“Watch drills,” he said, turning for the door. “And maybe let yourself enjoy what we’ve built.”
Then he was gone, leaving me with nothing but the sound of skates cutting ice and the quiet, irrevocable feeling that he might be right.
No matter what waited in my inbox… or what trouble Rylan was brewing next… this—this—was the reason I loved this job. Not just to manage reputations. But tobelong.
Roan cut a look up at the suite just then, like he’d heard my thought and I raised the thermos toward him in a silent toast. I didn’t have to see his face tofeelhis smile. Then his attention was back on the ice, on the drills, on the game.
Chapter
Twenty-Nine
RHETT
First day back and my thighs were already screaming like we owed them rent.
The drills were brutal. No easing in, no “shake it off, boys.” Just sharp, crisp execution and Roan barking out directions like he was training wolves to chase blood in snow.
And still—I was having a hell of a time.
Maybe it was the playoff buzz under my skin. Maybe it was the clean-cut pace of Jay slinging the puck like a surgeon on the left wing or the way Roan cut across the ice, every movement lean and merciless. Or maybe, it was that I couldfeelher here.
Wren.
Even when I didn’t see her, Ifelther. Like static building in the background, threading through every player in the rink. Half of them kept darting looks toward the upper suite where she’d been earlier. Some pretended not to glance. Some didn’t even bother.
Yeah. Everyone was wondering what the hell had gone down with Rylan.
No one was dumb enough to ask outright. But between drills, the whispers started like they always did. Harmless stuff at first—speculation, what-if scenarios, locker room banter. Until itstarted to drift toward real talk. Subtle jabs. “I always thought Rylan was a dick” kind of energy.
Roan shut it down fast.
“Focus,” he barked during a break, loud enough that even the guys trying to look casual flinched. “Playoffs are coming, and if you’re spending more time dissecting gossip than your coverage zone, you won’t be on the goddamn ice.”
Silence fell fast. Heads snapped forward. Sticks hit the ice.
He wasn’t wrong.
Still, that didn’t mean I couldn’t offer a littlelevityto the mood.
After all, Roan had the intimidation game locked down. Jay, meanwhile, brought the calm—he kept pace with the rookies during the more punishing drills, quietly correcting footwork or body alignment when needed. Guys respected him. More than that, theylistened.
Me? I was the jackass with the grin and the fastest one-liners. The guy who called out a perfect saucer pass and followed it with, “You miss that net again, I swear I’ll tie your gloves together and let you fight your way out like a raccoon in a trash can.”
At the same time, I knewexactlywhen to step back and let Roan’s authority hold the line.
We each had our roles. And right now? Mine was keeping the guys from burning outbeforeRoan could push them into something sharper.
Still, every time I caught sight of her across the rink—dark hair, pristine pantsuit swapped now for a sleek branded jacket, tablet in hand and phone pressed to her ear—I wanted todo something.
Something dumb, probably. Flash her a grin. Tap the glass. Make her look atmeand not the chaos she was juggling.
Because Wren wasn’t just handling fallout. She wasorchestratingthe press like it was her own damn symphony. Interviews were flowing. Talking points distributed. Reporters were quoting team values and brushing off poaching rumors like the Vultures were just throwing a tantrum.
And the team? They were watching. The rookies who’d dared to look at her sideways a week ago were back to nodding with respect.
She wasn’t the scandal.
She was the one putting the fire out.
