Certain voices made my stomach twist. My balance slipped around stronger scents. I was waking up flushed and aching, mouth dry, sheets tangled like I’d been chasing something in my sleep and never caught it.
The worst part? I couldn’t even tell if it was them, or me.
The locker room—don’t even get me started on that place—used to be just sweat, banter, and chaos. But now it felt like a live wire. A sauna of unwashed gear, testosterone, and temptation I couldn’t afford to want. Like my instincts were starting to hear a frequency I’d spent over a decade pretending didn’t exist.
I was slipping. The act was fraying at the edges.
That was before I ended up sitting in a too-white, too-bright medical office, arms crossed, stomach knotted, while my doctor gave me news I hadn’t wanted to hear three weeks earlier.
Dr. Maida clicked her pen. “Your readings are unstable. The suppressants aren’t binding the way they used to.”
I stared at her. “Then increase the dosage.”
“We’ve already pushed past the safe threshold, Wren.” Her tone softened, but it didn’t help. “Your liver enzymesare elevated. You’ve developed a tolerance, maybe even a dependency. Your body’s trying to override the meds.”
My throat dried. “There’s got to be something else.”
“There is. Stop taking them.” She leaned forward, gentle but firm. “Let your system reset. Let your body regulate.”
“No,” I said flatly. “You don’t get it. Ican’t?—”
“You don’t have a choice. If you keep going like this, you could trigger a crash. Organ damage. Full burnout. You’d be hospitalized.”
I looked away, jaw tight. Through the window, snow was starting to fall again—soft, quiet flakes spiraling against the glass. First storm of the season. I used to love snow.
Now it just made everything feel like it was closing in.
“Wren,” she said, voice low. “Who are you hiding from?”
I didn’t answer.
Because I wasn’t hiding fromsomeone.
I was hiding fromeveryone.
From two alphas whose scents were starting to pull something dangerous out of me.
From one beta who noticed too much.
From a life I didn’t want—no matter how badly my body was starting to whisper otherwise.
I’d done the math, then waited another few days to stop taking the suppressants. It would take time to let them cycle out of my system. They had a half-life. The doctor had walked me through all of it. She even had brochures and recommendations for services that could help me once they were out of my system and my first heat in over a decade hit.
That wasn’t today, though. I still had time. Time to get everything ready for the playoffs before I took a few days off. I only hoped it would be enough.
A message buzzed on my phone. Marchand’s assistant asking for another thirty before I came up. Fine. I’d get other work done until then.
The lobby was empty, the ice behind the glass rink walls freshly resurfaced, gleaming like a frozen promise. Upstairs, the media suite was quiet, mercifully. I didn’t think I could handle small talk or caffeine-laced gossip from the junior marketing assistant who was perpetually tracking the team’s Instagram engagement like it was the stock market.
I pushed open the door to my office and froze.
Rhett was already inside.
Well—hadbeeninside. The room was empty now except for the faint trace of his scent hanging in the air—cool eucalyptus, warm spice, and just a hint of something wild that didn’t belong in a business setting. Of course he wasn’t in here, he was with the team. I shook off the visceral reaction that had my skin pebbling.
There was a folded note on my desk, held down by a puck he'd swiped from media day. My name scrawled across it in a messy black sharpie.
Wren.
