Thirty-Five – Morgan
Thirty-Five
Morgan
“ W e’ve got to stop meeting like this.” Joaquin grinned as he set a takeout bag on the table in front of me. How he’d made it into the football operations center staff breakroom without an escort was anyone’s guess, but here he was, looking entirely too pleased with himself.
“Where’s Alijah?” I asked, scanning the room for the absent beta.
“Getting drinks from the vending machine,” he said, sliding into the seat across from me.
I was relieved to know Alijah was just on the other side of the wall. Joaquin hadn’t pulled a Garvey—not that I thought he would.
“But while we have a minute alone…” Joaquin pulled a folded piece of paper fromhis back pocket and placed it next to my half-eaten salad. “I took the liberty of reserving a table for you at the fall gala.”
“Why?” I asked, unfolding the paper to reveal a partially completed registration form. The Belcrest Ballet logo adorned the header, and my name was already listed as a sponsor for an eight-seat table at the post-performance dinner and silent auction.
“Gold Medal Realty sponsors a table every year.” Joaquin leaned back in his chair and raised a smug brow. “Don’t tell me you didn’t know.”
“Jacobi handles the social stuff. I just approve the expenditures.” I slid the registration form across the table.
“But,” Joaquin countered, pushing it right back with the tip of a tattooed finger, “Alijah wants to go, and I’ll be too busy to keep him company. So, do me a solid, doc—and be his date for the evening. Count it as one of our lunch requests.”
“I prefer to keep my lunch dates under five digits.”
“Like you weren’t already planning to spend the money.”
I sighed, glancing at the form again. Alijah Peck was neatly written on the first attendee line, followed by a trio of surprises—Cal, Wyatt, and Owen.
“What’s with the chaperones?”
“They’re uncultured swine,” Joaquin said, deadpan. “Take pity on them.”
“Only if you deduct another lunch off my tab.”
“No can do, doc. Would you settle for a manly favor around the house?”
“That’s what maintenance is for.”
“Wash your windows shirtless?”
“Cleaning service.”
A khaki-clad knee edged into the doorway, followed by the hint of a blue polo shirt and a sculpted cheek. Between the gleam in his eyes and the clink of soda cans against the doorframe, Alijah could not be more conspicuous if he tried.
What were the mates up to?
“You drive a hard bargain.” Joaquin stroked his beard, pretending to think, before raising a finger. “How about this—I bring you the brisket special the next time I hit up the barbeque food truck?”
The devil knew my weakness. “Fine, but I get to invite whoever I want for the rest of the seats.”
I meant my siblings, and we both knew it, but I had to maintain the illusion of being in charge.
While I didn’t love being manipulated into attending the gala, I knew Rory wanted to go, and Kelsey hadn’t missed a year since Piper started dancing at Belcrest. I might not have Jacobi’s knack for being the life of the party, but I could make an effort—for Piper and, in this case, Alijah.
“Pleasure doing business with you.” Joaquin flashed a sly grin and started unpacking food. It was Chinese, judging by the familiar shape of the paper cartons. “How much time do you get to eat?”
I refolded the registration form, tucking it in the front pocket of my bag. “Depends on the day, but it’s usually less than half an hour. If you’re not interested in me rushing out halfway or canceling plans at the last minute, might I suggest arranging our other lunches on the weekend?”
“Good to know,” he said, drumming his fingers against the tabletop, already plotting how to hoodwink me again.
“Hi, Morgan.” Alijah set the cans down and slid into the chair beside me. The delighted quiver of his smile undermined his attempt to look casual. “Didn’t know you’d be here.”
What an adorably bad liar he was.
“Hm. Is that so?” I gave Joaquin a pointed look before adding, “Piper and Rory won’t stop raving about the housewarming.”
Alijah’s happiness seemed to vibrate at an even higher frequency. “Really?”
“Really.” I took another bite of salad, surprised by how much the success of his big event mattered to me.
Two coaching staff members came in, shooting me disapproving looks as they headed to the refrigerator. I had long stopped caring about the whispers and suggestive laughs from Garvey sympathizers.
Joaquin, however, zeroed in on them, eyes tracking their every move—even as he opened a carton of shrimp lo mein and set it in front of his mate.
Thankfully, Alijah was more interested in tucking into his lunch with his disposable chopsticks than anything else.
“Couldn’t have done it without Kelsey,” Alijah said after a few bites, his smile growing with every stir of his noodles. “She’s amazing. Showed up with flowers and like three hundred crab cakes. She’d make a killing if she opened a party planning business.”
One of the alphas made the mistake of gesturing at Alijah. Joaquin stared them down and snapped his chopsticks apart with a sharp crack. They quickly shuffled out of the room.
Joaquin raised a brow at me.
