Chapter 30
Chapter
Thirty
WREN
The call had already been going for twenty minutes by the time my doorbell rang.
I hadn’t expected anyone. I’d barely remembered to toss on soft joggers and an old Howlers tee after peeling off the suit I’d worn to the arena. My hair was in a clip. No makeup. Barefoot.
Hardly the image of professional composure, and yet here I was—one earbud in, phone wedged between shoulder and cheek as I padded to the door, laptop still open on the kitchen island behind me.
“Yes, I understand your frustration, but you don’t get to reframe league violations as ‘misunderstandings’ because the narrative doesn’t suit you,” I snapped, one hand on the deadbolt.
Carrie’s voice, haughty and sharp, fired back in my ear as I pulled the door open—and nearly lost my grip on the phone.
Rhett stood there, a brown paper bag cradled in one arm and a bottle of wine peeking out of the other. His hair was damp from a shower, his cheeks pink from the wind, and he had that same smug, devastating smile he always wore when he knew he’d just made your day better.
And damn him, he had.
“Shhh,” I whispered with a smile, pointing to my ear.
He winked, stepped inside, and silently brushed a kiss to my temple as he passed. The scent of roasted chicken, lemon, and rosemary followed him. He headed for the kitchen without a word.
“—and furthermore, Wren, if your team hadn’t actively courted Rylan—”
“Oh, for God’s sake, Carrie,” I bit out, reclaiming the conversation. “No one courted Rylan. He showed up uninvited and overstepped from day one. If the Vultures were so interested in controlling their narrative, maybe they should try actually controlling their players.”
The owner of the Vultures made a sound like a strangled cough. Marchand didn’t say a word, which usually meant he was suppressing a smile. The league rep—Hollis—sighed into his mic, sounding like a man juggling nitroglycerin.
“Let’s redirect,” Hollis said in the smooth, overly patient tone of someone who’d been through one too many of these calls. “This post-season tension is exactly what we want to avoid. Now, perhaps a solution that gives both parties a way to save face… such as a trade, post-playoffs, might offer a—”
“No,” I said sharply. “Absolutely not.”
A beat of silence.
Then Marchand’s voice, measured and amused: “Wren—”
“No, Adrien.” I cut in before he could consider it.
“I’m going to be very clear here. Even suggesting a trade opens the door for speculation we can’t shut down.
We’re already dealing with the fallout of a tampering scandal and a public breakdown of negotiations between the league’s two most contentious teams. A trade?
That’s blood in the water. You’ll tank morale, enrage the fan base, and set both teams up for months of press nightmares. ”
The quiet wasn’t shocked, it was calculating. Because everyone on the call knew what a trade could actually mean.
Roan.
It would be Roan they asked for.
Not just because he was the cornerstone of our team, but because taking him would gut the Howlers from the inside out.
My heart clenched, but my voice didn’t waver.
“We’re not losing a single player. Not now. Not later. Not to fix their mistake.”
Marchand exhaled. “She’s not wrong.”
Thank God he backed me up. He didn’t always, but when he did… he didn’t flinch.
Hollis tried again. “I’m not suggesting it’s a formal trade offer, only that—”
“Then stop suggesting it,” I said crisply. “Let us handle our teams. The playoffs are already selling themselves. Let the games speak.”
Rhett moved in my peripheral vision, unpacking containers with practiced hands. He’d set the table. He’d poured water. He’d even dimmed the overheads and lit the candle I didn’t remember buying that sat in the center of the table.
He disappeared for a second, then returned with the bottle of wine and two glasses, setting them beside me as I paced back and forth in front of the island. When he raised his brows in silent offering, I nodded, nearly limp with gratitude.
The cork popped cleanly, the softest shhfff, and he poured the wine like it was an ordinary Tuesday and not the middle of a PR war.
His glass remained untouched. Mine, however—he lifted and held out gently. Like a gift.
I took it.
With the call still running in my ear, I sipped. And melted.
Roasted garlic and lemon teased my nose, warm and rich and mouthwatering. He’d brought the rosemary chicken from that place downtown, the one I’d once raved about during an early morning carpool on our way to an out-of-town pre-season game.
