Chapter 29
Chapter
Twenty-Nine
RHETT
First day back and my thighs were already screaming like we owed them rent.
The drills were brutal. No easing in, no “shake it off, boys.” Just sharp, crisp execution and Roan barking out directions like he was training wolves to chase blood in snow.
And still—I was having a hell of a time.
Maybe it was the playoff buzz under my skin. Maybe it was the clean-cut pace of Jay slinging the puck like a surgeon on the left wing or the way Roan cut across the ice, every movement lean and merciless. Or maybe, it was that I could feel her here.
Wren.
Even when I didn’t see her, I felt her. Like static building in the background, threading through every player in the rink. Half of them kept darting looks toward the upper suite where she’d been earlier. Some pretended not to glance. Some didn’t even bother.
Yeah. Everyone was wondering what the hell had gone down with Rylan.
No one was dumb enough to ask outright. But between drills, the whispers started like they always did. Harmless stuff at first—speculation, what-if scenarios, locker room banter. Until it started to drift toward real talk. Subtle jabs. “I always thought Rylan was a dick” kind of energy.
Roan shut it down fast.
“Focus,” he barked during a break, loud enough that even the guys trying to look casual flinched. “Playoffs are coming, and if you’re spending more time dissecting gossip than your coverage zone, you won’t be on the goddamn ice.”
Silence fell fast. Heads snapped forward. Sticks hit the ice.
He wasn’t wrong.
Still, that didn’t mean I couldn’t offer a little levity to the mood.
After all, Roan had the intimidation game locked down. Jay, meanwhile, brought the calm—he kept pace with the rookies during the more punishing drills, quietly correcting footwork or body alignment when needed. Guys respected him. More than that, they listened.
Me? I was the jackass with the grin and the fastest one-liners. The guy who called out a perfect saucer pass and followed it with, “You miss that net again, I swear I’ll tie your gloves together and let you fight your way out like a raccoon in a trash can.”
At the same time, I knew exactly when to step back and let Roan’s authority hold the line.
We each had our roles. And right now? Mine was keeping the guys from burning out before Roan could push them into something sharper.
Still, every time I caught sight of her across the rink—dark hair, pristine pantsuit swapped now for a sleek branded jacket, tablet in hand and phone pressed to her ear—I wanted to do something.
Something dumb, probably. Flash her a grin. Tap the glass. Make her look at me and not the chaos she was juggling.
Because Wren wasn’t just handling fallout. She was orchestrating the press like it was her own damn symphony. Interviews were flowing. Talking points distributed. Reporters were quoting team values and brushing off poaching rumors like the Vultures were just throwing a tantrum.
And the team? They were watching. The rookies who’d dared to look at her sideways a week ago were back to nodding with respect.
She wasn’t the scandal.
She was the one putting the fire out.
Hell. She was the fire department.
And me? I was skating harder. Faster. Sharper.
Because for the first time in my entire career, it felt like I had more than a team to play for.
I had her watching.
She hadn’t come down after drills.
Not that I blamed her, between the Rylan mess and the playoff push, her day had probably turned into a twelve-alarm fire by noon. However, once I’d showered, I couldn’t help myself.
I ducked out, grabbed a bag of snacks—real food, not vending machine garbage—and circled back to the office tower attached to the arena. I knew the code to the PR suite. She’d given it to us the night before like it hadn’t meant anything, but I’d kind of had it before.
It meant everything now.
The hallway outside her office was quiet. Too quiet, considering the chaos behind the headlines. Her door was cracked, and I could hear her voice—low, steady, razor-sharp.
“…you can quote that, but only if you include the statement about league policy. I’m not interested in speculation—only facts. If your editor needs more, I’ll issue a release. Otherwise, we’re done here.”
Click.
I leaned on the frame, just outside the line of her vision.
Wren was at her desk, still in that branded black jacket with the Howlers crest, her hair swept back, tablet on one side, laptop on the other, a half-drained bottle of sparkling water beside it all. Her phone buzzed again and she picked it up without missing a beat.