I subtly shook my head. He didn’t need to wade into my workplace dynamics drama. Omegas had extra legal protection, but betas didn’t. It would only hurt Alijah in the end.
“Why doesn’t Kelsey have a proper store?” Alijah asked. “Seems like a waste.”
“We’ve tried telling her that. Doesn’t think she can handle the overhead yet.”
“Who’s we?” Joaquin asked, stabbing at his Szechuan beef.
“The whole family—me, my parents, Jacobi. You think I haven’t tried investing in Beaufeather’s before?”
“You guys sure do like to mention Jacobi a lot,” Joaquin said with his mouth half-full. He swallowed, reached for one of the soda cans, and popped it open. “Have you two ever…?”
“Have we ever hooked up?” I crossed my arms on the table, meeting his gaze with unflinching confidence. Play stupid games with an omega, win filthy prizes. “Of course. ”
Joaquin took on a green tinge, trying to force out a laugh for bravado’s sake. Alijah spluttered into his hand.
“We fooled around all the time in high school. What do you think happens when your only potential partners are a bunch of other teenage omega gymnasts who are just as horny as you are? We were too busy and isolated to meet anyone else.”
Sex ed for omegas was less about relationships and more about survival. How to successfully scratch the itch before your hormones overruled everything else, GPA be damned. Jacobi would never have passed math without my steady supply of hand jobs.
We never went all the way, but it was easier to rely on my best friend for a quick climax than risk someone else getting the wrong idea about the situation—or worse, feeling entitled to my body. It was an even bigger risk for Jacobi, given his pansexuality.
Alijah took the open drink from Joaquin’s hand and downed most of it. “And are—are you still…?”
“Of course not. College has a way of broadening one’s horizons. Besides, I’m not even Jacobi’s type.”
“I find that hard to believe.” Joaquin gave my features—and figure—a long look of blatant appreciation. Alijah nodded in agreement.
I shook my head. “He’s got a thing for alphasandprefers taller partners.”
“Guess that rules Wyatt out,” Joaquin said with a playful sneer I didn’t appreciate. Even if he was still nursing a grudge about Wyatt keeping our neighborly status a secret, it didn’t warrant poking fun at his height.
I glared at Joaquin. “You do realize he’s tall for a male gymnast, don’t you?”
He eased forward, mirroring my posture, trying to get a rise out of me. “Do you defend all the men who dump you?”
“Can’t get dumped,” I said, stabbing a chunk of cauliflower, “if you never dated.”
Alijah’s face scrunched up. “Didn’t he break things off a-after—”
“Oh, Morgan, there you are.” Reyhan appeared in the breakroom doorway, looking like an electrocuted sparrow, hair sticking out at odd angles, his expression one of exasperated urgency. “Need a second opinion.”
“Be right there.” I snapped the lid onto my salad container and leaned across the table, my voice quiet but firm. “Just to be clear, it wasn’t his fault.”
“Nah.” Joaquin waved his chopsticks. “Something went down.”
They both looked at me expectantly. I could only disappoint them with the truth.
“Would you believe me if I told you I can’t remember?”
***
“He’s wrong.” Tyler slumped on the exam room table, his face pinched, red hair scraped back into a greasy bun. He was dressed in rumpled workout clothes, clutching his left hand. His almost healed finger was now swollen and mottled with dark bruises. “It’s not broken.”
The x-ray said otherwise. I leaned closer to the lightbox, scanning the image for bone fragments. “What were you doing when this happened?”
“Doesn’t matter. Just tape me up so I can go to class.”
At the physician’s computer, Reyhan paused while typing, his fingers curling and flexing a few times before returning to the keyboard. It was the only outward sign of his mounting frustration with Tyler. The kid wouldn’t listen to reason, so Reyhan had pulled me into this mess.
“We can’t treat you appropriately without more details,” I said, fixing Tyler with a pointed look. “Unless you like having a busted hand all the time?”
“You know I don’t, but—but it’s not a big deal. You guys are worrying too much.”
“Based on the state of your hair and your clothes,” I said in a measured tone, “either this happened during your morning workout, or you’ve been trying to soldier through since last night—which I hope isn’t the case. If the injury is more than a few hours old, it might not—”
“I have to play!” Tyler’s yell cut me off. His heel slammed against the table—as startling as a gunshot in the tight space of the exam room. Reyhan jumped in his seat, the wireless mouse clattering against the keyboard.
Tyler’s eyes blazed with real, disturbing anger. But it didn’t last. His breath hitched, shoulders quaking. A choked sob wracked his large frame as he curled in on himself, clutching his injured hand.
“Please—please tape me up,” he pleaded. “I can take it. You don’t understand. I’m a senior. I need to play—I have to play. You can’t bench me, not again. No scout will ever notice me if I’m stuck on the sidelines. Please, I’m begging you.”
