Chapter 10
Chapter
Ten
ROAN
Ididn’t go looking for Marchand without a plan.
Not because I wasn’t pissed — I was. I’d spent the last twelve hours drowning in it. I’d nearly broken my stick over the boards during drills. Almost snapped at Nate when he chirped about Wren being “too cozy” with Beckett during that owner’s box lunch.
If Jay hadn’t intercepted me after practice to give me the latest — that Wren hadn’t just taken off, she’d cleared her calendar for five days of medical leave — I might’ve gone full caveman.
But this wasn’t a situation I could punch through. And Wren?
She didn’t need a feral alpha charging into the storm.
She needed someone who could outmaneuver it.
So, before I made my way to Marchand’s office, I’d already done two things:
Called my agent.
Started drafting a very strategic leak of my own.
Just enough to put pressure on Marchand without making it traceable. A whisper campaign — the kind that asked questions without making accusations.
Things like:
“Is Beckett Rylan really in talks with the Howlers?”
“What does that mean for team dynamics and player safety?”
“Sources say one player already left the facility right after his visit — temporary medical leave. Coincidence?”
I wasn’t dumb enough to name names. Not mine. Not Wren’s. If only Rhett were as discreet.
But the suggestion would be enough to make any decent PR department sweat.
Particularly when their master of spin—Wren—was not here to fix it.
Marchand was going to have to deal with this on his own or make someone far less qualified cope.
Either would be painful for Marchand and it would make him sweat, or worse, he’d make mistakes. Marchand hated sweating.
How sad.
For him.
His assistant tried to head me off at the door. I gave her a look that said try me and she wisely decided to find somewhere else to be.
I walked in without knocking.
Marchand was on a call — no doubt trying to spin something — but he put the phone down when he saw me.
“Roan,” he said with that fake-as-shit smile. “You’re not scheduled. What can I do for you?”
“You can start by telling me what Beckett Rylan was doing in our box yesterday.”
The smile didn’t move.
“That’s a front office matter,” he said smoothly. “Not your concern.”
I stepped forward slowly, keeping my voice level. “He’s a known locker room risk. He’s got a record with the league, and we’ve all seen the way he acts around Wren.”
“Wren,” he repeated, tasting the name. “She’s on leave. Not really your concern either, is she?”
My jaw ticked. “I don’t give a damn about what’s technically my concern. I’m the captain. I care about what affects the team.”
“Then you’ll be happy to know I’m doing my job — building the roster, exploring our options. That includes free agents.”
“That includes someone who predatorily hovered around our PR manager while the press was in the building?”
He leaned back in his chair, folding his hands. “You’re making some heavy implications for a man with no proof.”
I took a breath. Control, Roan.
“I don’t need proof to know that if something happens to her, it won’t just be a PR problem. It’ll be a player problem.”
His smile cracked then, just slightly, like he hadn’t expected me to go there.
Good.
“I’ve already spoken to my agent,” I continued. “About next year’s contract. About trade options. About locker room cohesion. You know, all the things a captain worries about.”
Marchand’s eyes narrowed. “You threatening me, Whitaker?”
“No,” I said, calm and clean. “I’m warning you. We’re heading into playoffs. The team’s holding on by a thread. If you’re bringing in Rylan to stir shit up and bait Wren into some kind of meltdown, you’re not just risking your PR. You’re risking the entire season.”
He didn’t answer right away.
So I dropped the last nail in.
“There are already whispers in the press. You might want to check your alerts.”
His phone lit up on the desk, vibrating once, then again.
I didn’t smile or react in any emotional way. The point of the play was to keep the puck on the move. Marchand seemed to have forgotten that I’d made my career on my instincts.
This right here would be the first ripple.
If Marchand thought he could play dirty, he was about to find out just how sharp my game could get. He stared at the vibrating phone on his desk, then flicked a finger to stop the second call from coming through. He didn’t check the screen. Didn’t pick it up.
He didn’t need to, because he knew exactly what it was.
“Leaks like that don’t stay whispers for long,” he said, voice colder now, quieter. “They have a way of mutating. Becoming something no one can control. Sponsors pull out. Fans riot. Players spiral.”
I didn’t blink. “Then it’s a good thing you’ve got someone like me holding the locker room together.”
“You’re our captain.” He smiled, all teeth and no feeling. “That used to mean something.”
“It still does,” I said, holding his stare. “Just not the same thing it used to.”
He leaned forward. “You planning to walk, Whitaker?”
“Depends.”
“On what?”
