5. Chad
CHAPTER 5
Chad
The next day, I ended up at the country club on my own. Driven by a need to see Dean again. It’s stupid and will only get my heart broken again, but I’m a glutton.
"Well, if it isn't the world famous tennis player himself," I say, sliding onto the stool beside Dean without bothering to wait for an invite.
His jaw clenches, but he doesn’t look up from the menu. His fingers curling tightly around the pen clutched in his right hand over a notepad. “Chad.” One word, flat and sharp. Cold as ever.
I lean back, grinning. “Always so chipper in the morning. Must be exhausting keeping that stick lodged so firmly up your ass.”
Dean’s eyes flicker toward me, the irritation just barely breaking through his calm exterior. “Do you need something?”
"Need? Nah," I say, shrugging. "Just thought I'd grace this place with my presence. You know, spice things up a bit. Didn’t realize breakfast at the country club was such a lively event."
Dean’s grip on the menu tightens, but he still doesn’t rise to the bait. Pity. I could use some sparring today. "Some of us have responsibilities, Chad. You should try it sometime."
That hits harder than I want to admit, but I laugh it off, refusing to let him see the sting. "Responsibilities? Sure, Dean. Like what, picking out the perfect, overpriced smoothie?"
His left eyebrow lifts as he presses his lips into a thin line, pinning me with a withering look. “Some of us don’t have the luxury of wasting time. And I’m going over possible menu changes, not ordering food.”
“Wasting time?” I scoff, ignoring the second part, leaning in and lowering my voice. "You call this living? Sitting here with the blue-haired crowd, reading a menu like it’s gonna change your life?"
Dean finally closes the menu and turns to face me fully, eyes cold and cutting. "Some of us actually have lives. You might want to get one."
There’s a pause, and for a second, the tightness in my chest makes it hard to breathe. He doesn't know shit about me, but somehow he knows where to hit. I force a grin, though my voice comes out more bitter than I want. "Guess it's a good thing I’m not taking notes from you, then."
He stands, stool scraping against the floor, and gives me one last look—just enough disdain to drive the point home. "I’ve got better things to do than entertain you."
Before I can fire back, he's walking away, leaving me sitting there like an idiot.
I let out a low whistle, signaling the waiter for coffee like it’s no big deal. But it’s hollow. His words cut deeper than I want to admit. Damn it.
I rub my chest, trying to shake the feeling. Why does he still get to me?
The coffee arrives, but it does nothing to drown out the echo of his words. But sulking into the cup isn’t me, so I paste on a smile, and with one last gulp of the bitter drink, I push away from the counter and follow him.
He thinks he can just walk away? That isn’t how this works. I stride toward the hallway he disappeared into, intent on continuing our verbal sparring match.
“Chadwick, what are you doing here this morning?” my mother says, stepping in front of me. I’d been so intent on following Dean I neglected to notice she was in the dining area.
“Mother,” I say, coming to a stop, my gaze lingering on the hallway behind her. “I just came to pay Dean a visit. You know my old friend.”
Her face lights up. Obviously he’s an alpha she would love me to settle down with. “Do you think you will become more than friends?” she asks, lowering her voice like we are trading secrets.
I widen my eyes and smile brightly. “You never know. You might get that perfect alpha you always wanted.” My smile fades just as quickly at my sharp words, and she falls back a step, hurt flashing in her eyes, as if I hurt her with the suggestion that I’m not good enough for them. “But I have to go. I’ll see you at home.”
She falls away, and I slip past her and down the hallway.
A glinting gold placard shines with Dean’s name. He has his own office now, that’s new. The door’s slightly ajar, and I push it open and lean against the door frame. His eyes snap to mine, and I smile. That spark that always seems to be between us is still there.
“What do you want?” he barks.
I can feel the command in the words that make me utter the truth. “You’re attention.” I snap my mouth shut, and he looks like he’s grinding his teeth.
“My attention?” he scoffs. “I’m sure you can find attention from a lot of willing alphas. Go play your games with them.”
Ignoring his words, I glance around his office, entering the space like I belong. I finger a frame with an olympic medal. The date on it says it was the summer after everything happened between us.
“Why are you teaching tennis here? This medal alone would give you so many options. That doesn't include working for your father.”
“My dad’s dead.”
“So you picked up the torch? I swear back when we were teens you wanted adventure and freedom.” I move onto the next framed medal. He watches me, I know he does because I can feel his eyes on me.
“Sometimes life has other ideas,” he clips out. And the bitterness in his voice gives me pause. I stop moving and look over at him.
“You know—you don’t owe him anything, right?”
“You don’t get to do this,” Dean snaps, gesturing vaguely around the room before pointing directly at me, his frustration palpable.
I press my lips together, swallowing the retort bubbling up in my chest. Do this? What does he mean, do this ? Talk to him? Make him confront the fact that he threw me away like I didn’t matter? Too bad. He doesn’t get to skate past it.
Honestly, if I really think about it, maybe he’s the reason for all my failed attempts at being the “perfect omega” for every alpha who followed. Richard was the final blow. I gave up everything for that man—did his laundry, cooked his dinners, kept our home spotless, all while ignoring my own dreams. And what did it get me? Five words. I want you to leave.
Even those five words didn’t cut as deep as Dean’s did, though.
Back then, after that humiliating heat, I thought there was something between us. That kiss—desperate, consuming, like we were the only two people who existed—it stuck with me. His scent, warm and musky, lingered on my skin, haunting me for weeks. But when the haze lifted, I was left with the cold truth.
I was rejected by my scent match.
Figures. My parents didn’t want me. Why would he?
Now, as I study Dean openly, his tense shoulders and the guarded look in his eyes, I can’t stop the faint smirk tugging at my lips. The thought hits me like a spark of madness. “You know, Dean,” I start, watching his jaw tick. “For someone who acts like they’re above it all, you’ve been staring at me like I’m dessert after a very long, very boring meal.”
“What?” His voice is sharp, defensive, like I just stepped on a nerve.
I snort, tilting my head. “What?” I echo, feigning innocence. “You heard me. Once upon a time, I would’ve gotten on my knees for you.”
His eyes darken, his body tensing at my words. I lean in slightly, my voice dropping lower. “And you? You would’ve loved every second of it. Maybe it’s time you see exactly what you’ve been missing.”
Dean’s sharp inhale is audible, and I feel the shift in the room like a crack of thunder. His scent, rich and heady, rolls over me, pulling at something primal and instinctive. But this time, I laugh softly, shaking my head.
“Relax,” I say, stepping back just enough to reclaim the upper hand. “I don’t mean feeling it. I meant watching what we could’ve been.”
His gaze follows me, his expression unreadable, but I see the flicker of conflict there—the same kind of conflict that’s been brewing inside me for years.