And yet…
My head felt too full. My pulse kept stuttering. And every glance from one of them—Roan’s flicker, Jay’s pause, Rhett’s weight at my side—felt like I was walking a wire I couldn’t see the end of.
Paranoia. Had to be.
They’d always flirted. Always hovered too close. Always bantered and bantered and never crossed the line.
I was the one changing, not them.
But I also knew this wasn’t even the hard part.
That came soon.
When the clock ran out.
When the real instincts kicked in and I stopped being able to pretend.
I was halfway through collecting the mic packs and mentally reciting my to-do list—schedule edits, budget approvals, cry in a closet somewhere—when the air changed.
Not dramatically. Not like a thunderclap or a scent spike. Just ashift. A pause in the noise. Like the room took a breath—and didn’t exhale.
I looked up.
And there he was.
Walking through the open lounge doors like he owned the place, even though he hadn’t worn our jersey in five years.
Beckett Rylan.
Former Howler. Now captain of the Bay City Vultures. Rival team. Big name. Bigger ego. Even bigger scent—dark cedar and ozone, the kind of alpha musk that belonged on magazine covers and late-night scandals.
He had the kind of face that made photographers forgive their lighting—handsome in a rough-edged, too-many-fights sort of way. A nose that had clearly met more than one right hook and lost. Jaw shadowed with stubble, mouth carved for sin, but the eyes ruined any illusion of softness—hard, assessing, always looking for an angle.
His grin slid toward me the moment our eyes met. Slow. Knowing.Sharp.
“Foster,” he drawled. “Still looking like trouble in heels.”
Every nerve in my body screamed not to react. I smiled—professional. Smooth. Like I hadn’t just felt the tension in the room spike by a hundred degrees.
“Rylan,” I said evenly. “Still not cleared to speak without a media handler, I see.”
He laughed, deep and lazy. “Some things never change.”
Behind me, I practicallyfeltRoan shift his weight. Subtle. Controlled. But I didn’t have to look to know his jaw had locked tight.
Rhett, less subtle, stepped up beside me like he might physically block Beckett from getting closer. “What the hell areyoudoing here?”
Not for the first time, I was grateful for the heels on my boots. I needed to get taller ones. It kept them from towering, especially when they went all alpha like Rhett was now. His personality seemed to flood around me, making him seem even bigger, stronger…hotter.
Beckett lifted a hand, mock-innocent. “Easy, goalie. I come in peace. Marchand invited me.”
Of course he did.
Adrien Marchand loved a spectacle—and Beckettwasa walking PR headline. Bringing him in during playoff press week? Classic power move. Even if it was a reckless one.
I put on my best diplomatic smile and stepped between the testosterone minefield before it exploded. “Well, if that’s the case, welcome back. You’re just in time to charm the press. They’re still packing up.”
He winked. “Didn’t know I needed an audience to see you again, but hey—bonus.”
