Eighteen – Morgan
Eighteen
Morgan
“ D o you know where we are?” I asked the volleyball player from the opposing team, who was still catching her breath after taking a hard fall while dodging a headshot. We were in the training room of the Rhine Fieldhouse. Whistles and cheers echoed down the hall from the arena.
Her answer was instant, tone firm. “Northport.”
Close enough, especially for a student from Nebraska.
“Who won the first set?” I asked, watching for any signs of her struggling to speak.
“We did.” Also correct. Their team had dominated the entire game, all but wiping the floor with our girls.
Studying her pupils, I asked, “Did you win your last game?”
“Yes,” she said, chin jutting out with pride. “Won the five before that, too.”
“Good job,” I said, appreciating her resilience.
Her assistant coach stepped into view. Their expression was polite yet expectant. I gave a reassuring nod. No signs of a concussion—though she’d probably have some bruises tomorrow.
After finishing the assessment protocol, I cleared her to return to the bench.
“Well done.” Dr. Gilbert Flemming approached, having watched the entire exam from the corner.
He was a team doctor for volleyball and gymnastics and an attending physician at the university’s sports medicine clinic. A well-trimmed mustache and bow tie lent a scholarly air to his appearance, so long as you ignored the dinosaurs embroidered on the fabric. He was a stout beta with the same warm-hearted demeanor and love of dad jokes as my favorite uncle.
“Yes, very well done,” a woman said from behind me. Her voice was throaty, sinuous, almost unnervingly smooth. The same voice spent sixteen minutes critiquing my interpretation of a vascular ultrasound image last week.
Other fellows mentioned that Dr. Sethi liked to make surprise visits, but I’d yet to experience it myself. Until now.
She wore a lavender blouse with a large bow on the collar and exaggerated French cuffs with matching wide-legged pants. The monochromatic look showed her slim figure to its best effect. Diamond solitaires glittered on her ears.
“I’ve been hearing good things about your performance, Morgan. Very good things.” The corners of her mouth pinched upwards into her usual rigid approximation of a smile. An automatic reflex brought on by decades of professional courtesy. “Apparently, you and our Cal are quite the pair.”
She must have caught wind of our prolonged one-on-one meetings—or maybe someone saw us leaving campus together last week. But Cal and I had nothing to hide. Our work meetings were meticulously documented, and while our personal relationship edged into uncertain territory, he didn’t have direct control over my research project or fellowship.
Not uncertain, I corrected myself, trying to block out the lingering memories of his touch, how his kisses came in gentle, subtly domineering waves—
No. Now was not the time for futile fantasies.
Especially not with his pack mother staring at me—because she did have the power to torpedo my career.
“Yes,” I said, a touch too quickly, though my expression remained poised. “His guidance has been invaluable.”
“As if that was ever in question,” Dr. Flemming said, nodding emphatically, his admiration for Cal more than evident. “His partnership with Redwing has been quite a boon for the university—not that we’d expect anything less from that brilliant Carling blood, eh, Anya?”
His tone was straightforward, his smile open, yet something in the subtext of his words made Dr. Sethi’s eyes narrow. It didn’t seem like a dig at Heather—more like an undercurrent of sympathy.
Was Heather truly being sidelined at Verray, relegated to mediocrity by the alpha men in her family, simply for being a beta?
“Of course,” Dr. Sethi murmured, her tone subdued, as her thumb idly traced the stack of diamond eternity bands on her left ring finger. Mating rings. Four, maybe five. It was hard to tell without staring, but one stood out—a thick band of emerald-cut diamonds, its brilliance unmatched, placed closest to her heart.
I couldn’t help but wonder whose commitment warranted such a prominent statement. Chaz or Jorge, perhaps?
Dr. Flemming regarded Dr. Sethi expectantly. “Anya, don’t you have something to say?”
“Oh, thank you for reminding me.” Her lips attempted another pursed smile. “Have you signed up to work at the Millwright Marathon? We’re still lacking a few—”
“Not that, Anya.” Dr. Flemming gave her a bewildered look, then returned his attention to me, offering his most entreating smile. “There’s a job getting posted next week. It’s for a permanent, full-time sports medicine physician, and we’d like you to apply.”
“You’ll have to forgive Gilbert if he seems a bit overeager. His team so rarely adds a new member,” Dr. Sethi said. “And there may be a better choice for you elsewhere.”
It was tempting to interpret her words as a dismissive insult, but I recognized them for what they were—solid career advice if you were willing to squint.
The University of Northport might not be the best option for me in the long run. A position like my current role would be amazing—in theory. But the sports medicine staff was a boys’ club dominated by alphas like Dr. McEwen. I’d likely be relegated to lower-profile sports, a token omega hire competing against men with more experience for the prime assignments.
Even if they accepted my need for medical accommodations, I suspected it would come at a cost, literally—lower pay, limited opportunities, and constant scrutiny.
“I’ll email you the position description,” said Dr. Flemming, his mustache bristling with every glance at Dr. Sethi. “Give it some thought.”
“I will.”
My less jaded instincts wanted to be excited by the prospect. Maybe I could proceed with cautious optimism?
Catching Dr. Sethi’s critical gaze, I offered my version of a well-rehearsed professional smile.
“And I signed up to work the marathon a few weeks ago. Wouldn’t miss it for anything.”
***
Nebraska put our girls out of their misery just after five. I left not long after, stepping into a gloomy afternoon, storm clouds brewing over the bay and a sharp wind throwing my hair into disarray.
Wrapping my arms around my torso, I hurried toward the parking lot, wondering if this was the last week I could go without a winter coat. It was October now, and the weather would only get worse.
