She gave him a cool smile. “According to team documentation, I’m listed on every one of their emergency contact forms. Including Jay’s.”
Jay hummed, clearly trying not to grin. “She made me do it.”
“That may be.” Doc crossed his arms. “Still doesn’t make it protocol.”
“I’ll sign whatever release you want,” Wren replied. “You’re taking him to St. Luke’s?”
Doc hesitated, then nodded. “I’ll allow it. But I’ll be the one clearing him for release. Not hospital staff.”
“Understood.” She was already reaching for her phone.
Jay glanced at Rhett. “You okay driving?”
“I’m better than you,” Rhett said dryly. “And I don’t have a head injury.”
Doc muttered something about alphas being terrible patients as he turned to prep for transport.
“Not an alpha, Doc,” Jay mumbled, but that didn’t seem to help his case. It was my turn to hide a smile.
I stayed where I was, still braced in the doorway, watching as the pieces clicked into place around her. Wren didn’t raise her voice, didn’t bark commands, didn’t posture. Yet everything shifted as soon as she took control. Rhett backed her play. Jay relaxed. Even Doc fell in line.
Then the door opened again.
Marchand.
Of course.
He didn’t speak right away, but I didn’t miss the way his gaze cut from Wren to Jay to Rhett before landing on me. Assessing. Calculating. He didn’t miss much, but I knew that look. He wasn’t thrilled with what he’d heard.
Still, to his credit, he didn’t interrupt the medical decisions being made. Not until Doc and Rhett wheeled Jay out ahead ofthem, headed for the back entrance and the waiting transport van.
Only then did Marchand speak.
“You’ve got the press wrangled?” he asked Wren, voice low and careful.
She didn’t turn around. “I will. Give me ten minutes. Then I’ll be at the podium.”
“You’re really taking him home?” There was a sharpness to the question, one he tried to temper but didn’t quite manage.
Turning slowly, Wren arched one eyebrow. “Do you have an issue with your head of PR ensuring a key player gets medical clearance and support in a stable environment?”
“I have an issue with optics.” Marchand exhaled slowly. “And unnecessary exposure.”
I stepped forward. “He’s already exposed. The hit was in front of a stadium full of fans. You think the press aren’t already all over it?”
His jaw tightened.
Wren, cool as ever, didn’t take the bait. “I’ve already drafted the statement. We’re controlling the narrative. But I won’t pretend that Jay’s going to be sitting home alone with a bell to ring if he needs help. That’s not who we are.”
Marchand’s gaze slid between us again. Measuring. Finally, he just gave a clipped nod. “Handle it.”
“Always do,” Already tucking her phone into her blazer, she just gave him a return nod.
I watched him go, jaw tight. Distrust swarmed through me. I had no idea what he was up to, but I wanted to be ready to intercept.
“You okay?” I asked once we were alone again.
She turned to look at me, that calm exterior finally cracking just enough to show the wear underneath.
