan’s hands on my cheeks. About Jay asking what kind of pastry I wanted in the morning. About Rhett’s voice when he said I was amazing.

  About how, when the chaos ended, they’d be waiting.

  I exhaled, steadying myself.

  Right now, I needed to keep the Howlers’ playoff rep from bursting into flames. I’d figure out the rest—Jay’s coffee, the fallout from Marchand, my role with the team—all of it.

  One step at a time.

  Just like Roan said.

  First up…

  Chapter

  Twenty-Eight

  WREN

  Iwore war paint in the form of lipstick and a pantsuit.

  White blazer, tailored within a breath of my skin, paired with a silk blue blouse and tapered navy slacks that showed off the heels I’d already been walking in for an hour. Not a wrinkle on me. Not a hair out of place.

  Blue and white. Howlers’ colors. Message received.

  Jay walked beside me through the main arena entrance, gear bag slung over one shoulder, his hair still slightly damp from his shower, a navy hoodie unzipped over a gray training shirt. He looked relaxed. At ease. A solid wall of calm at my side.

  I sipped my coffee slowly as we walked, feeling the caffeine coil into my bloodstream like a silent threat to the people who were about to test my patience. The croissants he brought that morning were already gone, thank you very much, and I’d been up since before sunrise triaging inbox fires and organizing my talking points like I was prepping for a press briefing at the UN.

  Jay didn’t say much, but he didn’t need to. We moved through the halls of the Howlers’ arena like we both belonged there—him headed to the locker room, me toward the war upstairs.

  When we reached the hallway where we’d split, we paused.

  He didn’t kiss me.

  But his eyes lingered on mine, the moment thick with all the things we weren’t saying in front of a dozen security cameras and early-morning staffers. Respect. Want. Solidarity.

  “I’m looking forward to drills,” I said, giving him a slow smile. “Think I’ll watch today.”

  His eyes gleamed. “I’ll be sure to tell Rhett. He’ll want to give you a little something-something to keep you entertained.”

  I laughed under my breath and gave an exaggerated eye roll as I pivoted toward the elevator. “You boys and your ‘something-something.’”

  He said nothing else, just lifted his chin slightly, then turned toward the locker rooms, disappearing around the corner with quiet confidence.

  My amusement faded as soon as the elevator doors slid shut. By the time they opened on the executive floor, I’d already shifted back into full PR director mode—shoulders straight, spine steel.

  Marchand’s assistant barely looked up as I passed. She didn’t need to. He was expecting me. Of course he was.

  The door to his office was open. And it wasn’t just him waiting.

  Rylan was already seated, slouched into the chair like he’d been holding court for a while. His agent, a sleek, smug little man named Devin Hart, perched on the arm beside him, tablet in hand. And across the room, legs crossed like she belonged here, sat Carrie Hall, the Vultures’ head of public relations.

  Unsurprisingly, no one was smiling.

  Marchand looked up. “You’re late.”

  “I’m exactly on time,” I said, breezing into the room like I owned it. “You want to split hairs, I can start quoting timestamps.”

  Rylan gave me a lazy once-over, his eyes catching on the sharp white lines of my blazer before flicking away, unimpressed. “Well, damn. Thought maybe you were here to talk us off the ledge. Guess it’s a firing squad instead.”

  “If you’re guilty,” I said mildly, “maybe you should be worried.”

  Devin cleared his throat. “Let’s not turn this into a scene⁠—”

  “Too late,” Carrie interrupted, crossing one leg over the other. “It’s already a headline. Our phones haven’t stopped ringing. Media wants to know if the Howlers are officially courting playoff sabotage.”

  “And I’d like to know,” I said crisply, turning to Marchand, “why we’re allowing an opposing team’s PR rep to sit in on an internal meeting.”

  Marchand exhaled through his nose, clearly annoyed that I hadn’t come in apologizing.

  “She’s here because it’s her player being poached.”

  “There’s been no poaching,” I said, unflinching. “Unless you’re admitting that Carrie’s client made an offer to ours while still under contract.”

  That landed.

  Even Carrie sat up a little straighter.

  “Rylan,” I added, voice cool, “you still want to play for this team?”

  His eyes narrowed, just slightly. “I want to play. Period.”

  “That’s not an answer.”

  “It’s the only one you’re getting until I see a contract.”

  “Then sit tight,” I said. “And if your agent can’t keep you from leaking sensitive conversations to our rivals, maybe it’s time we reevaluate who should be in this room.”

  The temperature dropped by ten degrees.

  Marchand looked at me like he couldn’t decide whether to strangle me or thank me. I didn’t care which. I wasn’t here to please him. One thing he should remember was what he hired me to do. I was here to protect this team, and I’d be damned if I let it fall apart now.

  Carrie recovered first. Smooth, confident, a smug little smile that had probably shaken less seasoned PR directors than me.

