First up: thenews.
The front page of two major league sports networks had the Vultures front and center, head coach in the middle of a press conference and a banner headline screaming:
PLAYOFF SPOT AWARDED: VULTURES WIN LOTTERY SLOT IN UPSET SHAKE-UP
Which would’ve been a wholethingby itself… except the subheader made my stomach tighten.
Accusations of Poaching: Are the Howlers Trying to Lure Talent Ahead of Time?
I clicked the link.
The article wasn’t subtle.
In fact, it was practically a manifesto. One that accused the Howlers’ management of “inappropriate communications,” “unprofessional overtures,” and “targeted tampering.” There was even a vague allusion tospecific playersbeing approached—though no names were listed.
The article had quotes from Vultures PR. And none of them were friendly. I rubbed a hand down my face and opened my email.
And there it was. A subject line that lit up my stomach with dread:
RE: DAMAGE CONTROL — WE NEED TO TALK IMMEDIATELY
From: Marchand
I opened it.
And winced.
Wren,
I don’t know what the hell kind of vacation you thought you were on, but it’s time to show up. The Vultures are spinning this like a full-scale PR war, and we’re bleeding goodwill by the hour.
Youtold menothing 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 theurgencythat 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.
