Chapter 4
Chapter
Four
WREN
The owner’s box at Howlers Arena looked like every expensive room owned by a man who wanted people to think he didn’t need to show off.
Glass walls. A quiet, panoramic view of the ice. Sleek black furniture. A buffet catered by whatever private chef Marchand had on speed dial this month.
It was quiet.
Too quiet.
I kept my tablet in front of me like a shield, scrolling through media schedules and pretending I didn’t feel Beckett Rylan’s eyes on me.
He sat opposite me at the long table, legs spread wide, one arm draped over the back of his chair like he was holding court. His suit was perfect, his ruddy-brown hair artfully tousled, and that shit-eating grin of his hadn’t slipped once since we walked in.
Marchand sat at the head of the table, wine glass in hand, smile thinner than usual. Calculating. Relaxed in the way only rich predators could be.
“You’ve done well for yourself here, Beckett,” he said smoothly, lifting his glass. “Captain of a playoff-bound team. Clean PR record—well, mostly.”
Beckett laughed, low and warm. “You know me. I aim to impress.”
I didn’t look up from the tablet. “Funny. I thought you aimed to get suspended every other game.”
“I missed your mouth, Foster.” He chuckled, low and throaty, with an edgy kind of sensuality that made most women throw their panties at him.
Most women. Thankfully, I wasn’t most. I had never been and would never be one.
I didn’t flinch. “You won’t when I start using it.”
That earned a low laugh from Marchand. “Always sharp. You two had such… interesting chemistry back in the day.”
My stomach tightened. There it was. The first thread pulled. More than once, Marchand had put me in charge of keeping Rylan from going off the rails. Too many read that as we were dating. We had not.
“This is a professional lunch,” I said calmly. “I’m here to make sure any quotes that come out of it won’t require a mop and a PR fire extinguisher.”
Beckett leaned in just slightly, and God, he smelled like cedar, smoke, and bad history.
“Can’t we have both?” he asked. “It’s been a while, Wren. You look good.”
I finally looked up. Made eye contact. Held it.
“One, you’re in a public arena,” I said. “Flirting with the Howlers’ PR lead while still under contract with the Vultures. So unless you’re planning on pissing off two teams in one afternoon, I suggest you cool it.”
“And two?” Rylan all but dared me to continue.
He needn’t have bothered. “We’ve never had anything but a professional relationship. That isn’t changing. Period.”
Marchand sipped his wine, perfectly content to let the tension build.
That’s when it hit me. This wasn’t just a PR reunion.
Marchand wasn’t dangling a contract in front of Beckett.
He was dangling me.
My pulse jumped, but my face didn’t move.
“Let’s not pretend we’re here to reminisce,” I said lightly before I shifted my attention to the real predator in this room. “What do you need, Adrien?”
Marchand set down his glass with a soft clink.
“I need headlines that make people forget how many injuries we’ve racked up.
I need a narrative shift. Drama. A return to roots.
Our bad boy coming home, perhaps. And you—” he gave me a smile so polished it should’ve come with a warning label—“you’ve always known how to spin chaos into gold. ”
My skin went tight.
Beckett smiled at me like he’d already been promised something.
I sat back in my chair, carefully crossing one leg over the other. “Bringing back a player who left under more than a bit of bad blood as well as a cloud of controversy is not a simple re-entry. You’ll need a full brand reset. Interviews. Fan engagement. Rebuilding trust.”
“I have full faith in your ability,” Marchand said.
Of course he did.
Because I wasn’t just the handler.
I was the bait.
Beckett’s return wasn’t about stats or strategy. It was about headlines. Attention. Familiar tension. Somehow, I didn’t doubt that Marchand was betting that the chemistry he kept hinting at would be enough to close the deal.
Beckett watched me in that way he always had—too direct, too amused, too sure of himself. Like he knew something I didn’t.
I pressed my fingers to my tablet screen to ground myself.
This wasn’t new.
I’d walked this edge before. I could do it again.
Even if this was actually the absolute worst time for this.
Even if my scent was changing.
Even if my skin felt too tight and my body too aware and the wrong alpha was sitting across from me smirking like he could taste the shift in the air.
I could do this.
Professional. Composed. No weakness. No tell.
Period.
Beckett didn’t stop smiling as Marchand took a call and stepped out onto the terrace—some power play, no doubt, letting us stew alone together. Across from me, Beckett lounged in his chair like he owned the room.
Like he already knew how this story ended.
“So,” he said, voice low and amused. “Are you the one who lured me back here, Wren?”
I didn’t even blink. “Don’t flatter yourself.”
“Too late. You’re here. Looking like that. Sitting across from me like you’re not dying to ask what I’m thinking.”
“I know what you’re thinking,” I said coolly. “It’s the same thing you’re always thinking.”
He grinned. “Touché.”
I went back to my tablet, scrolling through a schedule I already knew by heart. “This isn't high school. If Marchand brought you here to stir up headlines, then let’s talk about what he’s actually offering you. A one-season deal? Two? Is it PR or a real play for your contract?”
For the first time, something in Beckett’s face shifted. The grin didn’t fade, but his posture changed. Less cocky. More intent.
“I’ve got options,” he said. “Vultures aren’t exactly happy I’m here, but they’ll live. Marchand’s offering more than just a number on a paper. He wants a story. A comeback. Something flashy to drag the Howlers into a headline run. And maybe a little... unfinished business.”
He said that last part while looking right at me.
I folded my hands over my tablet. “You have an agent?”
He gave a low laugh. “I’ve got you.”
I stared at him. Deadpan. Not playing. “That’s not how this works.”