“Amber, I said no comments from players. If we let anyone speak on the Rylan situation, it turns into a gossip war. He’s not worth the airtime.” A pause. “Yes, I said that on the record.”
I loved watching her work.
It wasn’t just the way she handled pressure, it was how she wielded it. Like every fire she walked into just gave her another excuse to pull off something impossible.
When she finally ended the call and leaned back in her chair, rubbing at the bridge of her nose, I took that as my cue.
“You ever stop to breathe, or is that only an end-of-season perk?” I asked, stepping inside and holding up the bag.
She jumped. “How long have you been standing there?”
“Long enough to hear you verbally neuter three reporters and a network flunky. Impressive. I brought bribes.”
Her expression warmed instantly, even if her posture stayed tense. “Snacks?”
“Snack offering,” I said, tossing the bag onto her desk. “Protein bars, chocolate-covered almonds, and trail mix. Grown-up gas station cuisine.”
She cracked a smile. “You really do know how to charm a girl.”
I stepped closer, pretending to study the headlines still pulled up on her monitor. Most were some flavor of Vultures deny tampering or Rylan frozen out in scandal storm. But one caught my eye.
“PR Director Wren Foster Fans the Flames with Silent Strategy”
I let out a low whistle. “You’re getting your own coverage now?”
“Yeah,” she muttered, turning the screen away like I might read too much into it. “Because being competent apparently means I’m secretly negotiating all backroom deals.”
“Hey,” I said, nudging the screen gently back. “They’re not calling you the problem. They’re calling you the one with teeth.”
Wren gave me a look. “You think that’s a good thing?”
“Oh, honey,” I said, grinning, “I think that’s the sexiest thing.”
She laughed, but the sound was short-lived, cut off by a sharp knock at the door.
“Someone’s popular,” I murmured.
Wren called, “Come in,” already distracted again, glancing at her phone. But it wasn’t a player or another member of staff at the door, it was a delivery guy with a slim black box and an apologetic expression.
“Uh… these are for Wren Foster?”
She frowned. “That’s me.”
He held the box out like it might bite him. “They’re from… a Rylan?”
Her whole body stilled.
I took the box from the guy, who looked very ready to leave, and dropped a tip into his hand without breaking eye contact. When the door shut behind him, I looked down at the box, then back at her.
“You want me to toss it?”
Her lips parted, but nothing came out.
I opened it slowly. Long-stemmed, blood-red roses. Twelve of them. No card.
I didn’t speak.
Not for a long moment.
But something dark and cold unspooled in my chest, threading through the edges of my calm. I wasn’t angry that she got flowers. I wasn’t jealous. I was aware.
The timing wasn’t romantic, because as Wren herself would say, it was strategic.
That prick knew exactly what kind of message roses from him would send to her, to anyone else who might scent them.
She reached for the box, but I stopped her with a hand on her wrist. Gently. No pressure. Just a question.
“You want these?” I asked softly.
She hesitated. Then shook her head. “No.”
I nodded. Closed the lid. Set it aside—nowhere near her desk.
When she finally looked at me again, something uncertain flashed in her eyes. And that was enough of that. I didn’t give her time to feed her doubts or her worries. I crossed the space between us, leaned in, and brushed a kiss against her temple, then her lips.
“If he thinks he’s still in this game,” I murmured, “he’s an even bigger idiot than we thought.”
Her breath hitched—just slightly.
When I pulled back, she was smiling again. This time, for real. I brushed my knuckles down her cheek. “I’ll take care of these. You eat and take at least ten minutes for yourself.” I didn’t make it an order because our girl did not do orders well. “You need a ride home after work?”
“I don’t know when I’m getting out of here,” she admitted and I smoothed away my frown even as it formed. This was her job, her work, what she did and respecting that was important. Even when I wanted her to look after herself more.
“Tell you what,” I said, leaning my hip against her desk. “If you’re still here at five and it’s not looking like you’re getting out of here anytime soon, send me a message? I’ll grab dinner and deliver it.”
Lips pursed, she studied me for a moment. “Only if you promise to eat with me.”
