“Wren,” he said slowly as he straightened. “You better hope they win, because if we lose the playoffs—someone’s head will need to roll.” The implication being it would be mine.
We stared at each other for another long moment before I turned and walked out, my heels clicking sharply against the polished floor.
It wasn’t until the elevator doors closed behind me that I let my shoulders drop and exhaled slowly. One crisis handled.
And somehow, I was still thinking about Rylan’s eyes on me—too aware, too intent.
I wasn’t wearing Roan’s scent. Or Jay’s. Or Rhett’s.
But that didn’t mean something in me hadn’t changed. Something that could be detected by another alpha. Predators like Rylan always knew when blood was in the water.
Let Marchand stew.
I had what I needed from that meeting—leverage, position, and a clear path forward. The fallout would still come. Therewere calls to make, headlines to manage, and somewhere in my inbox, a growing PR storm over whether or not the Howlers were “poaching talent” during the most critical part of the season.
But none of that mattered more than seeing my team.
Not the management. Not the league. Not the press.
Myteam.
I took the long corridor down toward the rink-level suites, the distant echo of whistles and shouts growing louder as I got closer. I could hear Jay’s voice before I saw him—cutting through the air in a bark of laughter, followed by Rhett’s unmistakable heckling.
The moment I stepped into the viewing box overlooking the practice rink, the cold glass against my palms grounded me. The ice gleamed below, sun filtering through the narrow upper windows in bright white bars. The Howlers were in full motion—sharp, fast, fluid.
Jay was running a tight drill on one end. Rhett had a cluster of players lined up along the boards for individual shots, barking out quick notes in that deceptively lazy drawl that always carried a deeper edge of discipline.
And Roan… Roan was everywhere.
Watching. Managing. Tracking flow, placement, tension.
He skated like a machine—smooth, powerful, andaware. The alpha in him wasn’t just dominant on the ice, it was gravitational. Yet there waseasein him today, too. His movements less tight, less coiled. As if something in him had settled.
I wondered, for a breathless second, if that had anything to do withme.
A knock came at the suite door. I turned just as Coach stepped inside with a clipboard under one arm and a thermos in the other.
He offered it to me with a dry look. “Thought you might need something stronger than arena coffee.”
I took the thermos, amused. “Tell me it’s not bourbon, still too early for that.”
“It’s dark roast,” he said. “Don’t insult my taste.”
That earned a soft laugh. I sipped gratefully, the fresh brew hitting my throat like armor.
“Word’s already out?” I asked.
He nodded grimly. “The Vultures just posted a vague denial. Rylan’s trending. And Marchand’s breathing fire.”
“Good,” I said. “Let him.”
Coach studied me for a beat, then tilted his head toward the glass. “They’re glad you’re here.”
I blinked. “What?”
“Down there,” he said, with the kind of weight that made me still. “Jay. Rhett. Roan. Hell, the whole damn locker room. You walk in, and things shift. They settle.”
I didn’t know what to say to that. So I didn’t. Still, something in my chest pulled tight.
