Because if Beckett Rylan thought he could lay one hand on her, he was about to learn exactly how feralIcould get.
Chapter
Ten
ROAN
Ididn’t go looking for Marchand without a plan.
Not because I wasn’t pissed — I was. I’d spent the last twelve hours drowning in it. I’d nearly broken my stick over the boards during drills. Almost snapped at Nate when he chirped about Wren being “too cozy” with Beckett during that owner’s box lunch.
If Jay hadn’t intercepted me after practice to give me the latest — that Wren hadn’t just taken off, she’d cleared her calendar for five days ofmedicalleave — I might’ve gone full caveman.
But this wasn’t a situation I could punch through. And Wren?
She didn’t need a feral alpha charging into the storm.
She needed someone who could outmaneuver it.
So, before I made my way to Marchand’s office, I’d already done two things:
Called my agent.
Started drafting a very strategic leak of my own.
Just enough to put pressure on Marchand without making it traceable. A whisper campaign — the kind that asked questions without making accusations.
Things like:
“Is Beckett Rylan really in talks with the Howlers?”
“What does that mean for team dynamics and player safety?”
“Sources say one player already left the facility right after his visit — temporary medical leave. Coincidence?”
I wasn’t dumb enough to name names. Not mine. Not Wren’s. If only Rhett were as discreet.
But the suggestion would be enough to make any decent PR department sweat. Particularly when their master of spin—Wren—was not here to fix it. Marchand was going to have to deal with this on his own or make someone far less qualified cope. Either would be painful for Marchand and it would make him sweat, or worse, he’d make mistakes. Marchandhatedsweating.
How sad.
For him.
His assistant tried to head me off at the door. I gave her a look that said try me and she wisely decided to find somewhere else to be.
I walked in without knocking.
Marchand was on a call — no doubt trying to spin something — but he put the phone down when he saw me.
“Roan,” he said with that fake-as-shit smile. “You’re not scheduled. What can I do for you?”