“Deal.” I grinned, then pushed away from the desk before I gave into the urge to kiss all her worries away.
Her door locked and her desk was really solid.
My hard dick was not on board with my thoughtfulness though, it really liked the idea of just messing her up and letting us both get lost in the moment.
Tucking the flower box under my arm, I gave her a little salute as her phone buzzed and she already had it at her ear. “No, I said there will be no interviews until after the first couple of games. The players need to focus…”
She curled her index finger in a wave to me and I let myself out. The moment the door closed, my smile fell away.
I carried the box of roses like it was a live grenade. The kind of thing that didn’t explode on contact, but poisoned slowly, with intention.
Roan and Jay were already down in the trainers’ office, getting iced and stretched after drills. I skipped the hallway greetings and dropped the black box onto the counter between them. Jay raised an eyebrow. Roan didn’t blink.
“Rylan sent them,” I said flatly. “No card. Just twelve red roses. Showed up in Wren’s office like a little present.”
Jay’s face darkened instantly.
Roan leaned back slowly, his eyes never leaving the box. “You opened it?”
“Yeah. She didn’t want them.”
Jay stood and crossed the room to open the box fully, gaze flicking down over the flowers. “Not just roses. These are scent-bombed,” he muttered. “There’s no way this was a simple gesture. They’re designed to trigger attention.”
“Exactly,” I said. “That asshole wants everyone who walks in her office to think she’s still on the table. He wants us to smell it on her.”
Jay’s hands curled into fists before he shoved them deep into his pockets.
Roan still hadn’t moved. “She okay?”
“She didn’t flinch,” I said. “Told me no. I handled it.”
Jay exhaled sharply, pacing once before he stopped, then looked at Roan. “We should go to Marchand. This is deliberate. This is league line–adjacent and—”
“No,” Roan said quietly, but with that steel that made people shut up.
“You don’t think we should do something?” Jay frowned.
“I do,” Roan replied. “But we’re not going to handle it like a couple of pissed-off rookies swinging sticks behind the bench.
” He pushed off the wall, finally stepping toward the flowers, his expression unreadable.
“Rylan wants to rattle us. Wants to make a play that forces our hand, makes us look like we’re unstable. ”
“Because he knows we’re not,” I muttered.
Roan met my gaze. “Exactly. That’s why we don’t take the bait.”
“So what do we do?” Jay asked, voice low, simmering.
“We make a plan,” Roan said. “We protect Wren without turning it into a pissing contest. We keep her name clean, her scent clear, and we make sure Rylan never gets within arm’s length of her again.” His gaze moved to me. “That starts with staying steady. No fights. No outbursts.”
“I didn’t say I was gonna deck him,” I muttered.
“You didn’t have to.” Roan's mouth curled faintly. “I know that look, Rhett.”
Jay chuckled dryly. “Yeah, it’s the same one he had during the Rivets game last season. Right before he put Torres through the boards.”
I held up both hands. “That was provoked.”
Roan crossed his arms. “So is this. But we’re not on the ice yet.”
That calmed something inside me. Yet. As in—we would be. When we were, Rylan was going to feel every ounce of what we’d been holding back.
Roan turned to Jay. “She still good for morning coffee?”
Jay nodded. “She didn’t say otherwise.”
“Then you bring it. Sit with her if she has time. Not because she needs a babysitter, but because she’s running point on a storm none of us can help with right now.”
“I’m on it.” Jay glared at the flowers then at us. “What about tonight?”
“I’m bringing her dinner here, if she’s still at work. Probably take it to her place if she gets out of here on time.” Not leaving her exposed was a good plan. The fact neither Roan nor Jay amended my idea said it was.
Roan glanced back at the roses. “We’ll get rid of these. Quietly. No drama. No firestorm.”
“Understood,” Jay said.
But me? I looked down at that box one more time and imagined Rylan’s smug face behind every petal.
Yeah.
I’d be calm. I’d be patient.
But when the time came to settle the score?
I’d make damn sure he learned exactly how we played.