Chapter 28 #2
His eyes blazed and his jaw tightened. Power punched the air around him, and ballooned outward like he wanted to choke me with it. “Have you forgotten who you work for?”
Surprisingly, I remained unmoved. Then, I’d never let him bully me. Normally, I’d take a gentler tack first, but that ship sank when he kept escalating in my absence.
“Have you forgotten what my job is?” Because both of us could play this game. “I’m not here to cater to your ego or your pride. I’m here to protect this team from all threats—even those that start at the top.”
“Why didn’t you call me on your way in? Why didn’t you brief me?” He rapped his knuckles against the tabletop, the sound echoing in the hush.
I could have pointed out that he was already in a meeting with them when I arrived.
I could have told him that I came straight up here to do exactly that and found him in the middle of that meeting.
Instead, I just went for his jugular. “Because I knew you’d be too busy trying to save face to think strategically.
” I arched a brow. “Which is exactly how we got here in the first place.”
Nostrils flared and eyes blazing, he glared at me.
“I warned you about Rylan,” I went on. “When he was on the team before, when he was cut, and when his agent approached us two years ago in the off season. You didn’t want to hear it then and based on your ambushing tactics with him last week, you didn’t want to hear it now.
Then you let him think he had negotiating power in the middle of a playoff push and dangled me as the bait. ”
“You’re accusing me of blowing this up?”
“I’m accusing you of not knowing how to pick your battles. You’re trying to strong-arm a player you never had a handle on, and you let your ego write checks your strategy can’t cash.”
Marchand’s mouth twisted in an ugly scowl. “Don’t give me that tone, Wren. I brought you in to manage PR, not run this team.”
“You brought me in to clean up your messes,” I snapped.
“That’s exactly what I’m doing. But let me be perfectly clear—if you keep treating me like your secretary instead of your Director of Public Relations, this team won’t just lose face.
We’ll lose the locker room. The sponsors. The playoff momentum. All of it.”
He slammed the glass down on the edge of the bar cart hard enough that I thought it might crack.
But he didn’t argue.
I folded my arms, letting the silence stretch.
“You’re rattled,” I said finally, voice softer but no less steady. “The Howlers are in the playoffs and instead of celebrating that, you’re trying to maneuver new players into position, but you don’t control the pieces on the board.”
His eyes snapped to mine.
“You thought Rylan was leverage. You thought a power play would win this. But it’s not about chess anymore. It’s poker. And you just showed your whole damn hand.”
A muscle ticked in his jaw.
“Do you want to win, Marchand?”
He didn’t answer right away. But his chest rose and fell once, then again, and his gaze dropped to the drink he hadn’t finished.
“Yes,” he said. Gritted out like he hated that it was me asking the question.
“Then stop making it personal,” I said. “Use what I gave you. Get control back. Let me do what I do.”
He looked up at me again, and this time, there was no anger. Just a resigned kind of awareness. I’d won this round—and he knew it.
“Make sure it doesn’t happen again,” he said.
“Then don’t put me in a position where it can.”
“Wren,” he said slowly as he straightened. “You better hope they win, because if we lose the playoffs—someone’s head will need to roll.” The implication being it would be mine.
We stared at each other for another long moment before I turned and walked out, my heels clicking sharply against the polished floor.
It wasn’t until the elevator doors closed behind me that I let my shoulders drop and exhaled slowly. One crisis handled.
And somehow, I was still thinking about Rylan’s eyes on me—too aware, too intent.
I wasn’t wearing Roan’s scent. Or Jay’s. Or Rhett’s.
But that didn’t mean something in me hadn’t changed. Something that could be detected by another alpha. Predators like Rylan always knew when blood was in the water.
Let Marchand stew.
I had what I needed from that meeting—leverage, position, and a clear path forward.
The fallout would still come. There were calls to make, headlines to manage, and somewhere in my inbox, a growing PR storm over whether or not the Howlers were “poaching talent” during the most critical part of the season.
But none of that mattered more than seeing my team.
Not the management. Not the league. Not the press.
My team.
I took the long corridor down toward the rink-level suites, the distant echo of whistles and shouts growing louder as I got closer. I could hear Jay’s voice before I saw him—cutting through the air in a bark of laughter, followed by Rhett’s unmistakable heckling.
The moment I stepped into the viewing box overlooking the practice rink, the cold glass against my palms grounded me. The ice gleamed below, sun filtering through the narrow upper windows in bright white bars. The Howlers were in full motion—sharp, fast, fluid.
Jay was running a tight drill on one end. Rhett had a cluster of players lined up along the boards for individual shots, barking out quick notes in that deceptively lazy drawl that always carried a deeper edge of discipline.
And Roan… Roan was everywhere.
Watching. Managing. Tracking flow, placement, tension.
He skated like a machine—smooth, powerful, and aware. The alpha in him wasn’t just dominant on the ice, it was gravitational. Yet there was ease in him today, too. His movements less tight, less coiled. As if something in him had settled.
I wondered, for a breathless second, if that had anything to do with me.
A knock came at the suite door. I turned just as Coach stepped inside with a clipboard under one arm and a thermos in the other.
He offered it to me with a dry look. “Thought you might need something stronger than arena coffee.”
I took the thermos, amused. “Tell me it’s not bourbon, still too early for that.”
“It’s dark roast,” he said. “Don’t insult my taste.”
That earned a soft laugh. I sipped gratefully, the fresh brew hitting my throat like armor.
“Word’s already out?” I asked.
He nodded grimly. “The Vultures just posted a vague denial. Rylan’s trending. And Marchand’s breathing fire.”
“Good,” I said. “Let him.”
Coach studied me for a beat, then tilted his head toward the glass. “They’re glad you’re here.”
I blinked. “What?”
“Down there,” he said, with the kind of weight that made me still. “Jay. Rhett. Roan. Hell, the whole damn locker room. You walk in, and things shift. They settle.”
I didn’t know what to say to that. So I didn’t. Still, something in my chest pulled tight.
“Watch drills,” he said, turning for the door. “And maybe let yourself enjoy what we’ve built.”
Then he was gone, leaving me with nothing but the sound of skates cutting ice and the quiet, irrevocable feeling that he might be right.
No matter what waited in my inbox… or what trouble Rylan was brewing next… this—this—was the reason I loved this job. Not just to manage reputations. But to belong.
Roan cut a look up at the suite just then, like he’d heard my thought and I raised the thermos toward him in a silent toast. I didn’t have to see his face to feel his smile. Then his attention was back on the ice, on the drills, on the game.