Roan glanced back at the roses. “We’ll get rid of these. Quietly. No drama. No firestorm.”
“Understood,” Jay said.
But me? I looked down at that box one more time and imagined Rylan’s smug face behind every petal.
Yeah.
I’d be calm. I’d be patient.
But when the time came to settle the score?
I’d make damn sure he learned exactly how we played.
Chapter
Thirty
WREN
The call had already been going for twenty minutes by the time my doorbell rang.
I hadn’t expected anyone. I’d barely remembered to toss on soft joggers and an old Howlers tee after peeling off the suit I’d worn to the arena. My hair was in a clip. No makeup. Barefoot.
Hardly the image of professional composure, and yet here I was—one earbud in, phone wedged between shoulder and cheek as I padded to the door, laptop still open on the kitchen island behind me.
“Yes, I understand your frustration, but you don’t get to reframe league violations as ‘misunderstandings’ because the narrative doesn’t suit you,” I snapped, one hand on the deadbolt.
Carrie’s voice, haughty and sharp, fired back in my ear as I pulled the door open—and nearly lost my grip on the phone.
Rhett stood there, a brown paper bag cradled in one arm and a bottle of wine peeking out of the other. His hair was damp from a shower, his cheeks pink from the wind, and he had that same smug, devastating smile he always wore when he knew he’d just made your day better.
And damn him, hehad.
“Shhh,” I whispered with a smile, pointing to my ear.
He winked, stepped inside, and silently brushed a kiss to my temple as he passed. The scent of roasted chicken, lemon, and rosemary followed him. He headed for the kitchen without a word.
“—and furthermore, Wren, if your team hadn’t actively courted Rylan?—”
“Oh, for God’s sake, Carrie,” I bit out, reclaiming the conversation. “No one courted Rylan. He showed up uninvited and overstepped from day one. If the Vultures were so interested in controlling their narrative, maybe they should try actually controllingtheir players.”
The owner of the Vultures made a sound like a strangled cough. Marchand didn’t say a word, which usually meant he was suppressing a smile. The league rep—Hollis—sighed into his mic, sounding like a man juggling nitroglycerin.
“Let’s redirect,” Hollis said in the smooth, overly patient tone of someone who’d been through one too many of these calls. “This post-season tension is exactly what we want to avoid. Now, perhaps a solution that gives both parties a way to save face… such as a trade, post-playoffs, might offer a?—”
“No,” I said sharply. “Absolutely not.”
A beat of silence.
Then Marchand’s voice, measured and amused: “Wren?—”
“No, Adrien.” I cut in before he couldconsiderit. “I’m going to be very clear here. Even suggesting a trade opens the door for speculation we can’t shut down. We’re already dealing with the fallout of a tampering scandal and a public breakdown of negotiations between the league’s two most contentious teams. A trade? That’s blood in the water. You’ll tank morale, enrage the fan base, and set both teams up for months of press nightmares.”
The quiet wasn’t shocked, it was calculating. Because everyone on the call knew what a trade couldactuallymean.
Roan.
It would be Roan they asked for.
