“Let’s redirect,” Hollis said in the smooth, overly patient tone of someone who’d been through one too many of these calls. “This post-season tension is exactly what we want to avoid. Now, perhaps a solution that gives both parties a way to save face… such as a trade, post-playoffs, might offer a⁠—”

  “No,” I said sharply. “Absolutely not.”

  A beat of silence.

  Then Marchand’s voice, measured and amused: “Wren⁠—”

  “No, Adrien.” I cut in before he could consider it. “I’m going to be very clear here. Even suggesting a trade opens the door for speculation we can’t shut down. We’re already dealing with the fallout of a tampering scandal and a public breakdown of negotiations between the league’s two most contentious teams. A trade? That’s blood in the water. You’ll tank morale, enrage the fan base, and set both teams up for months of press nightmares.”

  The quiet wasn’t shocked, it was calculating. Because everyone on the call knew what a trade could actually mean.

  Roan.

  It would be Roan they asked for.

  Not just because he was the cornerstone of our team, but because taking him would gut the Howlers from the inside out.

  My heart clenched, but my voice didn’t waver.

  “We’re not losing a single player. Not now. Not later. Not to fix their mistake.”

  Marchand exhaled. “She’s not wrong.”

  Thank God he backed me up. He didn’t always, but when he did… he didn’t flinch.

  Hollis tried again. “I’m not suggesting it’s a formal trade offer, only that⁠—”

  “Then stop suggesting it,” I said crisply. “Let us handle our teams. The playoffs are already selling themselves. Let the games speak.”

  Rhett moved in my peripheral vision, unpacking containers with practiced hands. He’d set the table. He’d poured water. He’d even dimmed the overheads and lit the candle I didn’t remember buying that sat in the center of the table.

  He disappeared for a second, then returned with the bottle of wine and two glasses, setting them beside me as I paced back and forth in front of the island. When he raised his brows in silent offering, I nodded, nearly limp with gratitude.

  The cork popped cleanly, the softest shhfff, and he poured the wine like it was an ordinary Tuesday and not the middle of a PR war.

  His glass remained untouched. Mine, however—he lifted and held out gently. Like a gift.

  I took it.

  With the call still running in my ear, I sipped. And melted.

  Roasted garlic and lemon teased my nose, warm and rich and mouthwatering. He’d brought the rosemary chicken from that place downtown, the one I’d once raved about during an early morning carpool on our way to an out-of-town pre-season game.

  He’d remembered.

  He didn’t interrupt. He didn’t hover. He just was. A steady, grounding presence who knew exactly how to walk into a hurricane and not get blown off course.

  I sank into the moment, just enough to breathe.

  Enough to remind myself that no matter what flaming chaos waited on the other end of the line, I wasn’t alone in this anymore.

  I sipped the wine Rhett had poured me, more for the effect than the flavor—although the citrusy white was crisp and exactly what I needed. I didn’t have the mental bandwidth to ask how he knew that too.

  Because the Vultures’ owner wasn’t done pushing.

  “We all want this to go away,” he said smoothly, that faux-genteel tone of a man used to buying his way out of a mess. “But the longer this drags on, the more damage it does. Perhaps if you’d taken the approach seriously, Marchand, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

  “Seriously?” I muttered under my breath.

  Carrie, like the vulture she was, swooped in to double down. “We made a genuine offer. You responded with stonewalling and now the league is left with a situation escalating in the press.”

  “Because you leaked it,” I said, tone cool.

  Marchand’s chuckle cut through the line, dry and without humor. “You want to talk about escalation? You sent Rylan to us without formal process. You broke protocol. And now you’re trying to weaponize the fallout as if we’re the ones throwing punches.”

  “The league has rules,” the Vultures’ owner snapped. “If you won’t trade, we’ll go to arbitration.”

  “You can’t arbitrate what never existed,” Marchand said, suddenly sounding a little too much like me. “We didn’t sign a contract. We didn’t even agree to talks. My head of PR said no. I said no. My captain said hell no. There’s no case.”

