My skin went tight.
Beckett smiled at me like he’d already been promised something.
I sat back in my chair, carefully crossing one leg over the other. “Bringing back a player who left under more than a bit of bad blood as well as a cloud of controversy is not a simple re-entry. You’ll need a full brand reset. Interviews. Fan engagement. Rebuilding trust.”
“I have full faith in your ability,” Marchand said.
Of course he did.
Because I wasn’t just the handler.
I was the bait.
Beckett’s return wasn’t about stats or strategy. It was about headlines. Attention. Familiar tension. Somehow, I didn’t doubt that Marchand was betting that thechemistryhe kept hinting at would be enough to close the deal.
Beckett watched me in that way he always had—too direct, too amused, too sure of himself. Like he knew something I didn’t.
I pressed my fingers to my tablet screen to ground myself.
This wasn’t new.
I’d walked this edge before. I could do it again.
Even if this was actually the absoluteworsttime for this.
Even if my scent was changing.
Even if my skin felt too tight and my body too aware and the wrong alpha was sitting across from me smirking like he couldtastethe shift in the air.
I could do this.
Professional. Composed. No weakness. No tell.
Period.
Beckett didn’t stop smiling as Marchand took a call and stepped out onto the terrace—some power play, no doubt, letting us stew alone together. Across from me, Beckett lounged in his chair like he owned the room.
Like he already knew how this story ended.
“So,” he said, voice low and amused. “Are you the one who lured me back here, Wren?”
I didn’t even blink. “Don’t flatter yourself.”
“Too late. You’re here. Looking like that. Sitting across from me like you’re not dying to ask what I’m thinking.”
“I know what you’re thinking,” I said coolly. “It’s the same thing you’re always thinking.”
He grinned. “Touché.”
I went back to my tablet, scrolling through a schedule I already knew by heart. “This isn't high school. If Marchand brought you here to stir up headlines, then let’s talk about what he’s actually offering you. A one-season deal? Two? Is it PR or a real play for your contract?”
For the first time, something in Beckett’s face shifted. The grin didn’t fade, but his posture changed. Less cocky. More intent.
“I’ve got options,” he said. “Vultures aren’t exactly happy I’m here, but they’ll live. Marchand’s offering more than just a number on a paper. He wants a story. A comeback. Something flashy to drag the Howlers into a headline run. And maybe a little... unfinished business.”
He said that last part while looking right at me.
I folded my hands over my tablet. “You have an agent?”
