Don’t react. Don’t engage. Don’t let him scent blood in the water.
Jay moved next, quiet and precise, his eyes tracking Beckett with a chill I hadn’t seen in him before.
“Thought you burned this bridge on the way out,” Jay said coolly.
“Thought you were mute,” Beckett shot back.
Jay smiled, razor-sharp. “Only when I’m bored.”
Roan was still silent, but I could feel the tension radiating off him like heat. His shoulders drawn, his stance just a little wider. If Beckett noticed—and of course he did—he didn’t seem intimidated.
He just looked back at me.
Like he couldsmellsomething.
Like he knew I was a little off. That the balance I held so tightly was slipping just enough to be interesting.
I took a breath and shifted my stance, reclaiming control. “You’re welcome to stay for the rest of the media rounds, Beckett, but only if you keep out of the way.”
“Wouldn’t dream of interfering,” he said, flashing teeth. “Just here to observe. Maybe stir the pot a little.”
He turned and walked toward the press pit like he belonged there, like he hadn’t just set a lit match down in a room full of gas.
I glanced at Roan. His jaw was clenched, eyes locked on Beckett’s back like he was calculating how fast he could check him into a wall without causing a PR crisis.
“Let it go,” I muttered under my breath.
He didn’t answer.
Rhett’s hand twitched at his side, fists curling, but his voice was bright when he spoke. “If he breathes on you wrong, I’m breaking both his kneecaps.”
I arched a brow. “Is that a goalie thing or just your love language?”
“Yes,” he said flatly.
Jay was last to pass me as the guys filed out, still watching Beckett like he was waiting for an excuse.
When he brushed past, he murmured just loud enough for me to hear: “He’s sniffing for changes.”
My heart stuttered. But I didn’t flinch. Didn’t pause. Just stood there, spine straight, breath shallow, smile sharp even as I kept silently counting the hours until this week was over.
The boys filed out in a loose pack, leaving the room ten degrees colder in their absence, and somehow Beckett still managed to take up all the air.
He didn’t follow. He lingered by the press table, casually flipping through a branded press booklet like he actually gave a shit.
One of the junior reporters from a local sports blog hovered nearby, badge tilted, mic clutched a little too tightly.
I saw it coming before she even opened her mouth.
“Mr. Rylan—just a few quick questions? For our coverage on the playoff dynamic and your former role with the Howlers?”
He smiled, teeth like a wolf in a well-tailored coat. “Sure. Anything for the home crowd.”
His voice dropped into that rich, media-polished alpha tone that always came across well on camera and even better in clickbait quotes. The reporter swooned a little—visibly—and I resisted the urge to roll my eyes hard enough to sprain something.
The easiest journalists were the betas. They could probe and press without aggravating the situations. Omegas, when they weren’t in heat and their partners didn’t mind, were good for eliciting lessethicalreactions. Particularly if they wanted to set the players up.
I preferred the alpha journalists, though. They didn’t play these stupid games. They just pissed off their targets to get the clickbait they wanted. It was why I was so damn careful aboutwhoI gave credentials too.
