Chapter 45
chapter
forty-five
The Pierson pack’sbox is way too big without Meg and her alphas crammed into it.
They’re at home this week, prepping for her next heat. I talked to her this morning, and she seemed excited more than anything. I listened to her babble happily and wondered whether I would ever feel the same way.
Right now, the thought of my next heat makes me feel… well, hot. Burning with embarrassment and buzzing with apprehension. But also distinctly warm between my thighs.
It’s odd, living in a house with three alphas—men who are supposed to be mine—but still not knowing what my heat will look like. Will they all want to be a part of it? What if it happens while they have games scheduled? What if I end up alone with Smith?
Why does that make me feel warmer?
Nope.
Not going there. Especially while I’m alone, about to watch two of my alphas play the most violent sport I’ve ever seen.
I’m already on edge as it is. Cassian was taciturn all day. Much grumpier than usual. Although, he didn’t really treat me any differently. He just seemed to be seething about something.
I see that same intensity out on the ice already. Once his stretches are done, he skates impatient half-circles around the goal. It’s like pacing on ice. Every few minutes, he turns his head to look up at my box, and I try for a reassuring smile while I wave.
Could he really just be worried about me up here alone?
I don’t have much time to contemplate it before the lights go down, plunging the arena into darkness. The Jumbotron lights up, announcing the players. Flashing their faces beside their names and jersey numbers.
If Meg were here, she’d probably suggest we play Smash or Pass.
Tittering to myself, I open Snapchat and send her a clip of the introductions, along with a note suggesting she make this into some sort of game for the Osprey’s followers next season. She writes back right away, sending a screenshot of one particular player from the video, along with one word: Smash.
It’s Gunnar Sinclair, the guy the press keeps insisting will replace Damon. And, yes, he is, objectively smashable. All dark hair and mysterious eyes that make Damon’s look docile.
Not surprisingly, my Omega practically foams at the mouth as Damon is announced, his unfairly handsome face lighting up the screen as hundreds of fans scream for him. It doesn’t escape me that half of those screams sound more like moans.
I might be bothered if my alpha didn’t skate onto the ice and immediately spin to find me, pointing his stick up to our box with a wide, luminous grin.
Cassian is always the last name announced, as is customary with goalies. He lumbers out in all of his pads, cutting a no-nonsense path right to the goal.
Damon must notice he’s off, too, because I catch him whipping his head over to watch Cass get settled. They shout something to each other over the bass pounding through the stadium’s speakers. D’s shoulders bounce up in a shrug, and I take that to mean he isn’t too worried.
Now if only my Omega would get the memo. I feel like there’s a hamster wheel in my chest, spinning faster and faster.
My anxiety seems unfounded. The lights come up, the puck hits the ice, and they’re off. I watch as the opposing team works Damon into the boards again and again. He still manages to score, which is good because Cassian is definitely not himself.
By the middle of the second period, I am distinctly stressed. Damon is fighting for his life out there, dodging several players at once. With the defenders spread thin, trying to assist the offense and guard the goal, Cassian is on high alert.
He’s blocked upward of twenty shots, but three have snuck through. Damon scored once and Gunnar has another goal, bringing the score to 2-3.
I’m on the edge of my seat, biting my lip hard enough to blanch it, when the door to the box flies open. I jump, whirling around to find?—
Smith.
The pack alpha stalks into the room, chest heaving slightly. “I’m late,” he says, scowling at me. “I meant to be here an hour ago.”
I blink at him, processing. By the time I realize that was a Smith Apology, he’s dropped his briefcase against the box’s low front wall and folded himself into the seat beside mine.
Shock slackens my features while he settles in, bending forward to rest his elbows on his knees and narrow his dark eyes at the play unfolding below us.
He’s here. With me. But he smells… like another omega?
The hairs on the back of my neck stand up. When Smith senses me stiffen, he turns and runs his eyes over my posture, lingering on my Timberwolf-teal dress and Damon’s borrowed team jacket.
“Where were you?” I ask, whispering.
He meets my eyes, his softening. “Just in a meeting, little petal. It ran longer than I expected.”
I open my mouth to ask him if there was another omega there, but he stuns me into silence by bridging the distance between us, bending close enough to rub his cheek against mine in a deliberate scent-marking gesture.
“I missed you,” he says. “How was your day?”
Resembling a fish choking on air, I blub multiple times before finally swallowing hard.
This might be your only chance. Remember your graces, my anxiety hisses. Show him you’re worth talking to.
