Chapter
One
WREN
There were three unspoken rules in the Snowvale Howlers’ locker room.
One: Don’t touch the gear if you don’t want to lose a hand.
Two: Don’t mention the 2019 playoff choke.Ever.
Three: Don’t flirt with the PR manager unless you're ready to get roasted in front of your teammates.
Guess which rule they broke the most.
“Foster,” Rhett called out from where he was slouched on a bench, sweat-damp hair curling at the ends, pads half-off like he was auditioning for a thirst trap. “You ever get tired of pretending you don’t wanna climb me like a tree?”
I didn’t even pause my stride. “Only on days ending in ‘never,’ Navarro.”
The guys hollered. Rhett clutched his chest like I’d mortally wounded him. "Cold. Ice-cold."
“That’s the brand,” I shot back, tossing a stack of media schedules onto the table by the fridge. “Try reading sometime, it builds character.”
Across the room, Jay Kim didn’t even look up from where he was taping his stick with surgical precision. “Navarro doesn’t have character. He’s just noise in a nice jawline.”
“As opposed to all your jealousy in a pair of too-tight compression shorts,” Rhett countered.
“Jealous of what?” Jay asked dryly. “Your save percentage or your IQ?”
“Both,” Rhett grinned. “You wish you could make a crowd scream the way I do.”
Roan Whitaker snorted from where he was stretching out on the floor, foam roller under his back. “They’re screaming because you can’t stop dropping your stick mid-game.”
Rhett flipped him off. Roan didn’t flinch—he just looked at me. Quiet, steady.
“You okay?” he asked, voice low and private despite the chaos around us.
I gave him the same answer I always did. “Always.”
And it was always a lie.
Because here’s the thing about working this job as an omega: no one’s supposed to know.
Suppressants made it easier—at least, they used to. My scent stayed muted, my cycle flatlined, and my body mine. No glowing skin, no come-hither hormones, no pheromones curling through the air like invisible snares. I was just Wren. Smart mouth. Sharp boots. Full control.
But keeping up that illusion meant knowing how to read the room.
And the Howlers locker room was a jungle. Sweaty pads, damp towels, leather tape, pine-scented body wash and alpha musk all stewing in a low-grade haze. I’d learned to walk through it like a minefield: don’t linger too close, don’t lock eyes too long, and never—never—breathe too deep.
Especially not around Roan.
Or Rhett, when he was laughing.
Or Jay, when he got that look in his eyes like he saw something you didn’t even know you were hiding.
“Team meeting in five!” Coach Morrissey’s voice boomed from the hallway. “If you’re late, you run.”
A chorus of groans followed. Helmets thunked back into cubbies. Sticks got propped up. Someone cursed about missing their protein shake.
