WREN
The owner’s box at Howlers Arena looked like every expensive room owned by a man who wanted people to think he didn’tneedto 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 anythingbuta 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 danglingme.
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.”
