Chapter 52
THEO
“There he is,” a familiar voice cuts across the crowded foyer, filled with sponsors and donors fitted out in black-tie ensembles. “Dad, I’ve been looking everywhere for you.”
“Hi, Mr. Brennan.” She hiccups, champagne flute clutched in one hand, and phone glued to the other.
Whatever is on her screen apparently holds more interest; she doesn’t look up for more than a brief, forced smile through overdone Botox.
“Thanks for the party… for the places that need the money… and stuff.” The champagne flute is gestured around, clearly skimming over the stuff that is the entire point of this evening’s charity fundraising efforts.
“Yeah. Probably gonna enjoy the free drinks, maybe a look at the dance floor, and then dip before all the boring speeches and shit.” He doesn’t even bother introducing me to his date, who I’m guessing is here as an ornamental accessory, and instead turns and whistles to someone.
“I’m here with a friend. Wanted to introduce you to Gareth Chumley.
He’s reporting for the Willow Falls Herald.
This is a man you wanna know, Dad. He’s got connections with the Pacifique and the Atheletica. ”
His journalist friend joins us, all polished white smile, similarly over-gelled hair, and pungent cologne.
An Omega’s nightmare.
It takes everything in me to be the Wolves team owner right now, and not the father who wants to drag my son outside by his ear and give him a stern lecture about reevaluating every single one of his life choices. Starting with the company he decides to keep.
“Brennan. Exactly the man I’ve been needing to meet.
” My son’s friend—and I use that term in the loosest of fashions—has that certain sharkish air about him.
Exactly the type of prick who I do my best to ban from my locker room and give minimal opportunities to during media stand-ups.
He’s got the look in his eye of a bloodhound sniffing out the next big story…
the opportunity to snag himself a leaked exclusive that he can build his career on.
The problem with assholes like him is that they have no issue with tanking athlete careers in the process of scaling their way to the corner office overlooking New York from up high.
But I shake his hand and do the casual greeting I’m expected to offer. “Thank you for coming along to support the causes we’re raising money for this evening.” Even if my son is only here for the open bar, I think to myself through gritted teeth and my jaw set into a polite smile.
“Oh…” He laughs, as if that’s the funniest joke he’s heard all year.
“Yeah, I’m just here for a few sound bites…
to check out who might be of interest to have a little chat with…
” Lifting his eyebrows, he taps his phone tucked in his breast pocket.
“But I certainly won’t be staying. These things are always such a bore, am I right?
” He digs his elbow into my side, and I have to resist the urge to body check him so hard he flies out the front door and lands on the sidewalk.
“Gareth was hoping to continue a feature on the Wolves. Get more in depth, y’know,” my son says.
“Continue?” I eye the two of them carefully. “I wasn’t aware you were already running a piece.”
“It started with the local dog shelter… Atlas Palamo gave an on-camera feature that my editor-in-chief wants to expand on.” Gareth nods, and something in the way he says it makes the back of my neck prickle.
“Yeah, Dad. You really need to embrace having front foot PR.” Brett waves a hand around.
“It’s all well and good owning this team, but you don’t have anywhere near enough connections with the news outlets.
Just look at Philly and Houston. They’re getting featured daily, and their season ticket holder numbers have increased tenfold. ”
I narrow my eyes. “I’m well aware. As I’m aware, our season tickets were sold out during preseason before they even hit general sale.
While I appreciate the sentiment that being relevant and a current news hot topic is one strategy, the Wolves have prided themselves on nurturing a winning team.
That’s what our fans turn up for, not sensationalist headlines. ”
Gareth scoffs a little. “Those headlines are the modern currency. Winning only lasts so long… but Vermont is one little blip on the rugby sphere. The Wolves could be so much more.”
“Yeah, Dad. Think about how much more money could be in it for you.”
“Don’t you mean the team? The grassroots of building the game?”
Brett laughs and slaps my shoulder. “Always the philanthropist, huh? Jeez, Mom always did say you’d give away the shirt on your back rather than do something with your money to invest it properly.