He’d remembered.
He didn’t interrupt. He didn’t hover. He just was. A steady, grounding presence who knew exactly how to walk into a hurricane and not get blown off course.
I sank into the moment, just enough to breathe.
Enough to remind myself that no matter what flaming chaos waited on the other end of the line, I wasn’t alone in this anymore.
I sipped the wine Rhett had poured me, more for the effect than the flavor—although the citrusy white was crisp and exactly what I needed. I didn’t have the mental bandwidth to ask how he knew that too.
Because the Vultures’ owner wasn’t done pushing.
“We all want this to go away,” he said smoothly, that faux-genteel tone of a man used to buying his way out of a mess. “But the longer this drags on, the more damage it does. Perhaps if you’d taken the approach seriously, Marchand, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”
“Seriously?” I muttered under my breath.
Carrie, like the vulture she was, swooped in to double down. “We made a genuine offer. You responded with stonewalling and now the league is left with a situation escalating in the press.”
“Because you leaked it,” I said, tone cool.
Marchand’s chuckle cut through the line, dry and without humor. “You want to talk about escalation? You sent Rylan to us without formal process. You broke protocol. And now you’re trying to weaponize the fallout as if we’re the ones throwing punches.”
“The league has rules,” the Vultures’ owner snapped. “If you won’t trade, we’ll go to arbitration.”
“You can’t arbitrate what never existed,” Marchand said, suddenly sounding a little too much like me. “We didn’t sign a contract. We didn’t even agree to talks. My head of PR said no. I said no. My captain said hell no. There’s no case.”
It was almost funny—listening to him mimic my exact arguments. Almost.
Carrie started to speak again but Hollis cut in, his voice tight with irritation. “Enough. This isn’t a free-for-all. If this continues, both teams may face fines. Possibly even penalties.”
That snapped my head up.
“For what?” I said, sitting up straighter. “What exactly are we being punished for? Saying no? For refusing to participate in a contract violation? For keeping our players focused when someone else is leaking and spinning false narratives to distract from their own failures?”
Rhett raised an eyebrow and tipped the bottle toward me in silent question. I nodded—sharply—and drained the rest of my glass before he even got the pour going. He refilled it without a word.
“You tell me,” I continued, calm and clipped even as my stomach twisted. “What precedent does this set, Hollis? That we’re responsible for the circus because we chose not to perform in it?”
There was silence. Glorious, telling silence.
Rhett leaned against the kitchen counter, his arms crossed, eyes on me. His support was silent but fierce. I could feel it like gravity, steadying me.
“Fine,” the Vultures’ owner snapped. “Clearly, we’re not going to reach an agreement. Let the public decide.”
Oh, they would. And I knew exactly which team had more loyalty, more heart, and less bullshit to explain.
“I’ll be issuing a public statement shortly,” Carrie added. “I trust you’ll all do the same.”
Then—mercifully—there was a tone that indicated she’d rung off. The Vultures’ owner wasn’t far behind. Which left me, Marchand, and Hollis.
And wine. Thank god for the wine.
Thank god for Rhett too. When I raised the glass to him before I took another long swallow, his lips twitched into a small smile. His concern remained though, concern and support.
“I hope you both understand,” Hollis said, with a very long sigh, “I’m not trying to play favorites. But I’ve got a complaint on my desk, I’ve got media hounding every angle, and now I’ve got two teams breathing fire. What the hell else am I supposed to do?”
Marchand spoke before I could. “You could start by recognizing this isn’t on us. Wren is right. We were the ones approached. We didn’t solicit the player, we didn’t initiate contact, and we sure as hell didn’t agree to a trade.”
I blinked. Okay, damn. He was really going for it.
Marchand continued, calm but pointed. “Now they’re the ones leaking everything. And the timing? Right before playoff brackets get announced? Seems awfully convenient. Especially with the Vultures squeaking in on a wild card slot and the Howlers locked in as top seed.”
Hollis didn’t speak, but I could hear him listening.
So I went in for the final blow.
“How better to psych out a team and their fans than to sow discord right before round one?” I said quietly. “You don’t need a rulebook to know what this is. This is strategy. Off-ice warfare. And you don’t punish the team holding the line because someone else decided to light a match.”
