Like she was prey.

  Roan met us at the end of the corridor, already half-dressed in civvies, arms crossed over his chest. He didn’t ask what we were talking about. He didn’t have to. “You two done over-analyzing?” he asked, cool and sharp.

  Jay lifted one brow. “You noticed it too.”

  Roan didn’t answer. His mouth pressed into a tighter line.

  I stepped in. “She just… felt off. Not in a bad way. Just—different.”

  “She’s under a lot of stress,” Roan said. “Marchand’s pulling media stunts. Playoffs are close. It’s her job to keep this thing from blowing up.”

  “That’s not what this is,” I muttered. “You felt it.”

  Roan turned away. “Doesn’t matter what I felt. She didn’t ask us for anything.”

  “That’s not the same as saying she doesn’t need us,” I shot back.

  He didn’t look at me. “If we cross a line⁠—”

  “We’re not animals, Roan.”

  Jay didn’t say anything, but his gaze flicked sharply to the stairwell at the other end of the arena and the door opening at the top.

  Then I saw her. Wren. Her dark coat sharp against the neutral tones of the arena halls. Head held high, tablet in hand, stride clipped and professional as always in her knee-high boots that always looked damn good on her.

  And right beside her?

  Beckett.

  Flanking her on the other side—Marchand.

  I stilled.

  The way Beckett leaned just a fraction too close. The way he was smiling like he knew something we didn’t. The way Wren’s spine stayed too straight, like she was bracing herself through the whole thing.

  Roan must have tracked what I was looking at. His body tensed, subtle but unmistakable.

  “Where are they going?” I asked.

  “Owner’s box,” Jay said.

  “For lunch,” Roan added. His voice was flat, but his fists were clenched at his sides.

  “Did she agree to that?” I asked. “Or is she being used to spin whatever dumbass narrative Marchand’s cooking up this time?”

  None of us had an answer for that.

  And none of us moved.

  We just stood there—three guys who’d spent years pretending we didn’t notice her. That we didn’t feel anything. That it was all just banter and team dynamics and maybe a crush or two we’d outgrow.

  But right now?

  Right now, I wanted to storm up there and plant myself between her and that smug bastard like a goddamn wall. Judging by how tense Roan was next to me, I wasn’t the only one.

  Jay broke the silence first. “You still think this isn’t our business?”

  Roan didn’t answer.

  Because deep down, he had to know—something was shifting. It wasn’t just Wren.

  We stood there too long until all three were out of sight.

  None of us said anything for a beat—not until the elevator doors swallowed them up.

  Then Jay said, "We staying or heading out?"

  Roan ran a hand down his face. “We’re grabbing lunch.”

  That wasn’t what he meant though. It was dismissal. A clean cut.

  “Seriously?” I said, turning to him. “You saw that little power play Marchand just pulled. You’re the captain. If he’s trying to woo Beckett back to the Howlers, you should be in that room.”

  Roan didn’t blink. “No.”

  “You don’t think it matters?”

  “I think showing up uninvited gives Marchand exactly what he wants.”

  Jay tilted his head. “You could at least call. Or text. Plant a seed. Let him know Beckett’s not welcome here.”

  Roan’s jaw tightened. “No.”

  There was that damn word again.

  Jay squinted. “Why the stonewall?”

  Roan’s answer came like a slap. Quiet, sharp, undeniable. “Boundaries.”

  I barked a short laugh. “You’re kidding.”

  He wasn’t.

  “I’m not feeding Marchand’s ideas,” Roan said. “Beckett being here might be nothing. A PR favor, a photo op. If I react, it makes it something.”

  “What if it already is something?” I shot back. “You know how this works. If Beckett’s sniffing around, Marchand’s got a reason. Wren’s being dragged along for the optics. Again.”

  Jay crossed his arms, still cool, but watching Roan carefully now. “You’re not wrong. But Rhett’s not wrong either. This feels off.”

  Roan shook his head, stepping back like that would create enough distance to keep everything tidy. “She’s not ours.”

