Four – Morgan
Four
Morgan
“ D oc, doc!” Landon Choi burst into my exam room.
He was the team’s omega placekicker, who had a solid shot at being drafted by a professional team in the spring. His dark hair was wild and his usual composure shattered by a grin so wide I almost couldn’t look directly at him.
Seated at the physician’s computer, I asked, “What’s up?”
Landon held out a pheromone measurement report. “You were right!”
An affable bear of an alpha followed at a more measured pace, one thumb hooked in his pants pocket, a few folders tucked under his arm.
Cal Carling’s signature round glasses sat on his crooked nose—a souvenir from multiple bad breaks during his football days. His short, sandy hair had a slightly tousled charm, and the stubble lining his square jaw was a few days shy of crossing into beard territory.
All broad shoulders and thick thighs, he carried his bulk with easy confidence. Time had softened his midsection, giving him the beginnings of a belly and an approachable presence.
He also had a thing for sweaters—luxurious, irresistibly tactile sweaters. Today’s selection was a navy cardigan worn over a Narwhals tee. Even I wasn’t immune to the impulse the cable-knit inspired to reach out and touch.
Cal eased into a visitor’s chair. “Nice catch. My team followed up and confirmed he was going into pre-heat. We adjusted his suppressant dosage— ”
“And now I’m cleared for the game!” Landon tapped his sternum, where his PheroPass sensor rested beneath his shirt. “Thought this thing was just a fancy fitness tracker. Didn’t realize it could predict hormone emergencies.”
Cal and I exchanged a knowing glance.
PheroPass promised to revolutionize health monitoring—a simple chest patch tracking everything from heart rate to blood sugar levels to reproductive cycles.
But right now?
The data piled up on servers with no actionable insights. No alerts. No pattern recognition. Not even basic health reports. Case in point: I didn’t even have access to a calendar of Landon’s regular heat cycle.
A goldmine of wasted potential. Something I’d been politely harping on about for weeks, ever since joining the PheroPass team. The lack of clinician tools was maddening. My research project relied on PheroPass’ promised early detection and disease prevention capabilities.
But Redwing BioTech, the developer, wasn’t listening. They were the undisputed leader in designation technology and treatments—and a major research partner with the university. Convinced PheroPass wouldn’t recoup its development costs, they weren’t testing it properly, just going through the motions.
Thankfully, I caught Landon’s odd pheromone spike while manually reviewing his data feeds.
But it shouldn’t come down to luck. This was the perfect example of how Redwing was failing its own product. Without real-time monitoring capabilities, the system couldn’t flag Landon’s early heat symptoms, and he would’ve been forced to miss the game tomorrow.
Loud voices echoed down the hallway, heading toward the locker room. The players were assembling for practice.
“Gotta go. The guys won’t believe it when I tell them,” Landon said, waving his pheromone printout as he rushed out. “Thanks again!”
Cal watched him go, then turned toward me. He met and held my gaze. “Feeling vindicated?”
“A little.” I broke eye contact first and took a sip of water. Rubbing my finger against my straw, I said, “But it won’t matter in the long run.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure about that.”
He pulled out a printed copy of my most recent clinical observation report from his stack of folders, chock full of his handwritten notes, and held it out.
“Why not?” I asked as I took it, resisting the urge to dive straight into his feedback. Cal’s data interpretations were broad strokes of insight that perfectly complemented my meticulous nitpicking.
“Because…” He leaned back in his chair, a lazy smile spreading across his face, pride flickering at the edges. “Sometimes, the squeaky wheel gets to take a victory lap.” Anticipation gleamed in his hazel eyes. “Want to have some fun?”
I arched a brow. “Please elaborate, Dr. Carling. Being vague is neither mysterious nor persuasive.”
“Your wish is my command, Dr. Van Daal,” he said. It wasn’t the first time we’d teased each other with our titles. “How would you like to make a formal pitch at our quarterly meeting with Redwing next month?”
“A pitch about—what, exactly?”
“Whatever you want.” He extended both hands for emphasis. “They want to hear our ideas on how to use the data better. Real-time alerts, risk monitoring, medical device tie-ins—anything you can logically support, go for it.”
Stunned by the sheer scope of possibilities, it took me a few seconds to process his words. Complete control over a PheroPass optimization proposal. It was too good to be true.
“You’d really give me free rein?”
“Yup.” Cal’s smile said he knew exactly how impossible his offer was to refuse. “They want to reevaluate PheroPass’ potential based on our recent suggestions. Since most of the ideas were yours, I figured you should take the lead—if you’re interested. No pressure. I wanted to gauge your interest before bringing it to my team.”
“Hm.” I adjusted my glasses. “By potential, you mean possible revenue streams?”
“Naturally. I’m just glad they finally listened to reason, though I can’t say I’m surprised.” Cal shot me a sly glance. “You can be very convincing.”