  It was almost funny—listening to him mimic my exact arguments. Almost.

  Carrie started to speak again but Hollis cut in, his voice tight with irritation. “Enough. This isn’t a free-for-all. If this continues, both teams may face fines. Possibly even penalties.”

  That snapped my head up.

  “For what?” I said, sitting up straighter. “What exactly are we being punished for? Saying no? For refusing to participate in a contract violation? For keeping our players focused when someone else is leaking and spinning false narratives to distract from their own failures?”

  Rhett raised an eyebrow and tipped the bottle toward me in silent question. I nodded—sharply—and drained the rest of my glass before he even got the pour going. He refilled it without a word.

  “You tell me,” I continued, calm and clipped even as my stomach twisted. “What precedent does this set, Hollis? That we’re responsible for the circus because we chose not to perform in it?”

  There was silence. Glorious, telling silence.

  Rhett leaned against the kitchen counter, his arms crossed, eyes on me. His support was silent but fierce. I could feel it like gravity, steadying me.

  “Fine,” the Vultures’ owner snapped. “Clearly, we’re not going to reach an agreement. Let the public decide.”

  Oh, they would. And I knew exactly which team had more loyalty, more heart, and less bullshit to explain.

  “I’ll be issuing a public statement shortly,” Carrie added. “I trust you’ll all do the same.”

  Then—mercifully—there was a tone that indicated she’d rung off. The Vultures’ owner wasn’t far behind. Which left me, Marchand, and Hollis.

  And wine. Thank god for the wine.

  Thank god for Rhett too. When I raised the glass to him before I took another long swallow, his lips twitched into a small smile. His concern remained though, concern and support.

  “I hope you both understand,” Hollis said, with a very long sigh, “I’m not trying to play favorites. But I’ve got a complaint on my desk, I’ve got media hounding every angle, and now I’ve got two teams breathing fire. What the hell else am I supposed to do?”

  Marchand spoke before I could. “You could start by recognizing this isn’t on us. Wren is right. We were the ones approached. We didn’t solicit the player, we didn’t initiate contact, and we sure as hell didn’t agree to a trade.”

  I blinked. Okay, damn. He was really going for it.

  Marchand continued, calm but pointed. “Now they’re the ones leaking everything. And the timing? Right before playoff brackets get announced? Seems awfully convenient. Especially with the Vultures squeaking in on a wild card slot and the Howlers locked in as top seed.”

  Hollis didn’t speak, but I could hear him listening.

  So I went in for the final blow.

  “How better to psych out a team and their fans than to sow discord right before round one?” I said quietly. “You don’t need a rulebook to know what this is. This is strategy. Off-ice warfare. And you don’t punish the team holding the line because someone else decided to light a match.”

  Marchand exhaled through his nose. “She’s not wrong.”

  I leaned my head back, rubbing the back of my neck with one hand. Then Rhett was there, replacing my hand with his own strong grip and I damn near moaned as he worked the tension loose.

  Hollis sighed. “Send me a copy of your internal timeline, Wren. And make sure there’s documentation for every time you said no. I’ll handle the rest.”

  “Done.” With that, the line disconnected.

  I let the phone slide to the counter and reached for my glass. My hands were shaking a little—just enough that Rhett noticed. He slid his hand around to cup my throat in a grip that was as much collar as it was support before he pressed a kiss to my temple. “You’re a goddamn force.”

  “I need carbs,” I mumbled.

  “I brought potatoes,” he murmured, teasing kisses along my cheek to my ear and a shudder went through me as my nipples went taut.

  “I could kiss you.”

  “You could,” he said with a low chuckle. “And later, you will.”

  “Later?” It came out more a whine than I meant for it too, but he scraped his teeth over my earlobe before he sucked on it and I went up on my toes.

  One moment I had a wine glass in my hand, the next it was on the counter and Rhett had me up and on it as well. He stripped my sweats down in a movement so smooth, I barely saw it happen. Then he had my knees apart and his hands cupping my ass as he lifted me, his touch firm and demanding.