  That stung more than it should’ve.

  “You think I don’t know that?” I snapped. “You think I’m trying to claim her?”

  Roan didn’t answer, which meant he didn’t believe it either.

  I paced a few feet, hands flexing at my sides. “Fine. If you won’t poke the bear, I will.”

  Roan’s head snapped toward me. “Rhett⁠—”

  But I was already pulling out my phone.

  Jay raised a brow. “What are you doing?”

  “Calling in a favor.”

  “From who?”

  “Sabrina. She’s working press for CBC this week.” I thumbed through my contacts and hit the dial. “Just a little curiosity call.”

  Roan looked like he wanted to snatch the phone out of my hand. “Do not stir shit right now⁠—”

  I held up a finger as the call picked up. “Brina.” Her sharp indrawn breath was so audible, I could almost smell the arousal. Not possible over the phone. Also, not the point… I didn’t need a hookup. In fact, I definitely didn’t want one with her either. “Hey, hey, relax—it’s not one of those calls. I just had a quick question. Off the record.”

  Jay mouthed off the record, like that ever meant anything. I ignored him as I waited for Brina to get it together.

  “Off the record?” The skeptical note in her voice definitely carried more than a hint of distrust.

  “Yep. Off the record. You didn’t hear anything from me and you aren’t getting any quotes either.”

  “Uh huh,” she said slowly. “Just a little chat between friends?”

  Oh, she was intrigued. “Yep. You got time for me?”

  “No time like the present.” Got her.

  I kept my tone light. “You hear anything about Beckett Rylan maybe jumping ship? Word around here is Marchand’s rolling out the red carpet. Thought the Vultures were riding him all the way to finals, but hey—maybe he’s got other plans?”

  A pause.

  Then a quiet, “Wait, what?” Oh, I had Brina’s number. There was definitely relish in her voice despite the way she tried to smother it.

  “Oh yeah,” I said, oozing charm like syrup over a blade. “He’s up in the owner’s box right now. Marchand’s being all mysterious. Wouldn’t want anyone to think he was stabbing his current team in the back, though... unless, y’know, there’s a contract already signed. Then it’s old news.”

  Another pause. The sharp indrawn breaths, and equally harsh exhales betrayed her excitement. Yes, Brina was panting after the story the same way she did when I had edged her orgasms.

  “...I’m gonna need to make a few calls.”

  Huh. That was wild. Normally the sound and the thought it provoked would entice me. She was fun enough in bed, but nope… My dick didn’t even twitch. Weird.

  Still, I grinned. “Appreciate you. Lunch on me if it hits the wire first.”

  Click. She didn’t even bother to respond. Just hung up.

  Roan looked like he wanted to strangle me. “You didn’t just do that.”

  I slid the phone into my pocket. “Relax—I didn’t say a thing. Just asked a question.”

  “You dropped a bomb.” Roan’s voice went quiet and hard, the kind of quiet that smells like war. Being alpha didn’t mean we were above trying to throttle each other; it just meant we could usually laugh about it later. I wanted to sock him—good-natured rage, not lethal.

  “Not my fault if it blows up,” I said, like it was the most casual thing in the world.

  Jay let out a low whistle, half-impressed. “If Beckett doesn’t have a contract yet, he’ll be pissed.”

  “Good.” I didn’t want that douchecanoe back on the ice or the team or anywhere that brought him near us much less Wren. Then again, if I accidentally broke his ass during practice…

  Roan was already shaking his head, but I didn’t miss the glimmer of reluctant approval in his eyes. Just for a second.

  Sure, maybe I crossed a line. That was on me. I’d take the fallout from it.

  But I also wasn’t going to sit around while Marchand played chess with her like she was just another piece on the board. I used to think he was a tough alpha, a tough businessman, and even tougher owner.

  I used to respect the hell out of him too. But the past couple of years?

