Chapter 3
chapter
three
“He’s gonna know.”
Dante kicks his cleats into his “locker.” Picture air-quotes around that shit, because the thing is more of a walk-in closet than a cubby or a metal box. Part of the new team manager’s many improvements to the Kings’ previously decrepit facilities.
My packmates would normally love this sort of crap. Fancy new “lockers,” plush carpet in the changing areas, marble showers, and cryogenic physical therapy machines. Not to mention the freshly turfed field, brand-new dugouts, and thousands upon thousands of actual stadium seats.
Apparently, bleachers are “for bullshit high school fields” and “even the good kids’ teams have real seats, now.”
What-the-fuck-ever.
Jesse is currently too busy spiraling to care about our new decor. He paces between his closet and Dante’s, ramming both hands through his gold hair and casting wild hazel eyes between me and our other packmate.
I lean against the crutch tucked under my right arm, absorbing the scene with a pain-fogged brain.
Anger roils under the nauseating burn of jealousy clenching my gut.
Watching Dante carelessly toss his practice uniform into the laundry chute freezes everything over.
Tempering the envy and rage into a cold blade of bitterness.
The hell am I doing here?
“This was your idea,” I spit back, barely bothering to check over my shoulder and make sure none of our—or their —teammates are eavesdropping. “Now you’re going postal over it like a little bitch? You made this stupid plan, Jesse.”
He squeezes his eyelids shut and grinds out a groan. “I know. I know . I just didn’t think we’d?—”
“Fuck it all up again?” Dante supplies, dusting off his hands.
It’s rare for him to make a joke these days. Which is another thing that pisses me off. He wasn’t even in that godforsaken accident, so what the hell gives him the right to sulk about my injuries?
Other than the fact that the oddsmakers think the Kings’ season might be in the toilet without me…
Which is one of many reasons why Jesse’s next statement is all too true.
“We need this,” he says, halting to turn his attention from Dante to me and back again. “You both know I’m right.”
This fucking guy. He said the same thing over a year ago, the last time we were looking at two options: clean up our act… or make it look like we had.
Dante, of course, wasn’t interested in shutting down his constant parade of pussy or the partying he claimed was our right, given how much money we make and how hard we work.
Work ed , I correct internally.
Because currently? I don’t play for the Kings. And may not ever play professional baseball again.
And, okay—I admit to being part of our problem last year. I slept around almost as much as Dante and probably drank the most. Definitely more than Golden Boy Jesse.
None of us wanted to slow down. Dante figured we only needed to present the illusion that we had. And what better way than by getting engaged?
But Jesse objected to leading some poor sap on, pretending we wanted to get married. Eventually, he made a suggestion.
We didn’t actually have to get engaged. We just had to make it look like we were.
Our pack discussed it for weeks. We needed someone we could trust, obviously. An omega eager enough to agree, but noble enough to keep their word. A person the press couldn’t intimidate. A woman with backbone and intelligence, but not anyone with the sort of fame that would cause a media sensation.
And, in Dante’s oh-so-humble words, “hot enough to be believable.”
Cue Bridget Woods .
She was Jesse’s idea, too. The daughter of dead socialites—well-bred, not well-known. A good name, but nothing truly interesting.
Apart from being an absolute bombshell of red-haired, dangerously curved sex appeal.
I couldn’t exactly hold that against her, though. On paper, she was educated, employed, and socially conscious. A veritable saint.
Volunteer work. Charitable donations. Girl Scout troop leader. A low-income librarian who single-handedly scraped together enough funds to start a citywide teen literacy program.
Jesse went to high school with the Woods girls: Bridget and her debutante, bitch-on-wheels big sister, Alicia. Word had spread through their silver-spoon circle that Alicia was trying to pair Bridget off—and it was proving quite a challenge.
I didn’t understand what Alicia meant when she described Bridget as “headstrong” and “difficult to charm.” Until I met the woman.
I slam a metal cage over that memory, trapping my train of thought before it sends me careening back toward blood-boiling hatred.
Maybe I should reconsider staying sober and turning down my doctors’ offers for painkillers. Feeling shit sucks.
“You said you knew what you were doing last time ,” I grit. “And now we’re in even deeper shit than we were before.”
Jesse throws his hands up, exasperated. “Did either of you have a better idea? They were threatening to cut us!”
It’s nice of him to say “us” like he was included.
Jesse’s never hurt a damned fly, and his position on the squad was never in question.
Why would any manager cut the team’s star pitcher?
Especially when the extent of his debauchery amounted to sitting in VIP booths, shaking his head at us while we tore shit up.
Jesse was never the problem. Since we didn’t have an official pack leader, most of our responsibilities fell to him. Sure, he was crap at most of them, but he did his best.
That’s the real reason neither Dante nor I can tell him to shove it now.
And how we’ve wound up in yet another unholy tangle.
“Look,” Dante grumbles, pulling on his pristine white sneakers and resting his elbows on his knees, glaring at Jesse from the bench. “It’s simple. We can’t accept his offer because we already have a deal. With Bridget.”
Jesse grimaces, turning to look at me. The hopeful gleam in his green-gold eyes makes my stomach squirm.
Since when am I the voice of reason around here?
Christ. That’s a sorry state of affairs.
“We can’t take on a new packmate—a pack leader —and not tell him our omega is—” I check behind me again, lowering my voice to a murmur “—fake.”
“She isn’t fake !” Dante spits, way too loudly. “She’s real , she just?—”
“—isn’t really ours,” Jesse finishes, shoulders slumping. “And we can’t have a new pack leader who thinks otherwise. We should tell him the truth.”
“But he’s also our team manager . We can’t tell him without risking our positions,” Dante snaps, growling.
I get it. Because, Jesus . We’ve circled this damn roundabout eighty-thousand times.
Jesse’s lips pull back over a pained flash of white teeth. “We could try talking to her? Telling her about?—”
“ Adrian! ”
The name of our new manager—and potential pack alpha—rings down the hall. I lean back on my crutch, swallowing a grunt when my left side protests, and crane my neck to see what’s coming our way.
Dressed in his usual European sophistication, Adrian appears at the corner of the tunnel.
He clocks me watching before an approaching sponsor snags his focus.
They shake hands and start a conversation, but I feel our would-be leader’s gaze flick to the locker room entrance—and the back of my head—every few seconds.
My voice lowers to a hiss. “You assholes are dumber than I thought if you believe we could ever fool Adrian Messina . And about this ? He’s brought Bridget up every single time we’ve discussed him joining the pack.
He likes her, wants to meet her. You seriously think he won’t notice if we keep her hidden away in a house with our names written all over it?
What’s gonna stop him from just showing up there? ”
Dante snarls under his breath, black eyes blazing. Does he object to the idea of another alpha approaching Bridget? Or to our pack alpha finding out we’re a bunch of frauds?
Either way, his dark gaze flits to Jesse. “Colt’s right. The only reason Adrian hasn’t gone to her yet is out of respect for our claim to her.”
Delusional asshole. What claim? Bridget couldn’t be less ours, as far as I’m concerned.
Jesse swallows visibly, pushing fretful fingers through his hair again. “Fine. So we tell Bridget we’re ending our arrangement… Or we tell Adrian the truth and let him decide what to do.”
Strained quiet swells between us, punctuated by the distant patter of the locker room showers. We all know what we need to do. It’s the choice between continuing with a short-term non-solution and finally having a long-term one.
Jesse shifts his weight, toeing the carpet with his cleat. “I don’t want to hurt her feelings.”
For the first time all afternoon, Dante and I look at each other. And I see the truth—a quick spark behind his black irises.
Too fucking late .