Chapter 3
Chapter
Three
RHETT
Ishould’ve been feeling good.
Practice was clean. Interviews were smoother than usual. I hadn’t punched anyone.
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. What was unusual 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 from her.
“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. We hated Beckett 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.
He didn’t look at me. “If we cross a line—”
“We’re not animals, Roan.”
Jay didn’t say anything, but his gaze flicked sharply to the stairwell at the other end of the arena and the door opening at the top.
Then I saw her. Wren. Her dark coat sharp against the neutral tones of the arena halls. Head held high, tablet in hand, stride clipped and professional as always in her knee-high boots that always looked damn good on her.
And right beside her?
Beckett.
Flanking her on the other side—Marchand.
I stilled.
The way Beckett leaned just a fraction too close. The way he was smiling like he knew something we didn’t. The way Wren’s spine stayed too straight, like she was bracing herself through the whole thing.
Roan must have tracked what I was looking at. His body tensed, subtle but unmistakable.
“Where are they going?” I asked.
“Owner’s box,” Jay said.
“For lunch,” Roan added. His voice was flat, but his fists were clenched at his sides.
“Did she agree to that?” I asked. “Or is she being used to spin whatever dumbass narrative Marchand’s cooking up this time?”
None of us had an answer for that.
And none of us moved.
We just stood there—three guys who’d spent years pretending we didn’t notice her. That we didn’t feel anything. That it was all just banter and team dynamics and maybe a crush or two we’d outgrow.
But right now?
Right now, I wanted to storm up there and plant myself between her and that smug bastard like a goddamn wall. Judging by how tense Roan was next to me, I wasn’t the only one.
Jay broke the silence first. “You still think this isn’t our business?”
Roan didn’t answer.
Because deep down, he had to know—something was shifting. It wasn’t just Wren.
We stood there too long until all three were out of sight.
None of us said anything for a beat—not until the elevator doors swallowed them up.
Then Jay said, "We staying or heading out?"
Roan ran a hand down his face. “We’re grabbing lunch.”
That wasn’t what he meant though. It was dismissal. A clean cut.
“Seriously?” I said, turning to him. “You saw that little power play Marchand just pulled. You’re the captain. If he’s trying to woo Beckett back to the Howlers, you should be in that room.”
Roan didn’t blink. “No.”
“You don’t think it matters?”
“I think showing up uninvited gives Marchand exactly what he wants.”
Jay tilted his head. “You could at least call. Or text. Plant a seed. Let him know Beckett’s not welcome here.”
Roan’s jaw tightened. “No.”
There was that damn word again.
Jay squinted. “Why the stonewall?”
Roan’s answer came like a slap. Quiet, sharp, undeniable. “Boundaries.”
I barked a short laugh. “You’re kidding.”
He wasn’t.
“I’m not feeding Marchand’s ideas,” Roan said. “Beckett being here might be nothing. A PR favor, a photo op. If I react, it makes it something.”
“What if it already is something?” I shot back. “You know how this works. If Beckett’s sniffing around, Marchand’s got a reason. Wren’s being dragged along for the optics. Again.”
Jay crossed his arms, still cool, but watching Roan carefully now. “You’re not wrong. But Rhett’s not wrong either. This feels off.”
Roan shook his head, stepping back like that would create enough distance to keep everything tidy. “She’s not ours.”
That stung more than it should’ve.
“You think I don’t know that?” I snapped. “You think I’m trying to claim her?”
Roan didn’t answer, which meant he didn’t believe it either.
I paced a few feet, hands flexing at my sides. “Fine. If you won’t poke the bear, I will.”
Roan’s head snapped toward me. “Rhett—”
But I was already pulling out my phone.
Jay raised a brow. “What are you doing?”
“Calling in a favor.”
“From who?”
“Sabrina. She’s working press for CBC this week.” I thumbed through my contacts and hit the dial. “Just a little curiosity call.”
Roan looked like he wanted to snatch the phone out of my hand. “Do not stir shit right now—”
I held up a finger as the call picked up.
“Brina.” Her sharp indrawn breath was so audible, I could almost smell the arousal.
