And yet, walking down the hall away from the press lounge, my whole damn body was buzzing like I’d missed something big.
Jay was quiet beside me, which wasn’t unusual. Whatwasunusual was the way he kept glancing back over his shoulder.
“Spit it out,” I said finally, stripping off my jersey and half-tossing it at the laundry cart.
He didn’t answer right away. Just slowed his steps and tilted his head slightly, like he was tracking a sound no one else could hear.
Then he said, low, “Did she smell… different to you?”
That stopped me dead.
I looked at him, heart already picking up speed. “Wren?”
He gave a small nod.
I tried to laugh it off like I should’ve. “She always smells good. That’s kind of her thing.”
“That’s not what I meant,” Jay said, voice flat. “Not perfume. Something else.”
I opened my mouth. Closed it again.
Because the truth was, I’d noticed it earlier too. Not strong. Not like someone in heat—or at least, not like any heat I’d ever scented before.
Just... a pull. Subtle. Magnetic. Dangerous in a way I didn’t have language for.
That intoxicating aroma had been coming fromher.
“Could be nothing,” I said. Even I didn’t believe it.
Jay shrugged, but it looked more like he was mentally filing it away to dissect later. I’d seen him do that before games—take mental notes on opposing players like he was pre-writing how to dismantle them.
“Maybe,” he said. “But Beckett noticed it too.”
I clenched my jaw. “Yeah. I saw.”
We didn’t need to say more than that. WehatedBeckett Rylan. Always had.
Not just because he was a dirty player or a smug asshole or the kind of alpha who walked into a room like he owned it and left it smelling like trouble.
No—we hated him because of the way he used to look at Wren when he still wore our jersey.
Like she was prey.
Roan met us at the end of the corridor, already half-dressed in civvies, arms crossed over his chest. He didn’t ask what we were talking about. He didn’t have to. “You two done over-analyzing?” he asked, cool and sharp.
Jay lifted one brow. “You noticed it too.”
Roan didn’t answer. His mouth pressed into a tighter line.
I stepped in. “She just… felt off. Not in a bad way. Just—different.”
“She’s under a lot of stress,” Roan said. “Marchand’s pulling media stunts. Playoffs are close. It’s her job to keep this thing from blowing up.”
“That’s not what this is,” I muttered. “You felt it.”
Roan turned away. “Doesn’t matter what I felt. She didn’t ask us for anything.”
“That’s not the same as saying she doesn’t need us,” I shot back.