” He rolls his eyes. “I’ve got a guy who could totally overhaul the books for you, give some better financial advice. ”
My jaw is clenched so tight, it’s highly possible I’m going to crack a molar.
“Well… it was a pleasure to meet you, Chumley. I wish you well with your sound bites this evening.” I take the opportunity to adjust my cuffs and arch an eyebrow at my son.
“I’ll have my assistant reach out to your editor if we have an opening in the schedule to add an extended feature, although I would say don’t hold your breath since my team is in the thick of their season. ”
I shake his hand firmly enough that I relish his brief wince when he feels his fingers crush ever so slightly. When I let his hand go, he gives it a little shake and a flex.
“Don’t let me hold you two back from carrying on with your evening. In fact, I’d better keep circulating.” I tilt my head toward the room. “There are donors here who I need to thank for their generosity, and sponsors who make nights like this possible—not to mention providing those free drinks.”
“Think about it, Dad,” Brett calls out as I walk away.
I know what I am thinking about.
One particular thought I’m dialed in on.
Wren.
What I want to do is make goddamn sure she doesn’t have a run-in with my son or feel like she needs to leave because of him.
In fact, I’ll gladly find any excuse under the sky to have him and his journalist buddy kicked out.
It’s clear they’re only here for the opportunity to rub shoulders with the pro athletes of Willow Falls.
In attendance tonight are not just the Wolves, not only rugby players, their partners, their packs, but also the other teams that base themselves in this town.
WFU hosts this gala every year in the wing adjacent to the library.
It’s an impressive architectural hall and connecting foyers, boasting stone masonry and vaulted glass in a Gothic style.
Filling the sequence of rooms is an array of athletes.
There are a number of ice hockey stars here, and football players, alongside my rugby team.
Our teams might not frequently end up in the same place at the same time—between training and match days, these men and women rarely have a free moment in their schedules—but for this benefit hosted by WFU, it’s heartening to see how many have turned up in support.
They understand their star power brings in the high roller donors. Those with deep pockets who love an opportunity to shake hands and spend an evening with some of the most talented athletes in the country.
I’m waylaid more often than I hoped in my quest to seek Wren out.
Too many people whom I haven’t seen in the past twelve months want to stop and remind me of that fact.
They’re eager to discuss hopes for the season, angling to snag a moment with our newest signings, to go over the past few games in detailed play-by-play.
This is the part of being a team owner that I often wish didn’t come with the territory.
It used to be easy to be the rugby player, to turn up and smile for the cameras when I was asked to, but now I am the guy who asks my team to show up and put on the suit…
so I’m somewhat stuck having to set that example.
And I’m not stupid enough to think for one second that many of our backers, VIPs, and sponsors who are behind the Wolves aren’t in it because of my personal connection. So as much as I desperately want to have eyes on my girl, this is too important to fuck up.
There are the usual accolades for Renfro, who appears to be in hot demand himself.
I spot his curly head of hair and glint of a smile surrounded by a captivated audience who laugh at some joke or other he shares.
His eyes meet mine briefly across the room, since the two of us are taller than most of the people we’re surrounded by, and he casually scratches his neck with a jerk of his head through into one of the adjoining rooms.
“If you’ll excuse me, sir… ma’am.” I smile at the retired couple who I know have a combined wealth between them of somewhere in the hundreds of millions. They own one of the leading pack fertility clinics nationwide and are the top sponsors of our primary school-age rugby outreach program.
“It’s always a pleasure seeing your face, Theo.
” The woman, Margaret, pats my arm. “Don’t be a stranger if you’re ever in Cape Elizabeth, you know where to find us.
Joshua would love to take you out on the yacht.
I know you bachelor rugby players think you don’t need anyone, but you’re considered family to us. ”
“Of course. I appreciate it.” I duck my head and make a quick exit, before there’s any more talk about boating and lighthouses. Not to mention any number of hints about when I’m going to settle down and find my packmates.
They mean well, of course. Margaret and Joshua Arbour are part of a child-free pack themselves, but they’ve spent over two decades committed to the grassroots of junior rugby players.