  I’d started to notice how often he pulled Wren in to “fix” things. Not just clean up our image or our statements or our messes. The last person I’d expected to see in the midst of our post-playoff win orgy two years prior had been Wren, but there she was walking through that minefield of hedonistic scents in her prim skirt, button-down blouse and jacket so straight and pressed that it practically threatened any wrinkle that wanted to muss her up.

  The attraction that hit me at that moment had been delivered with a mallet.

  The protectiveness that followed it, though, had threatened to drown me. How dare Marchand pull her into that… How dare he bring her somewhere she might have been mistaken for the entertainment…

  I’d abandoned my partner mid-coitus and strode across the room, dick still wet, and the look Wren had favored me with had almost made my balls shrivel up into my body. Most guys would probably have crawled off with their tail between their legs, I was made of a lot sterner stuff.

  Or maybe I was just stubborn as fuck. I’d grabbed a towel, wrapped it around my waist and become her shadow to keep her safe until she was done.

  No one was allowed to touch her. Not then. Not now.

  I’d kill Beckett Rylan first.

  No ands, ifs, or buts about it.

  “So…” Jay said slowly. “Lunch?”

  Chapter

  Four

  WREN

  The owner’s box at Howlers Arena looked like every expensive room owned by a man who wanted people to think he didn’t need to show off.

  Glass walls. A quiet, panoramic view of the ice. Sleek black furniture. A buffet catered by whatever private chef Marchand had on speed dial this month.

  It was quiet.

  Too quiet.

  I kept my tablet in front of me like a shield, scrolling through media schedules and pretending I didn’t feel Beckett Rylan’s eyes on me.

  He sat opposite me at the long table, legs spread wide, one arm draped over the back of his chair like he was holding court. His suit was perfect, his ruddy-brown hair artfully tousled, and that shit-eating grin of his hadn’t slipped once since we walked in.

  Marchand sat at the head of the table, wine glass in hand, smile thinner than usual. Calculating. Relaxed in the way only rich predators could be.

  “You’ve done well for yourself here, Beckett,” he said smoothly, lifting his glass. “Captain of a playoff-bound team. Clean PR record—well, mostly.”

  Beckett laughed, low and warm. “You know me. I aim to impress.”

  I didn’t look up from the tablet. “Funny. I thought you aimed to get suspended every other game.”

  “I missed your mouth, Foster.” He chuckled, low and throaty, with an edgy kind of sensuality that made most women throw their panties at him.

  Most women. Thankfully, I wasn’t most. I had never been and would never be one.

  I didn’t flinch. “You won’t when I start using it.”

  That earned a low laugh from Marchand. “Always sharp. You two had such… interesting chemistry back in the day.”

  My stomach tightened. There it was. The first thread pulled. More than once, Marchand had put me in charge of keeping Rylan from going off the rails. Too many read that as we were dating. We had not.

  “This is a professional lunch,” I said calmly. “I’m here to make sure any quotes that come out of it won’t require a mop and a PR fire extinguisher.”

  Beckett leaned in just slightly, and God, he smelled like cedar, smoke, and bad history.

  “Can’t we have both?” he asked. “It’s been a while, Wren. You look good.”

  I finally looked up. Made eye contact. Held it.

  “One, you’re in a public arena,” I said. “Flirting with the Howlers’ PR lead while still under contract with the Vultures. So unless you’re planning on pissing off two teams in one afternoon, I suggest you cool it.”

  “And two?” Rylan all but dared me to continue.

  He needn’t have bothered. “We’ve never had anything but a professional relationship. That isn’t changing. Period.”

  Marchand sipped his wine, perfectly content to let the tension build.

  That’s when it hit me. This wasn’t just a PR reunion.

  Marchand wasn’t dangling a contract in front of Beckett.

  He was dangling me.

  My pulse jumped, but my face didn’t move.

  “Let’s not pretend we’re here to reminisce,” I said lightly before I shifted my attention to the real predator in this room. “What do you need, Adrien?”