“It was good,” I say, sitting up straighter. “I ordered groceries and prepped some meals for the guys to take on the road next week. Damon asked for more muffins, and Cassian wanted a thermos of soup since they’re heading into colder weather. The pool crew started repaving. They asked if we wanted a waterfall feature, but I’m leaning more toward a fountain, if that’s all right?—”
Smith’s hand finds mine. Warmer and larger than I expect it to be. He squeezes and sends me a pulse of steadying energy. “A fountain is great. Whatever you want is fine. But how are you, Remi?”
Flabbergasted.
A small smile touches my lips as he continues to stare at me intently, waiting for a real answer. “I’m okay,” I reply. “Worried about Cassian, a little bit. He was edgy today.”
Smith’s brow furrows. “Hm. He does have moods, but I’m guessing this was beyond that?”
I nod, still stunned that he’s listening to me. Talking to me. We’re… like a team.
“I’m not sure what could be making him so anxious,” I continue, chewing the corner of my lip. “I—We spent time together this morning. He had practice with Damon. I made them both an early dinner. So, I’m just not sure…”
Smith’s mouth actually quirks slightly at my innuendo. “Sounds like he’s a spoiled bastard.” His focus flickers to the place where my teeth are nipping my skin, and his voice grows warmer. “I’ll speak to him and take care of it, all right? I don’t want you to worry.”
He flexes his dominance, but not in a way that’s aimed at me. Instead of a bulldozer, it’s more like… a weighted blanket. Soothing my nerves. “I’ll take care of everything,” he assures again, looking right into my eyes. “You just relax for me.”
He’s saying everything I’ve wished he would say for weeks. But why now? Is this guilt? Does it have something to do with that other scent on him?
I guess that isn’t fair. It isn’t on him. More like near him.
You’re being crazy, I tell my Omega. He probably just rode an elevator with someone, and you’re going all Fatal Attraction over it.
Don’t be a dumb bitch, she argues back. Look at him. Do you feel this alpha energy? What omega wouldn’t want to juice themselves on that knot?
Good Lord. Juice?
She may be borderline feral for these alphas, but my Omega has a point. I do feel the BKE, as Meg calls it. And I’m trying to ignore the way it makes my core clench.
Too late. Once I think about it for half a second, perfume spins off of me while slick wets my panties.
Smith’s chest rumbles, but the sound is less of a growl and more… almost…
Is he purring?
Or trying to?
Resisting the urge to pinch myself—because, honestly, if I am dreaming? Let me sleep—I scoot a bit closer. He lifts his arm and drapes it over the back of my chair. “Are you cold?”
No, I’m trying to hear your chest, seems like a weird answer. So I nod and let him gather me into his side. The rich bitterness of his coffee scent twines with his crisply laundered dress shirt and some sort of mild de-scenting cologne. The effect is a spicy, clean, dark smell that makes my insides tingle.
Smith glances sidelong at me. His expression seems conflicted, like he’s trying to decide what to say. Or if he should speak at all.
In the end, he lowers his voice a bit. “Want to know a secret?”
I want to open up my phone and record this for later. Because I know I will start gaslighting myself about whether this actually happened the second we snap back to our typical, polite-but-separate reality.
He leans closer and confesses, “I hate coming here. Watching the coach bark orders at Damon and Cass makes me crazy. And this entire place needs to be dehumidified. Whoever installed their air conditioner did a shoddy job.”
I remember the way he reacted when he saw my old apartment. Maybe this is a particular hang-up of his, but it feels like there must be more to it. After all, he lived in a half-finished house before I showed up.
“What else?” I ask, still looking up at him.
A bit of tension leaves his shoulders. “I’m not sure. Every time I’m here, I leave feeling angry. Even when we win.”
Well, it isn’t much. But it is something, isn’t it? Effort—however clumsy.
Below, a buzzer sounds. We both glance over to find the red light behind Cassian’s goal flashing, meaning the other team has scored again.
2-4.
Smith curses under his breath, the sound vicious despite the gentle way his arm wraps around my back. “He never misses shots from the left,” he mutters. “What the hell is going on?”
I unpack his words and turn to him, my face lifting. “You watch their games?”
Smith frowns, his eyes still following the play action on the ice. “Of course I do. I watch every game on live-stream. I’m at the office, most of the time, but?—”
He cuts himself off, looking at me with wider eyes. “They think I don’t watch their games? Because I’m not here?”
I nod, resisting the urge to laugh at his indignant expression. “Well… yeah. Did you ever tell them you were watching at work? Or tell them they played a good game?”
Smith holds my gaze for a long moment, thinking, and then sighs. “I guess I didn’t.”
“You should tell them,” I suggest, wincing and cringing as Damon gets shoved into the boards again. “Especially after tonight.”
The words are barely out of my mouth when it happens. Smith goes rigid. Below, Damon’s head snaps up. And Cassian?
Cassian roars, loud enough for me to hear him dozens of rows up.
And then he lunges right out of the goal.