  “You can’t keep him,” she said lightly. “Rylan’s already in breach by holding those conversations. If you were smart, you’d be more worried about damage control than holding him hostage.”

  “Hostage?” I tilted my head. “That’s a bold word for a player with a signed, legal contract that runs through the end of playoffs.”

  She smiled wider. “Contracts are negotiable. Especially when they’re compromised.”

  “Compromised?” I echoed. “Interesting. Since that would require you to admit your player broke protocol first. Are you really planning to go on the record confirming that?”

  That shut her up. The room tightened like a rope winding around a throat.

  I didn’t stop there.

  “Even if the Vultures wanted to terminate his contract today, and I’m not suggesting that’s even on the table,” I added, glancing briefly at Rylan, “league rules clearly state no new team agreement can take effect until after the season concludes. No matter how you spin it, he’s yours until then.”

  The silence crackled.

  It didn’t just cut Carrie off at the knees—it took the legs out from under Rylan, too.

  His agent, Devin, let out a bitter scoff. “Unbelievable. You’re the one who made the approach, Marchand. Don’t act like we started this dance.”

  All eyes turned toward Marchand.

  His jaw worked, fury creeping into his expression. “Watch your mouth, Hart.”

  “You told me there was interest,” Devin snapped, “you brought Rylan into it⁠—”

  “I said there was a conversation,” Marchand growled. “And it was your client who showed up in my office ready to jump ship the moment the Vultures hit the bracket.”

  Carrie shifted, glancing at Rylan now with less PR-polish and more calculation. Devin started to say something else, but Marchand leveled him with a look that dared him to continue.

  I stayed quiet. Let them spiral. Sometimes silence was the sharpest knife.

  Then, slowly, finally, Rylan moved.

  He rose from the chair in one smooth, quiet motion, the lazy slouch gone, replaced with something leaner and far more alert. I felt his eyes on me before I saw him move—really felt them. A prickle at the base of my spine. The hair on my arms rising.

  I turned. Met his gaze directly.

  Something in his expression had changed. His nostrils flared faintly, his eyes narrowing. His attention sharpened—not just on the conversation, but on me.

  He was picking something up.

  Not the scent of the others—I’d scrubbed thoroughly, dressed clean, even used scent-neutralizing balm. But his instincts were too well-honed. It wasn’t what I wore. It was what lingered beneath. My altered body chemistry. A trace of something... shifted.

  Rylan didn’t speak.

  But his focus had changed from disinterest to laser-fine intensity.

  I held his gaze without flinching.

  “You’re costing yourself more than leverage,” I said calmly. “You’ve handed the Vultures doubt about your loyalty, your judgment, and your discretion. Even if you were released, what makes you think any team would still want you after this mess?”

  Carrie frowned.

  Rylan said nothing. But I saw it—the flicker of emotion behind his stillness. Disdain. Irritation. Frustration.

  But also... curiosity.

  It simmered in the way he looked at me, now. The kind of look predators give just before they lunge. Only this time, I was the one holding the leash.

  “How sad for you,” I said softly, gaze still on Rylan. “You could’ve used the wildcard to show strength. Stability. Instead, you’ve turned yourself into a liability.”

  That landed. Hard.

  His mouth curled, just slightly. But there was no humor in it.

  Marchand shifted behind the desk, clearly aware that the dynamic had changed. His voice was short, clipped. “Wren. Stay behind. Everyone else—out.”

  Devin bristled. “She doesn’t have the right⁠—”

  “I said out,” Marchand barked.

  Carrie stood, eyes still flicking back to me like she was trying to decide if I’d just outmaneuvered or humiliated her. I leaned into both, but I wasn’t the one keeping score. Devin huffed and muttered something under his breath. But it was Rylan who lingered last.

  He stepped close enough that I had to lift my chin to meet his eyes.

  “You’re not who I thought you were,” he said softly. “I should’ve paid more attention.”

  “You still can,” I replied, voice just as quiet. “But next time, don’t wait until the house is on fire to ask who’s holding the extinguisher.”

  His nostrils flared again. Then, without another word, he turned and followed the others out.

  The door had barely clicked shut before Marchand shoved himself out of his chair and crossed to the bar cart. No offer of a drink for me. Not that I wanted one. It was barely nine in the morning.

  He poured two fingers of something amber into a crystal glass and downed half of it before turning toward me.

  “What the hell was that?”

  “Control,” I said simply, “of a narrative that was about to spiral into freefall.”

  “You humiliated me.”

  “No,” I said, calm but firm. “You humiliated you when you started this little game. I stopped the bleeding.”

  He glared at me, glass still in hand. “You could’ve given me a heads-up. You didn’t even loop me in this morning.”

  “You told me to fix it,” I reminded him. “It’s fixed.”

  His eyes blazed and his jaw tightened. Power punched the air around him, and ballooned outward like he wanted to choke me with it. “Have you forgotten who you work for?”

