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, satCarrie 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.”