The Rhine Fieldhouse was on the far east side of campus, tucked in a remote corner with other athletic facilities and waterfront dorms. It shared a massive parking lot with the indoor track and tennis buildings and the women’s gymnastics training center. Something I didn’t remember until it was too late.
Wyatt had already seen me.
He stood on the sidewalk several yards ahead, caught in an all too familiar predicament—surrounded by fawning collegiate gymnasts. Mostly omegas and betas, judging by their smaller builds, all gazing at him with hearts in their eyes.
Still a gymnastics hottie, it seemed. I was half-tempted to sneak a photo for Jacobi and Grace’s entertainment.
“Listen, as much as I’d like to, I really can’t help you.” His blue gaze flicked to me, neck shrinking back as he searched for a means to escape—from the crowd and, perhaps, the memory of our awkward parting at the airport. “I’m only working with the alpha girls.”
The crowd wasn’t deterred. Their voices overlapped in an eager rush.
“Please, can’t you watch my routine, just this once?”
Sweat glistened on his brow, dark patches staining his t-shirt, the fabric clinging to the dips and valleys of his sculpted physique. Wyatt wasn’t an amateur—he knew how to dampen his pheromones. But time and sweat dulled the effectiveness of scent-canceling sprays.
Out in the fresh air, away from the training center’s ventilation, the combination of his good looks and tantalizing scent wreaked havoc on teenage hormones.
Poor things, my inner Jacobi snickered. Pop a squat on a bag of dirt and get comfortable—you’re stuck in the garden center for at least a decade.
That had certainly been my experience .
Wyatt stepped back again, careful to avoid brushing against any of the girls. A few of the more insistent ones looked familiar, but I couldn’t recall their names or designations without checking the team rosters.
How could he still not know how to extricate himself from situations like this? Deciding to be merciful, I held up my phone.
“Coach Redmond,” I called. “Do you have a minute? I’ve got those test results you were waiting for.”
The girls scattered.
At the start of my fellowship, they’d swarmed me the same way, fawning over my accolades, begging for vault advice, and snapping selfies. That had earned them a stern warning to knock it off—at my request.
I wasn’t above asking for another warning on Wyatt’s behalf.
He jogged over, carefully dodging the stragglers, relief writ large on his handsome face.
“You’re a lifesaver.”
“What,” I asked, aiming for teasing rather than sinisterly amused, “no love for your adoring fans?”
“Ugh, no.” Wyatt made a sour expression. “It’s happened a few times now, no matter how much spray I use. Maybe it’s expired?”
He sniffed his shirt, then his wrist, which he abruptly thrust toward me.
“You tell me.”
Nothing. That’s all I could smell—a perfect blank. No trace of sweat, no hint of the potent fresh greenery that had just bewitched those girls. Nothing. And I’d never admit it out loud.
I took a step back. “When did you buy it?”
“Don’t remember. Before I moved. Start of last season, maybe?”
“Well, if it’s not expired yet, it’s about to be.”
“Yeah, you’re probably right.” He glanced at my medical staff badge and work bag, then let his gaze wander to the surrounding buildings. “Volleyball game today?”
“Got our asses kicked.”
I stepped off the curb and headed toward my car. Wyatt followed, his duffle of coaching essentials slung over one shoulder.
“Can’t win them all,” he said.
“It’d be nice if they could win even one.”
“What’s their record?”
“Two and ten. They only won five or six games last year.”
“Ouch.” He winced. “That’s why I quit baseball and stuck with gymnastics. You can’t really lose when you’re competing against yourself.”
He leaned in slightly, dimples flashing.
“Come on, you know I’m right. Sure, we both competed on teams, but don’t act like your top priority wasn’t being consistent. Doing your best.”
“I’m not denying anything.” I stopped and turned to face him when we reached my black sedan. “How’s the job going?”
“It’s so much fun. The girls are insanely powerful—getting huge air and pulling off wicked skills on bars. I just wish they could try rings or pommel horse.”
Beta and omega gymnasts used the same standard equipment, but alphas needed reinforced apparatuses to handle their stronger grips and larger forms. Regular parallel bars had just enough give under my weight to allow the flexibility needed for release elements. Alpha bars, by contrast, felt like solid steel—rigid, painful to hold, and nearly impossible for me to execute a maneuver on.
Alpha women, on the other hand, could use them like a slingshot, getting tremendous height and speed. Their upper body strength exceeded most beta men, yet gender norms limited them to the four traditional female apparatuses.
“It would be nice if they’d let them compete on a few of the boy toys, but I won’t hold my breath.” I unlocked the car with my key fob. “I’m happy for you, Wyatt.”
“Thanks.” He watched me open the door with a strained expression, throat working as he mustered the courage to speak. “Can I ask you something? I’ve been wondering—I mean, my girls asked if I knew…”
He folded down the middle and ring fingers on his right hand— I love you —and then moved his palm diagonally across his chest.
Flight .
“I know what the signs mean—but not what they mean to you.”
The enigma code of my heart. My dearest wish. Desires too profound to put into words.
A fresh gust of wind masked the lowering of my head and the hunching of my shoulders, making it seem like a response to the chill rather than what it really was—an emotional retreat.
“Tell… Tell them—” I forced myself to meet his gaze. “It was a message for my family. You remember how little Jenna and Rory were back then. It was my way of telling them I knew they were watching. That they were with me.”
Before my wings were clipped—and my glory was severed at the neck.
“Oh. So that’s it.” Wyatt sighed, his gaze drifting across the agitated river, his momentary courage swept away by the current. “I—I’m sorry.”
I paused, right foot on the car’s floorboard, my work bag stretching toward the passenger seat. For a moment, I looked at the profile that had haunted me for years and wondered what he really wanted to say.
“So am I.”
We parted without another word.