Not possible over the phone. Also, not the point…
I didn’t need a hookup. In fact, I definitely didn’t want one with her either.
“Hey, hey, relax—it’s not one of those calls.
I just had a quick question. Off the record. ”
Jay mouthed off the record, like that ever meant anything. I ignored him as I waited for Brina to get it together.
“Off the record?” The skeptical note in her voice definitely carried more than a hint of distrust.
“Yep. Off the record. You didn’t hear anything from me and you aren’t getting any quotes either.”
“Uh huh,” she said slowly. “Just a little chat between friends?”
Oh, she was intrigued. “Yep. You got time for me?”
“No time like the present.” Got her.
I kept my tone light. “You hear anything about Beckett Rylan maybe jumping ship? Word around here is Marchand’s rolling out the red carpet. Thought the Vultures were riding him all the way to finals, but hey—maybe he’s got other plans?”
A pause.
Then a quiet, “Wait, what?” Oh, I had Brina’s number. There was definitely relish in her voice despite the way she tried to smother it.
“Oh yeah,” I said, oozing charm like syrup over a blade. “He’s up in the owner’s box right now. Marchand’s being all mysterious. Wouldn’t want anyone to think he was stabbing his current team in the back, though... unless, y’know, there’s a contract already signed. Then it’s old news.”
Another pause. The sharp indrawn breaths, and equally harsh exhales betrayed her excitement. Yes, Brina was panting after the story the same way she did when I had edged her orgasms.
“...I’m gonna need to make a few calls.”
Huh. That was wild. Normally the sound and the thought it provoked would entice me. She was fun enough in bed, but nope… My dick didn’t even twitch. Weird.
Still, I grinned. “Appreciate you. Lunch on me if it hits the wire first.”
Click. She didn’t even bother to respond. Just hung up.
Roan looked like he wanted to strangle me. “You didn’t just do that.”
I slid the phone into my pocket. “Relax—I didn’t say a thing. Just asked a question.”
“You dropped a bomb.” Roan’s voice went quiet and hard, the kind of quiet that smells like war. Being alpha didn’t mean we were above trying to throttle each other; it just meant we could usually laugh about it later. I wanted to sock him—good-natured rage, not lethal.
“Not my fault if it blows up,” I said, like it was the most casual thing in the world.
Jay let out a low whistle, half-impressed. “If Beckett doesn’t have a contract yet, he’ll be pissed.”
“Good.” I didn’t want that douchecanoe back on the ice or the team or anywhere that brought him near us much less Wren. Then again, if I accidentally broke his ass during practice…
Roan was already shaking his head, but I didn’t miss the glimmer of reluctant approval in his eyes. Just for a second.
Sure, maybe I crossed a line. That was on me. I’d take the fallout from it.
But I also wasn’t going to sit around while Marchand played chess with her like she was just another piece on the board. I used to think he was a tough alpha, a tough businessman, and even tougher owner.
I used to respect the hell out of him too. But the past couple of years?
I’d started to notice how often he pulled Wren in to “fix” things.
Not just clean up our image or our statements or our messes.
The last person I’d expected to see in the midst of our post-playoff win orgy two years prior had been Wren, but there she was walking through that minefield of hedonistic scents in her prim skirt, button-down blouse and jacket so straight and pressed that it practically threatened any wrinkle that wanted to muss her up.
The attraction that hit me at that moment had been delivered with a mallet.
The protectiveness that followed it, though, had threatened to drown me. How dare Marchand pull her into that… How dare he bring her somewhere she might have been mistaken for the entertainment…
I’d abandoned my partner mid-coitus and strode across the room, dick still wet, and the look Wren had favored me with had almost made my balls shrivel up into my body. Most guys would probably have crawled off with their tail between their legs, I was made of a lot sterner stuff.
Or maybe I was just stubborn as fuck. I’d grabbed a towel, wrapped it around my waist and become her shadow to keep her safe until she was done.
No one was allowed to touch her. Not then. Not now.
I’d kill Beckett Rylan first.
No ands, ifs, or buts about it.
“So…” Jay said slowly. “Lunch?”