“Don’t exaggerate.” I toyed with the stapled corner of my feedback report, eyeing him with open skepticism. “They won’t listen to me. I’m not even a permanent university employee.”
“They can fuss all they want. Won’t stop you from doing what’s right for the project, or me from backing you up.” His demeanor shifted, softening from collegial to something… more . “You’ve earned this, Morgan.”
Silence followed, stretching a fraction too long, gathering weight, until the first crackle of electricity sparked between us.
It was inappropriate for our positions—a department director assigning work to a subordinate medical fellow.
We looked away at the same time. Cal rubbed a hand along his stubbled jaw, erasing any hints of unprofessionalism. I reread his first comment on my report three times, deliberately focusing on my rapidly percolating ideas, anything but his lingering closeness.
“Think you can give me a rough draft in two weeks?” he asked.
“Absolutely.”
When Cal was right, he was right. This was going to be fun.
***
Pre-practice chaos abounded. Some athletic trainers were busy taping ankles and applying braces, while others focused on helping the guys stretch. Players milled around in their pads and practice uniforms, joking and laughing. A football flew from one taping table to another. There were more jokes, some taunting, and a spattering of hyena laughter—the usual.
“I swear you’re cursed, man.” A handful of football players circled the taping table where I was assessing a last-minute injury. “You’re getting benched.”
The head team physician, Dr. McEwen, scrutinized the scene as he passed, making a note on his clipboard. He was a tight-lipped, barrel-chested sentinel of an alpha with a crew cut and a robust tan perfected by hours spent on his boat. The pre-game injury report was due in less than an hour, and he was double-checking the injured list before submission.
Tyler Hartsen, the team’s resident ginger lumberjack and starting nose tackle, looked down at me, near to tears. He missed most of last season after he tore his right ACL. The injured list was an emotional scar for him.
“Doc?”
“The final decision rests with Dr. McEwen, but—”
“Shit,” one of the other players interjected, “you’re not gonna play tomorrow.”
Rather than crane my neck to look up at their combined bulk, I gave the players a pointed look over the tops of my glasses. All of them zipped their mouths and took a step back.
“As I was saying, Dr. McEwen will make the final determination.” I returned my attention to the jammed finger on Tyler’s meaty left hand. It was a bit swollen and stiff, but the joint was stable.
He hurt it during morning weight training and tried to ignore the pain all day. The other defensive linemen ratted him out to me on the sly.
“It’s a mild sprain.” I took a roll of medical tape from a supply drawer. “I’ll buddy tape it for now, but if it gets worse during practice, stop playing and tell someone.”
As I was taping Tyler’s fingers, my phone buzzed in my back pocket—then again and again.
Text bombardments were very much Jacobi’s style, but it was probably Piper responding to my earlier request for details about Joaquin. I ignored the repeated vibrations and finished taping his fingers together.
“All set. Ice it after practice and keep it elevated as much as possible tonight. I’ll follow up with you in the morning.”
“Thanks, doc.” Tyler sniffled and slid off the table, holding his taped hand against his chest like a defeated grizzly guarding a mangled paw. But by the time he reached the locker room, his usual enthusiasm had returned, and he was offering high-fives and pumping up the other players
Shaking my head at his quick recovery, I pulled out my phone, intending to turn it off, but the sender’s name caught me off-guard. The messages were all from Grace. My stomach tightened. She usually avoided texting me during work hours.
WTF. I can’t believe it. When did this happen? Did you know he was interviewing? Are you okay? Call me.
The last message included a link to a press release from the University of Northport athletics department— Wyatt Redmond Named Assistant Alpha Women’s Gymnastics Coach .
Oh.
A scent memory—my last scent memory—rushed to the forefront of my mind: the phantom aroma of boxwood hedges and sun-warmed earth. Unwelcome. Overpowering.
I held my breath, gripping my phone so hard the protective case dug into my skin, willing his scent back into the deep, aching pocket of regret where it usually lurked, along with memories of ice-blue eyes, wavy black hair, and the sculpted physique of an ancient god.
“Everything all right, sweetie?” Coach Garvey leaned across the taping table, trying to read my phone screen, turning the heads of a few players nearby. The assistant defensive line coach was an overly inflated jock of an alpha in his late twenties with no concept of personal space.
“It’s just some gymnastics news,” I said, turning away and heading after Dr. McEwen. Pretending I didn’t see Garvey’s flash of irritation. The man had too much spare time—and I was not interested in keeping him entertained. I had actual work to do.
And I couldn’t lose focus.
It didn’t matter that the news kickstarted the ticking timebomb of my emotional control.
Wasn’t I doing better? My defenses should be strong enough to withstand a single press release, but the headline alone threatened my resolve.
No. I refused to get upset. Not now.
Wyatt didn’t matter. He couldn’t matter. Never again.