  "Yes," he said in a husky voice as he took a deep breath. "I’m starving and I haven’t eaten you in three days…"

  "Oh." The single syllable fell out of me. "Fuck."

  "Oh, we will," he promised before he buried his face against my cunt and began to devour me like it was his personal mission in life. His tongue, teeth, and lips alternated between stroking, licking, sucking, and biting, each movement sending jolts of pleasure straight to my core. The smoothness of his freshly shaven face added another layer of delectable sensation. The heat built inside of me, the pressure coiling tighter and tighter.

  I was close, so goddamn close and he kept edging me right there and then lapping with these stroking licks that refused to push me over. Just when I thought I couldn’t take it anymore, he sucked my clit into his mouth, his tongue flicking over the sensitive nub with a ruthless intensity, and I came.

  Hard.

  My body convulsed as I squirted, the release so intense that it left me breathless and shaking. But he didn't stop there. He continued to feast on me, his touch relentless, his hunger insatiable, and I found myself spiraling into another orgasm, my cries of pleasure echoing through the room.

  As I came down from my second peak, my legs shaking so badly that I didn't think I could stand, I was already half begging, “Rhett,” I whispered almost hoarsely. “I need…”

  “Shh,” he said, his face glistening as he grinned and undid his belt buckle. “You never have to beg me, Wren. Ever…”

  With ease, he lifted me off the counter and set me on my feet, then braced me there, and placed my palms flat.

  “Hold on,” then he bent me over and slammed into me in one hard push that made me see stars. The angle seemed to increase how deep he could go and how thick he felt. It was overwhelming, a perfect blend of pleasure and pain, and I met his every thrust with equal fervor, my body arching to meet his.

  The orgasm seemed to start at my toes and rocket through my system. I pounded my fists as I came, slamming back against him even as he controlled the pace, but he was swift to follow me. The feel of his cum inside me as decadent as it had been in my heat, only now I could savor the way it filled me.

  We lingered there, shaking and spent, our bodies slick with sweat.

  His breathy chuckle made me smile. “What’s so funny?”

  “We both really need more carbs for this,” he said and I started laughing with him. Satisfaction spiraled through me.

  “Hmm, does this mean a repeat performance later?”

  At my husky inquiry, he nipped my ear. “Am I invited to stay the night?”

  “Oh,” I said with a shudder as he scraped his teeth over my earlobe before he sucked on it. I went up on my toes, the feel of his cock still buried inside of me and getting thicker again a temptation to layer upon temptation. “If you do… we might even make it to my bed.”

  “Challenge accepted,” he whispered.

  We ate—eventually—but we didn’t make it to bed until sometime around two in the morning when he carried my limp body up the stairs and sprawled out with me.

  Sex with Rhett during heat had been amazing.

  Sex without it?

  Addictive as hell—especially when he woke me up the next morning with his face buried between my thighs again.

  Chapter

  Thirty-One

  JAY

  Ibrought two coffees in addition to mine. Just in case.

  One of them was her go-to—hazelnut, with just a hint of oat milk and half a raw sugar packet stirred in before the lid went on. The second was a flat white with an extra shot of espresso, also oat milk. The last was for me, triple espresso light on the latte, because I had a feeling today was going to need it.

  Tucked under my arm was a little brown bag from the French café she liked, the one with the actual pastry chef who knew how to make kouign-amann that didn’t just taste like sugar bricks.

  I’d barely made it to the porch when the door opened and Rhett leaned casually in the frame, barefoot, t-shirt wrinkled, hair even worse.

  He grinned like a man who had absolutely no shame. “Morning, lover boy.”

  I stared at him for one long second, then handed him the second coffee—the one without the hazelnut. “Didn’t realize I had competition for the last kouign-amann.”

  He looked at the bag like it was holy, then stepped aside. “That’s why I like you, Jay. You come bearing gifts even when I beat you to the prize.”

