If you’re not okay, you know you can tell me, right?
—R
No joke. No flirt. Just… that.
I stared at it longer than I should have.
For someone who made everything a performance, Rhett had a nasty habit of slipping sincerity in when I least expected. It was a side of him he didn’t show on purpose. And that? That was harder to shake off than the usual locker room crap.
I folded the note in half and tucked it into the drawer with my backup comms and a handful of granola bars I hadn’t eaten since the preseason road trip.
Then I sat down, powered up my monitor, and braced myself.
Because the doctor hadn’t given me a choice.
You need to stop taking the suppressants, Wren. Let your body regulate. When it’s time, take a few days. Let it pass.
Right. Just “a few days.” Like I was coming down with the flu and not about to fall into hormonal hell surrounded by two alphas and a beta who already watched me too closely. But she was right, at least based on my bloodwork. If I didn’t stop now, the crash wouldn’t be optional. It would be catastrophic.
I should have had a full three weeks, at least, but the window was closing on me far more swiftly than I expected. Particularly with my enhanced reactions. I had maybe forty-eight hours—tops—to get everything in order. Then I’d need to go.
Coordinate next week’s playoff media push. Schedule Roan and Jay for post-practice interviews. Prep the owner's talking points. Update the fan engagement calendar. Answer twenty unread emails. Put out whatever dumb fire Rhett started next.
And—if I had time—bury my rising panic in a neat little email auto-reply that read:“Taking a few personal days. No, I haven’t been kidnapped. Please contact Head of Comms for urgent requests.”
I took a slow breath. Then another.
No more suppressants. No more pretending my body wasn’t circling the edge of something dangerous.
I just had to survive long enough to outrun the fallout.
Easy.
Chapter
Two
WREN
Each day, my morning routine grew more challenging. No suppressants. No safety net. Just me, my to-do list, and a body I didn’t quite trust anymore.
The morning started like usual. Alarm. Shower. Too much dry shampoo. Coffee I forgot to drink until it went cold. The only difference was the pill bottle on the bathroom counter—still full. Untouched. Waiting.
It was fine. I felt fine.
Okay, my pulse was a little fast. And I’d reapplied deodorant twice. But that could’ve been anxiety. Or the twelve deadlines I’d stacked on myself trying to beat my own body to the finish line.
I pulled my coat tighter as I stepped into the frigid arena tunnel. The sound of skates on ice echoed ahead—practice in full swing. I could already hear Rhett’s voice over the others, loud and relentless, trash-talking Roan mid-drill like his life depended on it. He was one of the best defensive goalies in the league. Unfortunately, he alsoknewthat and loved to rag on the others.
"Come on, Cap! I’ve seen faster footwork in synchronized swimming!”
Roan didn’t respond. He just hip-checked Rhett into the boards and kept moving.
God, I loved this job.
I made my rounds—checked in with the social team, flagged the arena ops guys about the power glitch in the west-side spotlight rig, then headed down toward the benches, where the Howlers’ post-practice interviews were supposed to start in fifteen minutes.
Practice was over by the time I reached the locker room, which smelled like hard work and bad decisions. Not unusual. But today, the usual scent-cocktail hit me like a slap. Not overwhelming. Just… sharper. Like someone had turned the volume up on the air.
