Chapter 28
Chapter
Twenty-Eight
WREN
Iwore war paint in the form of lipstick and a pantsuit.
White blazer, tailored within a breath of my skin, paired with a silk blue blouse and tapered navy slacks that showed off the heels I’d already been walking in for an hour. Not a wrinkle on me. Not a hair out of place.
Blue and white. Howlers’ colors. Message received.
Jay walked beside me through the main arena entrance, gear bag slung over one shoulder, his hair still slightly damp from his shower, a navy hoodie unzipped over a gray training shirt. He looked relaxed. At ease. A solid wall of calm at my side.
I sipped my coffee slowly as we walked, feeling the caffeine coil into my bloodstream like a silent threat to the people who were about to test my patience.
The croissants he brought that morning were already gone, thank you very much, and I’d been up since before sunrise triaging inbox fires and organizing my talking points like I was prepping for a press briefing at the UN.
Jay didn’t say much, but he didn’t need to. We moved through the halls of the Howlers’ arena like we both belonged there—him headed to the locker room, me toward the war upstairs.
When we reached the hallway where we’d split, we paused.
He didn’t kiss me.
But his eyes lingered on mine, the moment thick with all the things we weren’t saying in front of a dozen security cameras and early-morning staffers. Respect. Want. Solidarity.
“I’m looking forward to drills,” I said, giving him a slow smile. “Think I’ll watch today.”
His eyes gleamed. “I’ll be sure to tell Rhett. He’ll want to give you a little something-something to keep you entertained.”
I laughed under my breath and gave an exaggerated eye roll as I pivoted toward the elevator. “You boys and your ‘something-something.’”
He said nothing else, just lifted his chin slightly, then turned toward the locker rooms, disappearing around the corner with quiet confidence.
My amusement faded as soon as the elevator doors slid shut. By the time they opened on the executive floor, I’d already shifted back into full PR director mode—shoulders straight, spine steel.
Marchand’s assistant barely looked up as I passed. She didn’t need to. He was expecting me. Of course he was.
The door to his office was open. And it wasn’t just him waiting.
Rylan was already seated, slouched into the chair like he’d been holding court for a while.
His agent, a sleek, smug little man named Devin Hart, perched on the arm beside him, tablet in hand.
And across the room, legs crossed like she belonged here, sat Carrie Hall, the Vultures’ head of public relations.
Unsurprisingly, no one was smiling.
Marchand looked up. “You’re late.”
“I’m exactly on time,” I said, breezing into the room like I owned it. “You want to split hairs, I can start quoting timestamps.”
Rylan gave me a lazy once-over, his eyes catching on the sharp white lines of my blazer before flicking away, unimpressed. “Well, damn. Thought maybe you were here to talk us off the ledge. Guess it’s a firing squad instead.”
“If you’re guilty,” I said mildly, “maybe you should be worried.”
Devin cleared his throat. “Let’s not turn this into a scene—”
“Too late,” Carrie interrupted, crossing one leg over the other. “It’s already a headline. Our phones haven’t stopped ringing. Media wants to know if the Howlers are officially courting playoff sabotage.”
“And I’d like to know,” I said crisply, turning to Marchand, “why we’re allowing an opposing team’s PR rep to sit in on an internal meeting.”
Marchand exhaled through his nose, clearly annoyed that I hadn’t come in apologizing.
“She’s here because it’s her player being poached.”
“There’s been no poaching,” I said, unflinching. “Unless you’re admitting that Carrie’s client made an offer to ours while still under contract.”
That landed.
Even Carrie sat up a little straighter.
“Rylan,” I added, voice cool, “you still want to play for this team?”
His eyes narrowed, just slightly. “I want to play. Period.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the only one you’re getting until I see a contract.”
“Then sit tight,” I said. “And if your agent can’t keep you from leaking sensitive conversations to our rivals, maybe it’s time we reevaluate who should be in this room.”
The temperature dropped by ten degrees.
Marchand looked at me like he couldn’t decide whether to strangle me or thank me. I didn’t care which. I wasn’t here to please him. One thing he should remember was what he hired me to do. I was here to protect this team, and I’d be damned if I let it fall apart now.
Carrie recovered first. Smooth, confident, a smug little smile that had probably shaken less seasoned PR directors than me.
“You can’t keep him,” she said lightly. “Rylan’s already in breach by holding those conversations. If you were smart, you’d be more worried about damage control than holding him hostage.”