Donations from this pack alone have kitted out hundreds of thousands of junior athletes with everything from tackle pads to headgear, kicking tees to bootlaces.
Hell, now that I think about it, their support probably took care of players like Finch Murphy and Atlas Palamo when a professional career was just a scrawny middle schooler’s dream.
No more than a chewed-up mouthguard, a pair of slouchy socks below muddy knees, and a treasured autograph of their favorite player.
I make a mental note to bring the guys over to introduce them.
This time, I cut around the edge of the room, sidestepping any more potential conversation black holes.
And then I see her.
Wren Murphy steals my breath in nothing but her hair piled messily on top of her head, fresh-faced, and swamped by one of my T-shirts.
But tonight, she’s a shining star, an entire goddamn constellation in her own right.
That blonde hair of hers almost glows a shade of silver where she’s curled it to fall down her back in a long waterfall.
Her dress is a shimmering turquoise, metallic and fitted to her curves with long sleeves and a scoop neckline.
She looks so goddamn elegant, like all she’s missing is a procession of satyrs and fairies to toss petals in her wake, forest creatures forming a procession at her heels, as if she’d command an entire elfin kingdom with one blink of her big doe eyes.
My girl is all that, grace and poise and elegance, but when she glances over her shoulder and hits me with a lightly hooded stare, she’s also so goddamn sexy it makes the spot behind my ribs fucking ache.
My hands itch to be on her, to reach for her, to drag her against me and take her mouth in front of every single person in this place—my own shithead son and the entire WFU board included.
So instead of mauling my scent match and fucking everything up for her future, I shove my hands in my pockets and grind my molars.
My dentist is going to have a field day the next time we see each other.
She turns back to the group, who are all likewise dressed in their best for the occasion.
Rugby players filling out suits that have been custom-fitted to their tank-like proportions, and her soft laughter swims through my senses.
I purposely take up a place beside some of the prop forwards, quietly joining the larger crowd of Wolves players while Wren talks to her brother and teammates.
Palamo is on the other side of Murphy, with an expression I can’t decipher, but the guy is fucking hard to read on the best of days.
He’s living in my house, but I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve actually seen him come and go.
I get it. This is a lot to expect of him. So I’m not pushing for anything more than his support and trusting Renfro to have the necessary conversations as and when they’re needed about Wren.
What I do know is that my girl seems to be more than willing to adopt these players as family.
It warms my heart to see how easily she can laugh with them, and it makes a hopeful, floaty sort of feeling bubble up inside my chest. I have to hang onto that feeling and that sense of trust that this will work out in the long run.
If the team loves her, then surely things will be alright?
“… these black-tie events are flush with eager supporters.” Wren smiles broadly, not looking at me, exactly, but I like to think that happiness on her face is beaming a little brighter because we’re able to be in the same room at least. Even if my senses are on high alert for any signs that she might need to make a quick exit if her heat starts to kick in.
“C’mon, if anyone is going to help me with gathering donations for the dog shelter, it’s you boys.”
My girl pins her brother with a look that makes my face split into such a wide smile, I have to hastily cover it with my palm. All five feet of her has Finch Murphy, my vice-captain, under her thumb.
“Really?” he grumbles.
Wren props her hands on her hips. “Oh my god, you’re telling me you guys come to these things all the time and never swindle these rich fucks out of some dollars?
” She shakes her head in mocking reproach.
“That group over there alone has probably wiped their asses with gold leaf toilet tissue already once today.”
Her brother shoves Palamo forward, like he’s some sort of sacrificial lamb.
The guy gives both Wren and the older Murphy a withering look.
“Take Ace, he’s much prettier. The dog shelter is his thing.”
I don’t know what the look is in her eyes, but those blues sparkle with something when she takes a quick glance at Palamo, then swallows hastily. “Yeah… totally… come on then… we’ve got dogs to champion, and these rich folk all need excuses to spend money. Trust me.”
And with that, my girl disappears off with a reluctant Wolf, dragging him toward the closest group of guests.
I have no doubt she’ll charm every last one of them.