A reporter leaned forward. “What about your own role? There was a lot of tension off the ice — some say you were a target.”
I swallowed. “My job is to support the team. Behind the scenes, in the locker room and on the bench, I handle communications, strategy, and coordination. Yes, there’s pressure. Come on, it’s hockey. There’salwayspressure. But it’s the same for every team staffer in a finals series.”
A murmur ran through the crowd when Rylan shifted in his seat. I felt the subtle, familiar pull. His scent, alpha-strong and teasingly provocative, brushing against my awareness despite the distance. My throat tightened, but I forced a smile.”
And just to clarify,” I added, “any distractions off the ice did not change our focus on winning. As you can clearly see by who won the finals.”
Was that a dig at Rylan? Yes. I wasn’t even ashamed of it.
Questions came faster after that, about the injuries, the future of the roster, and the team’s next steps. I answered each with a professional tone, careful to stay neutral, to stay safe. But all the while, I felt him watching, a silent echo of the chaos on the ice, the tension that Roan had carried and that now, somehow, rested in the room with me.
When the conference finally ended, I walked away from the podium with my hands pressed together, exhaling slowly. The flash of cameras followed me, but my mind lingered on the look Rylan had given me from the back row, as if I needed a reminder that the war on the ice wasn’t quite over.
The hallway outside the press room smelled faintly of bleach and stale coffee, but beneath it all, I could sense him—Rylan—like a predator who refuses to take the hint. My pulse quickened despite my blockers. He was already stepping toward me, slow, confident, smirk curling, as if he had every right to corner me.
I pivoted instinctively, moving toward the exit. “Excuse me,” I said, keeping my tone clipped, professional, but the tremor in my pulse betrayed me just slightly.
Rylan mirrored me. “Wren. You’re not just going to?—”
Before he could finish, Marchand appeared, a solid presence between us. He raised one hand, blocking Rylan with a calm authority only he could wield. “Step back, Beckett. She’s leaving.”
Rylan hesitated, lips twisting, then nodded once, a silent acknowledgment of defeat for now. Security flanked him, and I exhaled quietly, forcing my pulse to slow as I slipped past. Marchand’s eyes met mine briefly, just enough to reassure me, and I didn’t need words.
Outside the arena, night had fallen. Cool air hit my face, almost shocking after the heat of the hotel and pressrooms. Security paced me as I walked briskly, the click of my boots on pavement the only sound except for the distant buzz of traffic. I kept my head down, blockers working overtime, and avoided any glance toward the parking lot where I knew Rylan might linger. The guards were professional, keeping an eye out until I was safely in my car.
By the time I reached the cabin, my body was still simmering under control, each step a small victory. I knew the guys would start their post-game celebration soon. Normally, I’d make an appearance—share a toast, a cheer, even a small laugh—but not tonight. Not after this week. Not after the Finals, the heat, the closeness, the way Rylan’s presence gnawed at the edges of my restraint.
But I couldn’t just vanish without leaving a breadcrumb. My fingers shook slightly as I punched in Roan’s voicemail. I kept my voice low, teasing, playful, yet full of the tension I couldn’t otherwise release:
“Same place as last time… and consider this an open invitation to chase. I’ll be the omega on the run… claim me if you can.”
I hung up, letting the words linger in the air like a spark. No one would expect it, not after the championship. It was a promise, a challenge, a tease—but most of all, it was mine.
Inside the cabin, I poured a glass of water, layered on extra blockers, and sank into the couch. The silence felt like salvation, a distance I desperately needed. My pulse still hummed beneath the surface, but for the first time all day, I allowed myself to relax just a little. I had survived the Finals. I had protected the team.
Soon… very soon, I hoped. They would come for me.
As I promised Roan, we’d settle this between the four of us.
I hoped.
Chapter
Thirty-Nine
JAY
The morning after the finals always hit differently. Normally, it was hangovers, scattered champagne bottles, and that hollow kind of exhaustion that comes after you’ve climbed a mountain you weren’t sure you could survive.
This time, though, it was quiet. Too quiet.
We’d celebrated late. Like,obscenelylate. The locker room had turned into a blur of champagne sprays and beer cans, Rhett leading a round of shots before Marchand cut him off for trying to drink from the trophy again.
When the party rolled over to the owner’s suites, Roan had been his usual stoic self, taking it all in, watching over the guys like a proud, bruised sentinel. And me? I’d parked myself between him and Rhett, shoulder throbbing, half-grinning through the pain because, hell, we werechampions.
But even as the night rolled on, one thing kept needling at the edge of my mind.
Wren never showed.