I shrugged, easy. “How much shit you plan on stirring before playoffs are even underway.”
He scoffed, a low breath of disbelief. “You think you’re untouchable?”
“No. I think I’m valuable.” I let the silence stretch for a beat, then added, “And I think you know what happens to this team if I go.”
Marchand didn’t reply.
But his jaw twitched.
Because it was true.
I was the axis the Howlers spun on, not because I scored the most or ran the flashiest plays, but because I kept the whole damn machine from breaking apart. I managed egos. Tempered the wild ones. Balanced the line between bloodlust and brilliance.
You lose that? You lose the team.
He finally sat back in his chair, eyes narrowing in thought. “You’ve got one year left. Maybe less, depending on the playoffs. You really want to burn it all down over her?”
I didn’t flinch.
“She’s part of this team,” I said. “And unlike you, she doesn’t treat people like pawns.”
“She’s not your responsibility.”
“She’s mine,” I said before I could stop myself, quiet, certain, and final.
Something flickered across his face at that. Recognition. Surprise. Maybe even a little amusement.
“You’re really willing to go free agent?” he asked, like he needed to hear me say it out loud.
I met his gaze dead-on.
“If you push this? If you keep dangling Rylan like he’s not a loaded weapon? If you let Wren take the fall for your backroom schemes?” I leaned forward, resting my palms on his desk, close enough he’d smell the promise in my voice. “I walk. And I won’t do it quietly.”
He went very still.
For the first time since I’d entered the room, I saw it hit him. It wasn’t fear, not exactly, but calculation. Marchand wasn’t afraid of people. No, but he was terrified of risk. He hated messy headlines, contract lawyers, and a fractured locker room right before playoffs.
He dreaded chaos.
What I had just promised him was an absolute and unavoidable fucking tempest of it.
The phone buzzed again.
A third call.
He ignored it.
I straightened. “You’ve got a decision to make. I’d make it soon.”
Then I turned and walked out, never once looking back. Because when it comes to bluffing? The best one is the one you’re willing to follow through on.
And me?
I was more than willing.
The elevator doors shut behind me, the echo of Marchand’s office still ringing in my ears like post-fight adrenaline.
I’d won that round.
Didn’t feel like it.
I was halfway down the corridor when my phone buzzed. Not the team line — my personal. Only a few people had the number.
Jay:
We’re heading out.
Jay:
Got a lead. Call you when we’re closer.
I stilled and cold settled into my chest.
Not a lead.
Her.
I didn’t need to ask who they were talking about. Rhett had been vibrating with frustration since she vanished, Jay too quiet to be innocent. I knew that look in their eyes—restless, starved, on edge.
If they were heading to Wren?
That was a line they couldn’t uncross.
I called Jay. He didn’t answer.
Figures. Asshole.
The moment I hit the parking level, I cut across the west corridor, took the side stairs, and ducked out a door few knew was even open. The one that would give me a shot at catching them before they peeled off into the city or worse, off the grid.
It wasn’t just that it was reckless. Or selfish.
It was that Wren had made herself clear.
Don’t follow me. Don’t cross this line. Don’t ask.
She’d always been explicit about her boundaries.
Even now, when every part of me ached to find her, to see her—to scent her and just know she was okay—I wasn’t going to disrespect what she’d so carefully protected. What she’d survived to maintain.
But the others…?
Rhett was a fucking wildfire on a good day. Jay could out-calculate most analysts mid-play, but the second emotion bled into logic, he was a blade looking for a target.
If they showed up at her door?
She’d never forgive it.
What was worse for me—yes, I would be selfish about this—she’d think I sent them.
That thought alone had my feet moving faster.
I pulled out my phone, hit Rhett’s name.
Straight to voicemail.
Goddamn it.
I was halfway to the auxiliary lot when the wind cut across my jaw and dragged the memory up from nowhere.
The first time I saw her.
Not on paper. Not in the team reports. Not the dry HR onboarding where they tell you who does what and who to nod at on the way in.
No, I mean really saw her.
I’d just been signed. The press conference had ended, sweaty and hot under the lights, with the owners posturing about the “future of the Howlers.” I’d been handed a fresh jersey. Cameras still flashing.
Then the crowd had parted, and there she was.
Boots planted. Black coat sharp as hell. Clipboard in one hand, coffee in the other. Sunglasses still on indoors, mouth curled into something too amused to be polite.
She took one look at me and said, “If you ever call me sweetheart, I’ll have your trade paperwork filed before you finish blinking.”