Marchand exhaled through his nose. “She’s not wrong.”
I leaned my head back, rubbing the back of my neck with one hand. Then Rhett was there, replacing my hand with his own strong grip and I damn near moaned as he worked the tension loose.
Hollis sighed. “Send me a copy of your internal timeline, Wren. And make sure there’s documentation for every time you said no. I’ll handle the rest.”
“Done.” With that, the line disconnected.
I let the phone slide to the counter and reached for my glass. My hands were shaking a little—just enough that Rhett noticed. He slid his hand around to cup my throat in a grip that was as much collar as it was support before he pressed a kiss to my temple. “You’re a goddamn force.”
“I need carbs,” I mumbled.
“I brought potatoes,” he murmured, teasing kisses along my cheek to my ear and a shudder went through me as my nipples went taut.
“I could kiss you.”
“You could,” he said with a low chuckle. “And later, you will.”
“Later?” It came out more a whine than I meant for it too, but he scraped his teeth over my earlobe before he sucked on it and I went up on my toes.
One moment I had a wine glass in my hand, the next it was on the counter and Rhett had me up and on it as well. He stripped my sweats down in a movement so smooth, I barely saw it happen. Then he had my knees apart and his hands cupping my ass as he lifted me, his touch firm and demanding.
"Yes," he said in a husky voice as he took a deep breath. "I’m starving and I haven’t eaten you in three days…"
"Oh." The single syllable fell out of me. "Fuck."
"Oh, we will," he promised before he buried his face against my cunt and began to devour me like it was his personal mission in life.
His tongue, teeth, and lips alternated between stroking, licking, sucking, and biting, each movement sending jolts of pleasure straight to my core.
The smoothness of his freshly shaven face added another layer of delectable sensation.
The heat built inside of me, the pressure coiling tighter and tighter.
I was close, so goddamn close and he kept edging me right there and then lapping with these stroking licks that refused to push me over.
Just when I thought I couldn’t take it anymore, he sucked my clit into his mouth, his tongue flicking over the sensitive nub with a ruthless intensity, and I came.
Hard.
My body convulsed as I squirted, the release so intense that it left me breathless and shaking. But he didn't stop there. He continued to feast on me, his touch relentless, his hunger insatiable, and I found myself spiraling into another orgasm, my cries of pleasure echoing through the room.
As I came down from my second peak, my legs shaking so badly that I didn't think I could stand, I was already half begging, “Rhett,” I whispered almost hoarsely. “I need…”
“Shh,” he said, his face glistening as he grinned and undid his belt buckle. “You never have to beg me, Wren. Ever…”
With ease, he lifted me off the counter and set me on my feet, then braced me there, and placed my palms flat.
“Hold on,” then he bent me over and slammed into me in one hard push that made me see stars. The angle seemed to increase how deep he could go and how thick he felt. It was overwhelming, a perfect blend of pleasure and pain, and I met his every thrust with equal fervor, my body arching to meet his.
The orgasm seemed to start at my toes and rocket through my system.
I pounded my fists as I came, slamming back against him even as he controlled the pace, but he was swift to follow me.
The feel of his cum inside me as decadent as it had been in my heat, only now I could savor the way it filled me.
We lingered there, shaking and spent, our bodies slick with sweat.
His breathy chuckle made me smile. “What’s so funny?”
“We both really need more carbs for this,” he said and I started laughing with him. Satisfaction spiraled through me.
“Hmm, does this mean a repeat performance later?”
At my husky inquiry, he nipped my ear. “Am I invited to stay the night?”
“Oh,” I said with a shudder as he scraped his teeth over my earlobe before he sucked on it. I went up on my toes, the feel of his cock still buried inside of me and getting thicker again a temptation to layer upon temptation. “If you do… we might even make it to my bed.”
“Challenge accepted,” he whispered.
We ate—eventually—but we didn’t make it to bed until sometime around two in the morning when he carried my limp body up the stairs and sprawled out with me.
Sex with Rhett during heat had been amazing.
Sex without it?
Addictive as hell—especially when he woke me up the next morning with his face buried between my thighs again.