“You’re the best mouth this team’s got.” His tone dipped suggestively. “You always knew how to manage me. I can definitely tell that hasn’t changed."
“That was never my job.”
“It should’ve been.”
There was something serious under his teasing now. Something that made my skin go cold even as the back of my neck prickled with heat.
He leaned forward, forearms on the table, eyes steady. “You’re better than this place, Wren. You always were. The way you run this team’s image? It’s a joke they haven’t made you GM.”
“And yet here you are,” I said. “Crawling back to the team that traded you.”
“Because you’re here.”
That stopped me.
It shouldn’t have. Beckett flirted like breathing.
He didn’t mean half the things he said, and the other half were designed to get under people’s skin.
But right now, something in his scent—sharp, focused, threaded with…
something indefinable or at least something I did not want to define—made my stomach twist.
I hated that I felt it.
“I’m not here for you,” I said. “If you think Marchand’s offering you a fair deal without an agent, you’re either dumber than I thought, or a lot more desperate.”
He tilted his head, watching me too closely. “You always take care of your players this personally?”
“Only the ones who’re about to self-destruct in public.”
“You care.” He made it sound like a damn accusation.
“I manage.” I clipped the words off, kept them absolutely neutral without a hint of skin in this game. His. Mine. Anyone’s.
He smiled again, but it was slower this time. Not a smirk—something almost genuine. Almost. I refused to let him fool me.
“I missed this,” he said softly. “You pretending not to care. Me knowing better.”
My throat tightened. I hated that it almost sounded real. That my body felt hot and restless and wrong, and that the shift in my scent was no longer subtle—not in this enclosed space, not with an alpha tuned to me the way Beckett always had been.
But I kept my expression cool.
Professional.
Unshaken.
“You have five minutes,” I said. “Then I need to get back to my team.” I let the emphasis linger on the word my. Not enough to dare him to act, but more than enough to send the message. The Howlers were my team.
Not him.
He leaned back again, all lazy confidence. “Five minutes is more than enough.”
I smiled, sharp and cold. “I’ve heard that about you.” If he wanted to let his guard down and leave me an open shot, I would definitely take it.
That finally shut him up—for a beat.
Long enough for Marchand to step back inside, smiling like he hadn’t missed a damn thing.
“Everything good in here?”
I stood, already gathering my things. “Depends on your definition.”
Marchand looked at Beckett, then at me. “Let’s reconvene soon. This is just the beginning.”
I hated how certain he sounded.
How much he believed he’d just won something.
I was halfway to the elevator when I heard my name.
“Wren.”
I turned, fixing the neutral expression back onto my face like armor. “Yes, Adrien?”
Marchand stepped into the hallway with the air of someone who'd already decided how the next week would go. His smile was pleasant. Polished.
Predatory.
“I’ll need you on-call for the next few days,” he said smoothly. “If things go the way I’m hoping, there will be optics to manage. Interviews to coordinate. Headlines to… massage.”
Which meant he expected Beckett to accept the offer and wanted me ready to spin gold out of gasoline.
“Unlikely,” I said. “I’m due for a few days off.
Cleared it with admin weeks ago.” Even with the playoffs coming.
We had a little over ten days until the first playoff game.
Originally, the down time was just so I could decompress before going hell for leather.
We had time. Before it had been time I needed.
Now, it was time I had to have. No way I could survive coming off them here. No way in hell. Not. Negotiable.
Marchand tilted his head slightly, as if surprised I’d say no to him. “You can push that, can’t you?”
“I can’t,” I said, keeping my tone easy. “I’ve got appointments.”
That wasn’t a lie. Just not the kind he thought.
His smile faltered just a hair.
“Wren—”
“I’ll be available for written statements if things move forward. Otherwise, I trust you’ll use your years of experience and good judgment not to let him blow anything up before I’m back.”
I pressed the elevator button and held his gaze. Few others could maintain with Adrien Marchand. I’d noticed that. Even the other owners, all alphas in their own rights, tended to backoff. Flick their eyes away, just once, but still away.
I didn’t.
Never had.
Right now, he’d irritated me enough to make a point that he couldn’t make me back down.
It was the only thing alphas understood when they weren’t getting their way.
When the doors slid open, I stepped inside by walking backwards just two steps.
Not once did I look anywhere else, even when his nostrils flared and a flush touched his face.
Two steps.
Then my phone buzzed.
Once.
Twice.
Then in a flood.
Time elongated, but Marchand’s irritated inhale was enough. I won that skirmish.
I glanced down—half dreading, half curious—and saw the first message.
Jana (CBC):
You need to get ahead of this—somebody just dropped Beckett’s name as a Howlers prospect and it’s going viral. Was it you??
I blinked. Just before the elevator doors closed, Marchand’s phone went off.
So did Beckett’s.
Simultaneously.
Shit.
Another message lit up my screen.
Colin (team comms):
Wren. Damage control. NOW. CBC, TSN, and Vultures’ press all blowing up. What the hell happened?
Then another—
The doors opened to the ground floor and I strode out, before I checked the next message.
Jana:
Looks like Navarro stirred the pot? Some “innocent” question and now the rumor is everywhere. You better get ahead of this before it spirals.
I stopped dead in the hallway.
People were already looking at their phones. Whispers floating. Somewhere nearby, a monitor was playing a segment I didn’t even need to see to know it was about us.
About Beckett.
About him coming “home.”
Too late to get ahead of it now.
The wildfire had already ignited.
I was standing in the middle of it, one step from meltdown, one tick from exposure, with exactly zero backup.
My suppressants were already trickling out of my system.
My control was slipping.
And now the press had blood in the water.
Perfect.