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

Chapter 49

chapter

forty-nine

Clicking into the calendar app,I eye the date and bite my bottom lip hard enough to sting.

I’m having major planner anxiety for two reasons. One is that I don’t have the nerve to mark my upcoming heat down in the iCal. It’s supposed to hit the first week of the playoffs, which is impossible timing for all of the guys.

The chicken part of me wonders if asking them to be there with me during such an inconvenient time will be the deal-breaker I’ve been dreading.

Because… seriously? How can this really be my life?

It can’t be. This has to fall apart—and soon. If the timing of the heat doesn’t scare them off, my crazy Omega probably will once her haze takes over.

All that anxiety is plenty to keep me busy, but there’s a second reason for the way my stomach seethes. And it’s happening tomorrow.

This week has been marked since I created the pack calendar weeks ago. Now, the clear blue bar I strenuously avoided thinking about has finally arrived.

Timberwolves Away Games.

There are four in ten days.

For ten days, the guys will be away from the house. From me. And Smith.

Who will still be here. With me. Alone.

As if on cue, Damon swoops into the kitchen. The tight, silky briefs he prefers would honestly look ridiculous on anyone else, but he pulls them off. Even when he’s frowning in consternation.

“Sweetness? What’s wrong?”

We spent the better part of last night in my bed, doing everything but knotting. He insists he wants the first time to be extra-special, even though, by now, his Alpha must be as desperate for it as my Omega is.

Cass has been visibly calmer since his rut. When he walks into the kitchen, I note with pride that his posture is loose and his face is calm. Our eyes meet, and his spark—half heat and half worry.

“Butterfly. You’re stressed. Is D being annoying?”

Damon sputters before shooting Cassian a middle finger. “Fuck off, I was just checking on our girl!”

With a sad half-smile, I point to the line on our calendar. Damon leans over my shoulder, his brow creasing and his lips moving while he stares at the words.

I’ve begun to suspect he has trouble reading. When I first noticed the way he tenses up whenever Cassian and I discuss books, I thought he just really hated them. Then, one afternoon, he showed me his overflowing Audible library and mentioned two audiobooks he burned through during conditioning that week.

Now, as he visibly sounds out the three words I’ve typed in, my heart gives a pang. If he struggles, I wonder why he’s never told me.

Do the others know?

Cassian doesn’t seem to notice. He flicks a glance at the screen before scowling and dropping onto the stool next to me, all grumbly. “Stupid fucking away games. Hate this shit.”

When he senses Damon and I both smirking at him, he rolls his shoulders back and meets my eyes, muttering, “I don’t like leaving you.”

I reach over and touch his stubbled cheek. “I’ll be okay, Bear. Smith will…”

Sit at the kitchen table, watching my every move. Bring me coffee and pat my head every morning. Disappear to a five-to-eight appointment mysteriously labeled, “Smith—Meeting” every night and come back smelling ever-so-slightly like another omega…

“…look after me.”

Damon and Cassian exchange a look. They’ve clearly talked about this. D opens his mouth, hesitating slightly. “Pretty girl, if you don’t want to be home alone with him, we can make another plan.”

Cassian nods. “Maybe you could”—He grits his teeth— “go and stay with Meg.”

It means a lot that they’re willing to even suggest that. I know the thought of me, alone, in a house with other alphas—even happily bonded ones—makes them both crazy. They’re only offering it as an option to make sure I’m comfortable while they’re on the road.

“Her heat ended two days ago,” I say, laughing lightly to hide my anxiety at the thought. “They’re probably all still asleep.”

Yesterday, she sent me twelve “sword-cross” emoji followed by the “mind-blown” one and twenty-eight water droplets.

Which, I suspect, were not meant to indicate actual water.

So that will be a fun phone call.

I replied with a string of question marks, but they’re still unread. I would bet money on her being crashed out for the rest of the weekend.

Damon’s hot, bare chest slides against my back. He drops his lips to the place beside the strap of my dress, skimming his mouth there with a rumbly growl.

“I can’t wait for your heat, sweetness. I bet we can go waaaaaaay longer than Meg’s alphas. Football players are pussies. They’re not even allowed to fight with their fists.”

Cassian grunts his agreement, the corner of his mouth flinching up. “Pussies,” he agrees. “They probably take breaks, too. So many fucking breaks in football.”

Oh Lord. I have a feeling that, when the Pierson pack and the Ash pack actually meet, Meg and I might be in for some serious…

Well...

Dick measuring.

Even so, a pang of longing echoes through me. I would really love for all of us to get together. Normally, in these circumstances, it’s up to the leader of the newer, less-established pack to reach out to the more established pack’s alpha. That means Smith would have to call Ronan.

But that’s just tradition. I can do it myself, I suppose. No one would really care, aside from me.

Cass glances down at the calendar on the iPad in front of me and raises his brow. “Looks like we’ll find out next month.”

I follow his thick, pointed finger to a Sunday. The event marked there isn’t one I added. We all have our own colors, and this block is red, indicating that Smith added it.

Dinner with Ash Pack.

Smith comes strolling into the kitchen, dressed immaculately in a gray suit, with one of my pale pink panty sets neatly folded into his breast pocket. When he notices the way all three of us stare at him, he pauses, lifting his brow at us.

“Yes?”

Words fall out of me without permission. “You called Ronan.”

His nod is clipped, but his voice oozes self-assurance. “It’s customary for the alpha of the newer pack to contact the more established pack leader to arrange the first dinner party.”

It sounds like he’s reciting from an etiquette book. The sort of thing I enjoy that no one else seems to care about anymore. When his dark eyes land on mine, I can read them easily.

I care, too.

This has happened more and more, recently. I’m not sure how I feel about it, but Smith appears intent on making it clear just how much we have in common.

A lot of it is obvious, I suppose. We both like to dress up. Keep a nice house. Organize our agendas.

We’re both old-fashioned.

Maybe that’s why he hasn’t even tried to kiss me yet. Despite, you know, that whole rutting-my-throat thing.

He can probably sense that I don’t know what to make of him. I spent months shaking every time he walked into Proper Coffee. Rewiring that fear hasn’t been easy, but I don’t quiver every time he comes into a room anymore.

We share space more and more easily, it seems. He’s been much better about acknowledging me, pointing out every little change around the house, and thanking me sincerely for every single meal I make.

He still doesn’t mention the panties. Or come home at dinner time. But I suspect that has more to do with whatever “meeting” he goes to daily than it does avoiding me.

As if to prove my point, Smith approaches. The others naturally clear a path for their alpha, allowing him room to stand beside me and drop a gentlemanly kiss to my cheek.

“You may want to check Thursday night,” he murmurs, stepping back.

I blink down at the calendar, my eyes roaming over the upcoming weeks. Sure enough, there’s another line on there that I didn’t see before, written in red under the guys’ away game schedule.

Date Night—Remi and Smith.