I didn’t even make it a step before the Coach eyedmewith a nod and asked, “You joining us, Foster?”
“I’ll brief you after,” I said. “Owner’s upstairs. Wants to talk playoff strategy—media coverage, not defensive lines. Sorry to disappoint.”
“Don’t be,” he said, already distracted as he barked at Apa to tuck in his damn jersey. “You do your job better than half my rookies do theirs.”
“That’s because I don’t get concussed weekly.”
He chuckled as he walked off, and I headed toward the elevator, smoothing the front of my blazer. As much as the guys joked around, the real pressure came from up top. I didn’t even make it another step before Roan stepped into my path.
Roan rolled his shoulders as he rose, the motion smooth and measured like everything he did—controlled. Deliberate. He stepped closer, eyes briefly scanning my face, then the small tension in my hands I didn’t know I’d been clenching.
“You sure you’re okay?” he asked again, voice lower this time. Closer. Something warmer flickered underneath the usual stoicism.
I shrugged like it didn’t matter. “Just tired.”
His gaze lingered on me, too perceptive for comfort.
“Then maybe take your own advice for once and rest,” he said, dry as ever but softer now. “You’re always on. Even wolves sleep.”
I huffed out a quiet laugh, surprised. “Was that a poetic metaphor, Whitaker?”
“It was a threat to make you nap, actually.”
He turned to leave, but paused mid-step. “We notice when you don’t take care of yourself, you know.”
Then he was gone, following Coach down the hallway with that long, steady stride.
I stood there for a second too long, but when I turned, Jay was watching me.
He was leaning against the locker just to the side, stick still in hand, tape dangling from his fingers. Calm. Unreadable. But his eyes—dark and sharp and cutting right through me—locked with mine. Not challenging. Not accusing.
Justknowing.
I maintained my professional mask, a faint smile with a hint of certainty that refused to be dislodged even by his silent, if intense, accusation. Didn’t matter in the long run, though, I looked away before I strode out of the locker room.
Strode.
Not fled.
Yes, I was very good at lying to myself.
The Howlers’ owner, Adrien Marchand, was exactly the kind of wealthy, sharp-eyed alpha who made people instinctively nervous—and he liked it that way. His suits were always immaculate, his words sparse, and his presence unsettling in that power-play, boardroom-heat sort of way.
“I hope they’re not giving you too much trouble,” he said as I stepped into his office. The view of the snow-drenched rink below looked like something out of a postcard, if the postcard came with a scent warning and bloodstains on the ice.
“They’re puppies in pads,” I replied, cool and crisp. “Loud, slightly untrainable, but manageable.”
His mouth twitched. “Good. Keep them focused. This playoff run could make or break the franchise.”
I nodded, did the PR dance, promised press coverage, coordinated talking points, and got out of there before his scent started digging claws into the back of my throat.
Because lately?
Everything was getting harder to ignore.
My skin had started to buzz in crowds.
A heavy-bass hum just beneath the surface of my bones, like I was a radio tuned half a frequency off. I’d found myself leaning in when Roan spoke, breathing slower when Rhett laughed near me, reacting—viscerally—to things that shouldn’t have touched me.
