Knot Her Shot (MVP: Most Valuable Pack Book 2)

Chapter 6

chapter

six

Do Not Disturb.

Whoever invented that feature should be given a Nobel Peace Prize.

Truly. Name one thing that’s brought more actual peace to the modern era.

With my phone silenced and Damon already crashed in his room, sleeping off Coach’s shouty ass-kicking , it’s a perfectly quiet Thursday night in our pack house.

Smith is out, somewhere. At the office? Working, probably.

God forbid he stop and look up for half a second. I wonder what he’s so afraid of finding if he does.

With a sigh, I step out of my nightly shower, leaving my spent cum and mild disgust to slither down the drain. If it were up to me, the daily stroke-off session wouldn’t be a part of my routine.

Doctor’s orders, though.

Professional athletes aren’t allowed to take rut-blockers. Apparently, for those who also aren’t sexually active, unchecked alpha hormones can build up and increase the odds that a random omega would throw us into rut.

Which sounds like a nightmare. For them. And me.

Instead, I spend every night standing under the steamy spray of my shower, roughly gripping my dick and knot while I imagine a set of much softer, gentler hands.

At least it’s over. For now.

The whole house is half-finished—maybe more like one-fourth-finished—but I finally have a towel rack and a bathroom mirror, at least. Grumbling under my breath, I swipe my hand through the condensation fogging it.

Appearances are more Damon’s thing. Still, I glance at my reflection, feeling obligated to at least check it, occasionally. Just in case I’ve actually become the beast I feel like on the inside, sometimes.

But no. I still have a straight, human nose. A scar sliced over my left eye. A clean-shaven chin with a cleft in it.

No forked tongue or fangs.

My hair is probably too long, though. Smith always mutters about it, saying it’s no wonder everyone on my team calls me “Beastly.”

I got the nickname halfway through high school. When I think about the way I acted on and off the ice, it was probably deserved.

I keep most of my frustration to myself these days. Beating the punching bag in our home gym to a pulp. Running for an hour every morning. Doing sit-ups until I can’t breathe. Doing my lonely jack-off session every night because I literally have to.

Jesus.

If any of my opponents spent half a minute in my head, our defenders wouldn’t even have to block them. They’d just run away, screaming.

Not that I really care. It’s been years since I felt attracted to anyone, including omegas. Even then, every one of them somehow left me more agitated and unsatisfied than I was before we met.

They all chafed. Too stiff in the collar. Too tight over my shoulders. A pinch at my inseam.

Eventually, my Alpha sort of gave up, grunting in annoyed distaste anytime someone brought the subject up. It’s hard to get an exact read on the instincts, but the impulses feel a lot like, “Really? This mediocre shit?”

As if he just can’t be fucked to pay even a speck of attention to, you know, an alpha’s biological imperative.

I’ve read every book on the subject, but none of them offer any answers. I didn’t reject my mate or get rejected; those are the only documented reasons for “Alpha Apathy.”

So, I decided to keep my issues to myself and let the guys have their “scientifically matched” omega. Because I might not be the most charming guy, but I’m nothing if not a team player.

Every alert on my phone agrees. The screen lights up the second I switch Airplane Mode off, filling with a string of notifications. Half of the alerts are texts from teammates. They’re all nice enough, congratulating me on another shut-out. A few have links in them.

They all lead to similar articles, videos, and social media posts. Raised by Wolves? one jokes, along with a picture of D pummeling the shit out of the opposing team’s defender.

It’s a play on words, since whatever idiot named our team chose the Timberwolves as our title. And, now, according to this Sports Network article:

“Are these wolves rabid? The Orlando-based Timberwolves, poised to be one of the wild-card contenders in this year’s NHL playoffs, seem to be in need of some house-breaking first. Star forward Damon Mathers is pictured below, engaging in a little after-game grudge match with one of the League’s top-rated defenders. Mathers may be a veteran player, but his unsportsmanlike behavior is less like a Timberwolf and more like an untrained puppy.

Speaking of rookies, the Timberwolves recently signed a new forward to train under Mathers. Coincidence? Or careful planning by their team’s staff? Either way, Gunnar Sinclair, 22, is now contracted to the Orlando hockey team for the next three years. Which may be a problem for their veteran star, whose contract is set to expire at the end of the season.”

Fucking media vultures.

Perpetually trying to make petty drama where none exists. I swear to God, they stand around the hallways after games and listen in. Or one of them is sleeping with someone on our staff.

With the way the rest of the team is managed? It wouldn’t surprise me.

Not much does, anymore.

I’d probably be more pissed if I were actually worried. Maybe it’s the apathy that colors everything around me in shades of gray, but I can’t find it in myself to get it up for this, either.

For one thing, Damon is one of the best players in the League. Our pack is the only reason he’s on the Timberwolves instead of being off with a more elite squad. He wanted to go where we could both get contracts. At the time, he was a better player than me. Selling us as a pair was more like selling him, but with an added goalie bonus.

My stats are some of the best around, now. And as the years have gone by, Damon’s gotten more reckless. Less professional. His penalties alone are ridiculous.

But he scores when it counts. He wins games.

And, more importantly? People love him.

If this comes down to some sort of popularity contest between him and, well, anyone? Damon would win.

We probably have nothing to worry about. And the more I scroll through the articles, the more I think they’re all flash, no substance. Just social media proving, once again, that it’s the scourge of society.

Turning away from my mirror’s foggy reflection, I tug on the first T-shirt and pair of sweats I find, picking them out of a pile of laundry I’m fairly sure is clean. Smith would have a fucking coronary if he knew I don’t put any of my clothes away, but I don’t think I can remember a time he’s ever come in here.

We each have our own rooms, which is a luxury I’m still not used to after years of sharing rooms and sleeping on cots. Maybe that’s why I chose the smallest one.

The house has six. The largest is huge and attached to a nest—clearly meant as an omega suite. None of us have dared to touch it with a ten-foot pole.

Which means, if we get an omega, he or she will have some serious work to do.

Smith took the primary bedroom, situated on the opposite end of the long upstairs hallway. He has the most space and the least amount of stuff. So, basically, an empty, serial-killer-clean room three times the size of mine.

Damon took the bedroom just at the top of the stairs, in the center of the hallway.

Right in the middle of everything. Of course.

It also happens to have the largest attached bathroom, apart from the omega’s—plenty of space for all his skincare and manscaping needs.

I picked the one between him and Smith, though their locations didn’t really factor much into the decision. Truth is, I wanted the bookshelves built into the walls and the small balcony across from the entrance.

The room is probably meant to be a study of some sort, because it has two whole walls of shelving, complete with creaky sliding ladders I won’t ever need, being well over six feet tall.

I suppose, if we actually finished renovating the house, we would eventually refinish everything in here. As it is, the wooden built-ins are as faded and scuffed as the oak floor. The balcony doors stick, tacky from a dozen coats of gloppy white paint over half a dozen decades. And the ceiling is a craggy off-white that collects sinister shadows in low lighting.

The room is tired and neglected, with just enough potential to make it sad.

Perfect for me, actually.

And this house? It’s a collection of torn-up, hollowed-out spaces that don’t really fit together.

Which might just be perfect for all of us.