“Hostage?” I tilted my head. “That’s a bold word for a player with a signed, legal contract that runs through the end of playoffs.”
She smiled wider. “Contracts are negotiable. Especially when they’re compromised.”
“Compromised?” I echoed. “Interesting. Since that would require you to admit your player broke protocol first. Are you really planning to go on the record confirming that?”
That shut her up. The room tightened like a rope winding around a throat.
I didn’t stop there.
“Even if the Vultures wanted to terminate his contract today, and I’m not suggesting that’s even on the table,” I added, glancing briefly at Rylan, “league rules clearly state no new team agreement can take effect until after the season concludes. No matter how you spin it, he’s yours until then.”
The silence crackled.
It didn’t just cut Carrie off at the knees—it took the legs out from under Rylan, too.
His agent, Devin, let out a bitter scoff. “Unbelievable. You’re the one who made the approach, Marchand. Don’t act like we started this dance.”
All eyes turned toward Marchand.
His jaw worked, fury creeping into his expression. “Watch your mouth, Hart.”
“You told me there was interest,” Devin snapped, “you brought Rylan into it—”
“I said there was a conversation,” Marchand growled. “And it was your client who showed up in my office ready to jump ship the moment the Vultures hit the bracket.”
Carrie shifted, glancing at Rylan now with less PR-polish and more calculation. Devin started to say something else, but Marchand leveled him with a look that dared him to continue.
I stayed quiet. Let them spiral. Sometimes silence was the sharpest knife.
Then, slowly, finally, Rylan moved.
He rose from the chair in one smooth, quiet motion, the lazy slouch gone, replaced with something leaner and far more alert. I felt his eyes on me before I saw him move—really felt them. A prickle at the base of my spine. The hair on my arms rising.
I turned. Met his gaze directly.
Something in his expression had changed. His nostrils flared faintly, his eyes narrowing. His attention sharpened—not just on the conversation, but on me.
He was picking something up.
Not the scent of the others—I’d scrubbed thoroughly, dressed clean, even used scent-neutralizing balm. But his instincts were too well-honed. It wasn’t what I wore. It was what lingered beneath. My altered body chemistry. A trace of something... shifted.
Rylan didn’t speak.
But his focus had changed from disinterest to laser-fine intensity.
I held his gaze without flinching.
“You’re costing yourself more than leverage,” I said calmly. “You’ve handed the Vultures doubt about your loyalty, your judgment, and your discretion. Even if you were released, what makes you think any team would still want you after this mess?”
Carrie frowned.
Rylan said nothing. But I saw it—the flicker of emotion behind his stillness. Disdain. Irritation. Frustration.
But also... curiosity.
It simmered in the way he looked at me, now. The kind of look predators give just before they lunge. Only this time, I was the one holding the leash.
“How sad for you,” I said softly, gaze still on Rylan. “You could’ve used the wildcard to show strength. Stability. Instead, you’ve turned yourself into a liability.”
That landed. Hard.
His mouth curled, just slightly. But there was no humor in it.
Marchand shifted behind the desk, clearly aware that the dynamic had changed. His voice was short, clipped. “Wren. Stay behind. Everyone else—out.”
Devin bristled. “She doesn’t have the right—”
“I said out,” Marchand barked.
Carrie stood, eyes still flicking back to me like she was trying to decide if I’d just outmaneuvered or humiliated her. I leaned into both, but I wasn’t the one keeping score. Devin huffed and muttered something under his breath. But it was Rylan who lingered last.
He stepped close enough that I had to lift my chin to meet his eyes.
“You’re not who I thought you were,” he said softly. “I should’ve paid more attention.”
“You still can,” I replied, voice just as quiet. “But next time, don’t wait until the house is on fire to ask who’s holding the extinguisher.”
His nostrils flared again. Then, without another word, he turned and followed the others out.
The door had barely clicked shut before Marchand shoved himself out of his chair and crossed to the bar cart. No offer of a drink for me. Not that I wanted one. It was barely nine in the morning.
He poured two fingers of something amber into a crystal glass and downed half of it before turning toward me.
“What the hell was that?”
“Control,” I said simply, “of a narrative that was about to spiral into freefall.”
“You humiliated me.”
“No,” I said, calm but firm. “You humiliated you when you started this little game. I stopped the bleeding.”
He glared at me, glass still in hand. “You could’ve given me a heads-up. You didn’t even loop me in this morning.”
“You told me to fix it,” I reminded him. “It’s fixed.”