  Marchand set down his glass with a soft clink. “I need headlines that make people forget how many injuries we’ve racked up. I need a narrative shift. Drama. A return to roots. Our bad boy coming home, perhaps. And you—” he gave me a smile so polished it should’ve come with a warning label—“you’ve always known how to spin chaos into gold.”

  My skin went tight.

  Beckett smiled at me like he’d already been promised something.

  I sat back in my chair, carefully crossing one leg over the other. “Bringing back a player who left under more than a bit of bad blood as well as a cloud of controversy is not a simple re-entry. You’ll need a full brand reset. Interviews. Fan engagement. Rebuilding trust.”

  “I have full faith in your ability,” Marchand said.

  Of course he did.

  Because I wasn’t just the handler.

  I was the bait.

  Beckett’s return wasn’t about stats or strategy. It was about headlines. Attention. Familiar tension. Somehow, I didn’t doubt that Marchand was betting that the chemistry he kept hinting at would be enough to close the deal.

  Beckett watched me in that way he always had—too direct, too amused, too sure of himself. Like he knew something I didn’t.

  I pressed my fingers to my tablet screen to ground myself.

  This wasn’t new.

  I’d walked this edge before. I could do it again.

  Even if this was actually the absolute worst time for this.

  Even if my scent was changing.

  Even if my skin felt too tight and my body too aware and the wrong alpha was sitting across from me smirking like he could taste the shift in the air.

  I could do this.

  Professional. Composed. No weakness. No tell.

  Period.

  Beckett didn’t stop smiling as Marchand took a call and stepped out onto the terrace—some power play, no doubt, letting us stew alone together. Across from me, Beckett lounged in his chair like he owned the room.

  Like he already knew how this story ended.

  “So,” he said, voice low and amused. “Are you the one who lured me back here, Wren?”

  I didn’t even blink. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

  “Too late. You’re here. Looking like that. Sitting across from me like you’re not dying to ask what I’m thinking.”

  “I know what you’re thinking,” I said coolly. “It’s the same thing you’re always thinking.”

  He grinned. “Touché.”

  I went back to my tablet, scrolling through a schedule I already knew by heart. “This isn't high school. If Marchand brought you here to stir up headlines, then let’s talk about what he’s actually offering you. A one-season deal? Two? Is it PR or a real play for your contract?”

  For the first time, something in Beckett’s face shifted. The grin didn’t fade, but his posture changed. Less cocky. More intent.

  “I’ve got options,” he said. “Vultures aren’t exactly happy I’m here, but they’ll live. Marchand’s offering more than just a number on a paper. He wants a story. A comeback. Something flashy to drag the Howlers into a headline run. And maybe a little... unfinished business.”

  He said that last part while looking right at me.

  I folded my hands over my tablet. “You have an agent?”

  He gave a low laugh. “I’ve got you.”

  I stared at him. Deadpan. Not playing. “That’s not how this works.”

  “You’re the best mouth this team’s got.” His tone dipped suggestively. “You always knew how to manage me. I can definitely tell that hasn’t changed."

  “That was never my job.”

  “It should’ve been.”

  There was something serious under his teasing now. Something that made my skin go cold even as the back of my neck prickled with heat.

  He leaned forward, forearms on the table, eyes steady. “You’re better than this place, Wren. You always were. The way you run this team’s image? It’s a joke they haven’t made you GM.”

  “And yet here you are,” I said. “Crawling back to the team that traded you.”

  “Because you’re here.”

  That stopped me.

  It shouldn’t have. Beckett flirted like breathing. He didn’t mean half the things he said, and the other half were designed to get under people’s skin. But right now, something in his scent—sharp, focused, threaded with…something indefinable or at least something I did not want to define—made my stomach twist.

  I hated that I felt it.

  “I’m not here for you,” I said. “If you think Marchand’s offering you a fair deal without an agent, you’re either dumber than I thought, or a lot more desperate.”

  He tilted his head, watching me too closely. “You always take care of your players this personally?”

  “Only the ones who’re about to self-destruct in public.”