Chapter 67
chapter
sixty-seven
There’sa charge thrumming in my blood as I step out of the car.
I can’t remember the last time I felt this way. The rush of competition, the thrill of anticipation. It reminds me of playing for our high school team—the way I used to spend the whole day before a game buzzing. Full of restless energy, tinged with aggression.
I’m… excited.
And pissed.
But, hey, a color is a color and nothing here is gray.
Remi feels my nervous anger and puts her little hands on my chest, beaming up at me. I love the look of pride in her eyes and the way it echoes down our bond—but I hate how she shakes when I cup her shoulders in my palms.
It’s too fucking soon for us to be back out in the world. Most packs stay nested or nest-adjacent for well over a week after they bond. But here we are, two days out from the evening her fever broke, facing this clusterfuck of a situation.
My protective instincts don’t like it. Remi has barely caught up on her sleep, let alone adjusted to having three alpha bonds running through her. Not to mention regaining her strength after eating so little during her heat.
That won’t happen again. Now that we’re all bonded, it will be much easier for us to coax her through next time. The thought gives me a burst of satisfaction, infused with a vein of heated lust. Remi feels both, giggling quietly and raising her brow at me.
You all ready to go again, Bear? So soon?
I snatch her waist, picking her right up and planting my mouth over hers. Always, butterfly.
We can feel Damon’s pulse of curiosity before he lopes around the car. In the last three days, I don’t think the guy’s closed his curtain even once. If I focus long enough, I can always pick up on the thread of his thoughts, playing unobtrusively in the background of our bond like an upbeat pop song.
D snorts a laugh and loops his arms around Remi’s waist to hug her from behind. “I wondered what had our pretty girl all happy and horny. Just this big guy, huh?”
She purses her lips to hold back a chortle and makes the absolute worst joke of all time. “Well, he is unbearably handsome.”
While she and Damon crack up, Smith’s groan can be heard all the way from the other side of the Range Rover. He shakes his head, dusting the navy lapels of his suit and plucking at the pair of silky, blue-striped panties folded in his jacket pocket. “These puns are out of control.”
D flashes a wide grin, hooking an arm over Remi’s shoulders and rolling his eyes at us. “C’mon, let’s get this the puck over with.”
Jesus. Even I have to groan at that one.
Paying no mind to my grimace or Smith’s, Damon leads Remi through the parking lot. His mood takes a nosedive once we hit the sidewalk in front of the arena. Apprehension and embarrassment fill the bond, along with Remi’s sweet reassurances.
Smith is surprisingly quiet. He has been every time we’ve discussed Damon and me returning to work.
It’s our fifth game of this playoff series and, so far, the Timberwolves haven’t totally sucked without us. Our back-up goalie has allowed more points than I ever would, but Gunnar’s been channeling Damon, and he’s posted enough shots to keep the score even at two games won for each squad.
We’re not exactly sure what we’re walking into tonight. Standard heat leave procedure calls for us to report to the next team event as soon as we’re able, which happens to be tonight. But Coach could tell Damon to fuck off and bench him until his contract officially expires in three games. And I could be looking at some bench time myself, after the way I wordlessly walked out for Remi’s heat.
So fucking worth it, I think to everyone, grumbling. They all reply with various blends of fond amusement and annoyance.
Not the point, Bear, Remi snaps.
Totally the point, Damon replies, bending to kiss her head.
Smith mutters something about going to speak to the team managers, straightening his sleeves and fidgeting with his not-a-pocket-square again. We all look at each other when he stalks off, wondering what we’ve missed.
Has his internal curtain been drawn like that all day? What for?
Remi doesn’t know either. She chews on her lower lip, anxiety bleeding into her chest. Damon and I wrap her in a two-sided hug. “He’s just stressed about the contract shit,” I mumble. “He’ll be back soon.”
We’re here early, even for us. Plenty of time for Damon to indulge his Alpha’s instinct to stuff Rems full of food. He gets her a soft pretzel and a pornographically large hotdog, purring and petting her loose curls while he feeds her both by hand.
She accepts his overattentive fussing with sweet smiles and little bursts of bemusement. I keep an eye on our surroundings, grappling with my own impulses. The need to protect feels particularly urgent. When I spot the sleezy reporter who tried to corner Remi at her first game, I know why.
He’s watching the three of us, a phone dangling from his hand. I’m sure he’s already taken a dozen pictures, but none of us react. We already decided, as a pack, that we don’t care what the press reports. It won’t change anything for us.
So let them take pictures of the marks on Remi’s throat and her shoulder.
Let everyone in the whole damn world know she’s ours.
Smith reappears about twenty minutes later, holding a folder and striding right toward us. He waves a hand over his shoulder, sending us a smile and a beat of impatience that makes no sense. “Come on.”
We all batter him with questions while we follow him out of the main, public area of the arena, into the bowels below. There are offices down here, along with our locker rooms, equipment, and medical facilities.
Once we get to the carpeted hallway, I realize there are a lot of administrative staffers here. They usually don’t have to come in for weekend games.
Maybe, because of the playoffs…?
But everyone seems distinctly harried while they rush from one office to another, carting boxes or stacks of files. Damon’s brow knits. He feels stupid for not immediately understanding and I send him a pulse of you’re not alone.
“What’s, uh, happening?” he asks, releasing Remi to turn in a half circle. “Are people moving offices?”
Smith nods. “Yes, I’ve restructured some things down here.”
D and I both blink at him, each vaguely wondering if he’s finally cracked. What makes him think he can come down here and give orders?
Remi figures it out first, of course. Her eyes drop to the folder in his hand and fly back up to his face. “You didn’t,” she breathes.
But she knows he did.
He bought the team.
Her dazed realization reverberates through all of us. Damon balks. My jaw drops. Smith’s features pull into a cringe.
My mind races, recalling odd memories that seemed off at the time, but make sense, now. Like his lack-of reaction to hearing Damon walked off the ice for Remi’s heat. The muttered phone calls he made the day we all finally came out of the nest and faced the world—all conducted with his internal walls up. And the way he and Ronan Ash spent over an hour talking at our last gathering.
Is this what they were cooking up? A team takeover?
The brilliant bastard.
“I’m sorry I had to keep it a secret, angel. There was an NDA clause in place for the acquisition process. Until we all signed the paperwork, I wasn’t at liberty to say anything to anyone, not even our pack. I never thought I’d be waiting so long; we were supposed to sign last week, but with the heat, things got pushed a bit.”
Half of his words don’t even hit me. Remi’s thought keeps twirling through my head. He bought the team.
For her, to keep her alphas together.
For Damon, to give him time to figure himself out.
For me, so I can keep playing now that I can finally enjoy it again.
For us. Our pack, our home, our family.
We all start to collapse around him, moving for a group huddle (okay, okay, a group hug)—but there’s a crash behind me. I whirl, immediately putting myself between Remi and the source of the noise.
It’s the weaselly reporter, on the ground, surrounded by gear. He must have been hiding in the open supply closet and fell out trying to record us. His phone lies two feet from my foot, where it landed when he fell.
With a decisive stomp, I smash it under my shoe.
He opens his mouth to protest, but we all snarl viciously. The coward’s eyes fly wide as he leaps up, scrambling backward in retreat.
Remi peeks around my arm, watching him run away and letting out an indignant huff, “What a cunt.”