His panic was understandable. Most seniors feared the injured list like death. The stakes were even higher for someone like Tyler, who’d once been touted as a serious contender for the pro league .
But the way his emotions spiraled so violently… It wasn’t like him. There had to be something else going on.
I rolled a spare chair over and sat down, leaning forward until our eyes met. Resting my elbows on my knees, I softened my tone and leveled with him. “I know you want to be on the field for every game, but this goes beyond tape, Tyler. Your hand needs a splint. And you cannot play this weekend.”
“No,” Tyler whimpered, shaking his head as tears streamed down his blotchy, sweat-slicked face. “I can play—I can !”
The crying and bargaining dragged on. Tyler stubbornly refused to be treated. We had no choice but to call in the big guns—Dr. McEwen.
An electric charge filled the room, the atmosphere almost crackling as our boss strode in. He took one look at the x-ray and barked out a brusque, unequivocal diagnosis. “Broken.”
Though the word wasn’t directed at us, Reyhan winced, and I discreetly rolled my chair a few inches away to avoid the brunt of Dr. McEwen’s dominance.
His following proclamation hit even harder. “You’re benched.”
Poor Tyler. Still leaking snot, he went white as a sheet, folded in on himself, and succumbed to proper sobs.
Trapped in a nightmare of his own making—where not even a Hail Mary could save him.
***
A fuzzy purple catnip hippo ricocheted off my right breast and landed on the screen of my tablet.
I glanced across the library nest at Cal, who was lounging with his elbow propped on the ledge, head resting in his hand. He’d finished replying to emails ages ago and had been trying to exhaust Kip with a wand toy ever since.
My cat gave a final halfhearted swat before flopping onto the cushions in defeat.
“What are you scowling at?” Cal asked, his tone equal parts curiosity and amusement. I must have made a face.
“Tyler Hartsen’s medical record,” I replied, setting the tablet aside with a sigh.
“Isn’t he Reyhan’s patient now?”
“Yes, which is partially why I’m so frustrated.” I dug my fingers into my scalp, trying to massage away the band of tension at the base of my skull. “He broke his finger, so we had to bench him.”
“How’d that go over?”
“Tears and lots of begging. But there was a moment when he seemed off . Like I was dealing with a completely different person.”
Cal’s expression darkened, his playful demeanor giving way to concern. “And so, you’re, what—digging through his PheroPass records, looking for a reason to justify his behavior?”
“That’s the problem.” My hands were steady as I picked up the tablet and opened a folder of screenshots, even though what I’d found had unnerved me, to say the least. “I didn’t go looking for it, but…”
Cal put down the wand toy and scooted over to sit beside me, his knees popping twice along the way. He took the tablet, his eyes narrowing as he zoomed in on Tyler’s readings.
“Tyler didn’t report his injury when it happened,” I explained, “so I checked his PheroPass data. I found it all right—elevated heart rate, increased respiration, all the usual signs of pain yesterday afternoon—but I also discovered that he was on the receiving end of a pheromone surge when it happened.”
“Moderate spikes happen all the time during weight training and practice,” Cal said, offering a gentle counterargument. The players gave their all because they wanted to win. Emotional intensity was normal.
“I know,” I said with a nod. “It’s nothing taken in isolation—but it wasn’t just one spike.”
“What do you mean?”
I closed out of Tyler’s screenshots and navigated up a level, showing Cal the bigger picture. Every member of the starting defensive line had been hit with consistent, significantly pronounced pheromone surges over the past few weeks—like they were being targeted.
I opened a trend graph I’d compiled and pointed to the sharp rise in activity. “The spikes are only getting stronger and more frequent. Now, they’re filled with enough negative intent that Tyler broke a bone.”
Cal methodically studied each of my findings, his expression turning solemn. His fingers drummed an uneasy rhythm against the back of the tablet. “Do you know who did it?”
“That’s the real problem,” I admitted, picking at the seams of my leggings. “I’ve been cross-referencing timestamps for hours now. I can’t find a single player with a pheromone emittance reading anywhere near these levels.”
“Did you look at the other lines?”
“Of course. I checked everyone, even the injured list and the redshirt freshmen.”
“So, we’re likely looking for a coach or a staff member.” Cal’s pensive frown settled into something heavier, more immovable—a protective shield. “Garvey?”
“I suspected him, too, but the dates don’t quite match. This started while he was on leave,” I said with a flash of annoyance. Trying to pin this on Garvey would be satisfying but unfair. “There’s not enough evidence to suspect anyone.”
“You’re right. Garvey’s just one possibility based on past behavior. And it might not even be malicious. It could simply be someone with poor pheromone control heading into a rut.” Cal paused. “But there’s still a chance someone is doing this on purpose. Maybe they’re trying to sabotage the team’s winning streak.”