  Surprisingly, I remained unmoved. Then, I’d never let him bully me. Normally, I’d take a gentler tack first, but that ship sank when he kept escalating in my absence.

  “Have you forgotten what my job is?” Because both of us could play this game. “I’m not here to cater to your ego or your pride. I’m here to protect this team from all threats—even those that start at the top.”

  “Why didn’t you call me on your way in? Why didn’t you brief me?” He rapped his knuckles against the tabletop, the sound echoing in the hush.

  I could have pointed out that he was already in a meeting with them when I arrived. I could have told him that I came straight up here to do exactly that and found him in the middle of that meeting. Instead, I just went for his jugular. “Because I knew you’d be too busy trying to save face to think strategically.” I arched a brow. “Which is exactly how we got here in the first place.”

  Nostrils flared and eyes blazing, he glared at me.

  “I warned you about Rylan,” I went on. “When he was on the team before, when he was cut, and when his agent approached us two years ago in the off season. You didn’t want to hear it then and based on your ambushing tactics with him last week, you didn’t want to hear it now. Then you let him think he had negotiating power in the middle of a playoff push and dangled me as the bait.”

  “You’re accusing me of blowing this up?”

  “I’m accusing you of not knowing how to pick your battles. You’re trying to strong-arm a player you never had a handle on, and you let your ego write checks your strategy can’t cash.”

  Marchand’s mouth twisted in an ugly scowl. “Don’t give me that tone, Wren. I brought you in to manage PR, not run this team.”

  “You brought me in to clean up your messes,” I snapped. “That’s exactly what I’m doing. But let me be perfectly clear—if you keep treating me like your secretary instead of your Director of Public Relations, this team won’t just lose face. We’ll lose the locker room. The sponsors. The playoff momentum. All of it.”

  He slammed the glass down on the edge of the bar cart hard enough that I thought it might crack.

  But he didn’t argue.

  I folded my arms, letting the silence stretch.

  “You’re rattled,” I said finally, voice softer but no less steady. “The Howlers are in the playoffs and instead of celebrating that, you’re trying to maneuver new players into position, but you don’t control the pieces on the board.”

  His eyes snapped to mine.

  “You thought Rylan was leverage. You thought a power play would win this. But it’s not about chess anymore. It’s poker. And you just showed your whole damn hand.”

  A muscle ticked in his jaw.

  “Do you want to win, Marchand?”

  He didn’t answer right away. But his chest rose and fell once, then again, and his gaze dropped to the drink he hadn’t finished.

  “Yes,” he said. Gritted out like he hated that it was me asking the question.

  “Then stop making it personal,” I said. “Use what I gave you. Get control back. Let me do what I do.”

  He looked up at me again, and this time, there was no anger. Just a resigned kind of awareness. I’d won this round—and he knew it.

  “Make sure it doesn’t happen again,” he said.

  “Then don’t put me in a position where it can.”

  “Wren,” he said slowly as he straightened. “You better hope they win, because if we lose the playoffs—someone’s head will need to roll.” The implication being it would be mine.

  We stared at each other for another long moment before I turned and walked out, my heels clicking sharply against the polished floor.

  It wasn’t until the elevator doors closed behind me that I let my shoulders drop and exhaled slowly. One crisis handled.

  And somehow, I was still thinking about Rylan’s eyes on me—too aware, too intent.

  I wasn’t wearing Roan’s scent. Or Jay’s. Or Rhett’s.

  But that didn’t mean something in me hadn’t changed. Something that could be detected by another alpha. Predators like Rylan always knew when blood was in the water.

  Let Marchand stew.

  I had what I needed from that meeting—leverage, position, and a clear path forward. The fallout would still come. There were calls to make, headlines to manage, and somewhere in my inbox, a growing PR storm over whether or not the Howlers were “poaching talent” during the most critical part of the season.

  But none of that mattered more than seeing my team.

  Not the management. Not the league. Not the press.

  My team.

  I took the long corridor down toward the rink-level suites, the distant echo of whistles and shouts growing louder as I got closer. I could hear Jay’s voice before I saw him—cutting through the air in a bark of laughter, followed by Rhett’s unmistakable heckling.

  The moment I stepped into the viewing box overlooking the practice rink, the cold glass against my palms grounded me. The ice gleamed below, sun filtering through the narrow upper windows in bright white bars. The Howlers were in full motion—sharp, fast, fluid.

  Jay was running a tight drill on one end. Rhett had a cluster of players lined up along the boards for individual shots, barking out quick notes in that deceptively lazy drawl that always carried a deeper edge of discipline.

  And Roan… Roan was everywhere.

  Watching. Managing. Tracking flow, placement, tension.

  He skated like a machine—smooth, powerful, and aware. The alpha in him wasn’t just dominant on the ice, it was gravitational. Yet there was ease in him today, too. His movements less tight, less coiled. As if something in him had settled.