  I rolled my eyes and stepped inside, seriously, the guy never quit. It made him damn successful on and off the ice, even if there were days when I got why he inspired the urge to punch him. She was seated at the kitchen island in a loose sleep tee and shorts, barefoot, hair up, one leg tucked under her while she worked at her laptop.

  Her eyes lit up when she saw me. “Jay.”

  Yeah, okay. That helped.

  “Good morning.” I walked over and set the coffee and the treat down beside her. “Brought you breakfast. I wasn’t sure if you’d already eaten.”

  She gave a soft, delighted sound and reached for the coffee first, eyes fluttering closed when she took a sip. “This might be love.”

  “Better not be,” Rhett muttered from behind me. “Or I’m gonna have to start sleeping with the guy who owns that café.”

  Wren snorted, then caught my gaze and—God—it did something to me. There was warmth there. Openness. Want.

  I’d never considered myself someone who needed reassurance. But that look? That was my oxygen.

  “I’d like to take you on a date,” she said, voice soft but sure.

  That startled me a little. “A date?”

  She nodded. “A real one. With food and…whatever you like.”

  “Wait—you’re asking him out?” Rhett asked, grabbing an apple from the bowl and tossing it in the air. “I mean, I get it, the hair, the cheekbones, the intense brooding⁠—”

  Wren reached out, placed a hand firmly over his mouth, and arched an eyebrow. “You’re not helping.”

  His muffled laughter vibrated against her palm. But when she pulled her hand back, Rhett winked at both of us. “I fully support being romanced. Just saying. You want to seduce me with a charcuterie board and a night of bad decisions, I’m in.”

  “Duly noted,” she said dryly, then turned her attention back to me. “But yes. If you want to, I’d like to take you out.”

  A slow smile curved my mouth. “I would enjoy that.” Under-fucking-statement of the year, but I was definitely in.

  She let out a breath like she hadn’t realized she’d been holding it. “Only problem is… I don’t want to be a distraction.”

  That seemed fair. We had a lot going on right now. Though, I didn’t think she wanted me to tell her that she was as far from a distraction as you could get. The games were a distraction, not her.

  “The playoffs,” I said.

  “The brackets drop today,” she confirmed. “Everything’s about to get louder and messier. I don’t want to pull you away from the focus.”

  “I think you’re the one who’s been helping me stay focused,” I told her. She needed to know that, if nothing else. Particularly with all the shit she was wading through to protect us—and the team. “But I get it. We’ve got a job to do.”

  Rhett crunched through a couple more bites, his mood bright enough to light up a neon sign. “So serious. We’ll get through this, then we can take turns dating you while Jay files spreadsheets about my greatness.”

  “I’m not putting that in a spreadsheet,” I said, not even having to put effort into my dry tone.

  “Oh, but you’d read it.” The man never shut up. At the same time, there was a happiness radiating off of both of them. A kind of joy I was more than happy to see.

  Wren shook her head, laughing softly, and picked out a pastry from the bag, before breaking off a buttery corner. “I don’t know precisely who we’re facing yet,” she said after a beat. “But I have ideas.”

  “So do I.” I sipped my coffee. “We’ll be ready.”

  Her smile was there again, subtle but genuine. When she offered me a piece of the pastry, I opened my mouth to let her feed me. It was a little sweeter than I liked but no way in hell would I tell her no.

  Leaning against the counter, I soaked in her good mood. Rhett finished his apple before he took another drink of his coffee and gave her little mournful eyes until she fed him some pastry too in between skimming her emails.

  She shared more with me, but I was sure that was as much because I brought it as it was to give Rhett shit. Not that it mattered, I enjoyed her simple pleasure in the activity. Enjoyed even more that we just were, the three of us in her quiet kitchen before we had to hit the ice and the press.

  Eventually, time did what it always had, and we needed to get out of there. She slipped off her stool and headed upstairs to change while Rhett and I made short work of cleaning the kitchen up. After, we walked out together.