“None of the options are good.” After a moment’s hesitation, I voiced what had been bothering me for most of the night. “My clinical observation report is due on Friday. I want to include this, but it could cause major problems.”
“Do it.” Cal handed back my tablet, his tone steady and sure. “I’ll handle the fall-out.” He shifted closer, pressing our sides together, his hand settling on my knee. “Would you mind if my team took the lead in monitoring this?”
“Be my guest,” I said, exhaling some tension. “I’m swamped as it is, and if Garvey is involved…”
“It keeps you protected,” Cal finished, pressing a kiss to my temple, his scruff softly rasping against my cheek.
Setting my tablet aside for good, I turned and claimed a proper kiss—slow and indulgent, just like the flames dancing in the fireplace.
But before things could go further, Cal pulled back just enough to meet my gaze. “Speaking of Garvey… Got an interesting text from Joaquin. He wants to know if you’re having issues with the other coaches.”
I sighed, sinking lower against the reading wedge, which caused Cal’s hand to slide higher up my thigh. “What did you tell him?”
“Nothing. Wanted to talk to you first.”
“I don’t want this to be a thing , Cal.” Watching the shadows dancing on the ceiling, I toyed with the cuff of his sweater and said softly, “Not trying to whitewash Garvey’s behavior, but this isn’t the first time something like this has happened to me. There’s a reason so many omega physicians only practice omega medicine.”
Cal shifted onto his side, displacing a pillow that inadvertently bumped into the curtain—where Tenny was hiding, staging yet another silent protest at being squeezed out of the nest. He let out an indignant yowl.
“Sorry, dude,” Cal said, raising his hands in apology.
I tried my hardest not to laugh. “Poor baby just wants to snuggle.”
“So greedy.” Cal glanced at the sullen lump before wrapping his arms around me and pulling us both lower onto the upholstered surface of the nest. His lips trailed down the length of my neck. “Which is too bad—because so am I.”
Oh, how far we’d come from his days of leaving courtesy cracks in meeting room doors.
“Do you want to come to my place Friday night?” he asked between kisses. “We could get sushi takeout.”
“Sorry, I can’t,” I said, threading my fingers through his hair. “Family invasion for the marathon.”
“That’s this weekend?”
It was nice to know I wasn’t the only one who lost track of time in this relationship.
“Mhm. But if you’re willing to face my three fathers, you could take us all out for sushi.” It was too early to meet each other’s parents, and we both knew it, but I couldn’t help teasing him. “I’m sure they’d love to meet you.”
Cal laughed, tipping his head toward the sulking Tenny. “If your dads are anything like him…”
“They’re not,” I assured him, stroking his shoulders. “If you can handle Piper and Rory, you can handle my fathers. They’re goofy, love good food, and want their kids to be happy. A little messy sometimes, but well-meaning.”
“And your mom?”
“Like Kelsey—practical and even-keeled.” Bringing my lips to his ear, I whispered, “So, ready to meet the parents?”
Cal’s brow creased. “I’d offer to bump into them at the finish line, but with how Grandfather’s been lately… Maybe we should rain check?”
“It’s probably for the best since—” I cut myself off, biting my lip.
“What?” Cal stole a teasing kiss. “Still mad that I thought you were an only child?”
“No.” I laughed, looping my arms around his neck. “Jacobi has this…nickname for you. And it’s spread to all my siblings, so it’s only a matter of time before someone uses it. I’m shocked Rory hasn’t already.”
An amused purr caressed my ear. “Do tell.”
“Well—uh, it’s…” Stupid Jacobi. I should have abandoned him in the foam pit at tumbling class all those years ago and spared myself this hu miliation. But there was no avoiding it now. “Um. Ph-pheromone stud.”
Cal burst out laughing, the deep rumble echoing from his chest into mine, burying my concerns about how he’d react to the nickname beneath a wave of pure affection.
“Pheromone stud? Oh, that’s amazing. Weird, but undeniably flattering.” Cal rolled onto his back, pulling me along with him. “And how long have I held this prestigious title, Dr. Van Daal?”
I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to ignore how much I enjoyed having his solid body between my thighs. We’d agreed to take things slow, but this was pure temptation. I had to resist.
Mostly.
Burying my face in his dense chest, I mumbled, “Day one.”
“Huh?” His hands skimmed along my sides, coming to rest firmly on my ass. “Didn’t quite catch that.”
“Since the first day I met you,” I admitted, heat flooding my cheeks.
Cal’s pleased purr vibrated through me as he kissed the top of my head, inundating me with delicious tingles. “Lucky me.”
For once, I didn’t question my luck or wonder when it would run out. His genuine affection healed a tiny sliver of my doubtful heart.
Cal would meet my family someday, no doubt launching a charm offensive that would put my myriad brothers-in-law to shame, winning over everyone from my baby nieces to Nonna.
And I’d enjoy every minute of it—by his side.