No flared tempers.
No blood in the water.
But inside the space between us, there was fire. Rage. An almost unbearable weight ofcontainment.
I was shaking with it. Barely. But I was.
He didn’t speak again until I turned to walk away.
“I assume,” he said, his voice as flat and cool as mine had been, “you’re still taking care of yourself, Wren.”
I paused.
Not for long.
But long enough for him to know he’d landed the hit.
Then I smiled, sharp and blade-thin over my shoulder. “Of course, sir. Everything’s under control.”
Liar.
Marchand walked away without another word, his footsteps echoing sharp and even across the concrete. No backward glance. No parting threat. Just the cold, controlled exit of a man who thought he’d won something.
He hadn’t.
Then again, neither had I.
I stayed by the boards until I heard the outer door click closed behind him, waiting five long seconds more to be sure he wasn’t doubling back.
Only then did I let my shoulders drop.
Just for a breath.
Then I turned toward the press corral, where four bored-looking reporters tried not to looktooeager.
One lifted a hand. “Wren—just a second?”
I offered a tired smile. “If you promise not to ask me about what Beckett orders for lunch.”
They laughed—too easily. Probably relieved I wasn’t slamming the gate shut in their faces.
The youngest of the group—an intern maybe, or one of the new podcast boys—asked first. “So is the Rylan rumor real?”
I blinked at him, all innocence. “You know how rumors are. They like to feel important.”
A second voice—more experienced, more familiar—jumped in. “But hewashere today. With you. With Marchand.”
“He stopped by.” I shrugged like it meant nothing. “Our owner likes to talk business. He talks to alotof people.”
A third tried a sharper angle. “Any comment on the speculation that he’s been offered a slot with the Howlers for next season?”
I smiled wider, smooth as ever. “My comment is that Roan Whitaker is laser-focused on this year’s playoffs, not next year’s headlines. And that’s the only narrative we’re running with.”
Another flash of fake chuckles. Another round of polite nods.
I kept walking.
Out of the press’ line of sight, the air was colder, emptier. The heels on my boots echoed in the hallway. My legs felt heavier than they should’ve.
