Chapter 12
Lincoln
The house is quiet except for the low murmur of the TV and the occasional pop from the fireplace.
Milton’s stretched out on the other end of the couch, half-watching game highlights, half-scrolling on his phone.
I’ve got a coffee cooling in my hand, trying to unwind, trying to think about anything that isn’t her.
It doesn’t work.
When my phone buzzes, I already know who it is. Bayleigh.
My mouth pulls into a grin before I can stop it.
Bayleigh: Sorry I was cranky last night. You made my brother’s blood pressure spike. I got defensive and feel bad. Congrats on getting a rise out of Benton.
Me: Pretty sure that’s a new record for me. Should I be proud or concerned?
Bayleigh: Both. He’s probably still pacing in his room this morning.
Me: He’ll live. Tell him it builds character.
Bayleigh: Or ulcers.
I can almost hear the teasing in her tone, even though I’ve never heard her voice. The thought makes my stomach do a stupid flip.
Me: So you’re saying the problem’s genetic.
Bayleigh: I’m saying both of you need leashes.
I grin, leaning back, feeling the tension from the day ease out of my shoulders. I picture her copper hair tucked behind her ear, green eyes sharp even when she’s teasing.
Milton notices. “Who’re you texting that’s got you smiling like you just got traded to the top seed?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know?”
He pauses the TV, staring. “Oh, I would. Because you never smile like that.”
I glance at him, debating whether to lie, then shrug. “Bayleigh Lennox.”
He chokes on his beer. “So it wasn’t just a one-game-I-didn't-know-who-you-were thing? You actually like this omega?”
“Yeah.”
“No shit?”
“No shit.”
He stares at me for a beat, then laughs, low and disbelieving.
“You’ve officially lost it.”
“Probably.”
He leans forward, elbows on his knees. “You realize how bad that looks, right? Rival team, rival family—your brother’s sworn enemy’s baby sister. This is like hockey Romeo and Juliet bullshit.”
I snort. “Relax. Their bullshit isn’t my bullshit, and frankly, they both need to stop throwing tantrums over Gina.”
Milton raises a brow, unconvinced. “I don’t disagree.”
My phone buzzes again, saving me.
Bayleigh: Went to get coffee from the kitchen. Benton’s still sulking. Says I embarrassed him by not storming off when you came over.
Me: I feel personally honored to be the reason your brother’s blood pressure’s up.
Bayleigh: You’re welcome.
I chuckle, thumb hovering.
Me: Does he always hover like that?
Bayleigh: You have no idea. He still calls me when I drive somewhere after dark.
Me: Overprotective’s one thing. Dictatorship’s another.
Bayleigh: You’re telling me.
Milton eyes me from the side. “You texting or writing a damn novel over there?”
“Maybe I’m multitasking.”
“Yeah, right,” he says, stretching. “You’ve got that stupid soft look. That’s not multitasking. That’s catching feelings.”
“Bite me.”
He grins and kicks his foot against my leg. “Not my type.”
I shake my head, but my lips twitch anyway.
Sunlight spills across the floor in thin stripes through the blinds.
The only sounds are the low murmur of the TV and Korbin clinking dishes in the kitchen.
The air smells of coffee and maple syrup.
Somewhere outside, a lawn mower hums to life.
I take another sip of my coffee, and sink deeper into the couch.
Me: You always this sassy, or am I getting special treatment?
Bayleigh: Depends. You flirting?
Me: Maybe. You biting?
Bayleigh: Wouldn’t you like to know?
A small sound escapes me—half laugh, half groan.
Milton groans dramatically. “For fuck’s sake, if you’re gonna start sexting, at least go to your room. I don’t need to see that.”
I throw a pillow at him. “It’s not like that.”
“Yet.”
I roll my eyes, but he’s not wrong.
Me: You actually look good in that Kraken jersey. Bet you’d look better with a Brooks name on the back.
Bayleigh: I’ll pretend that’s not blasphemy coming from a Scorpion fan.
Me: I’m just saying it’s a crime against fashion. You could do better.
Bayleigh: Oh yeah? Like what?
Me: My toolbelt as a top and those jeans from the game.
She sends a laughing emoji and a picture—her hand flipping the camera off, nails painted Kraken blue.
Bayleigh: Dream on, Brooks.
I stare at the picture longer than I should, then save it before I can talk myself out of it.
Milton catches the grin spreading across my face and groans, “Man, you’re gone.”
“Am not.”
He shakes his head. “You’ve been zapped, cut, burned—and never once lost your cool. Then she texts, and suddenly you’re sitting here grinning like a damn teenager. Pathetic, man.”
I don’t argue because he’s right.
Bayleigh: You still there?
Me: Yeah. Sorry, got distracted.
Bayleigh: Hockey?
Me: Nah. Something better. I was staring at your picture.
She sends another message before I can blink.
Bayleigh: I’m not sure if that’s a compliment or a lie.
Me: Compliment. 100%.
She doesn’t answer right away. I glance at Milton, who’s back to pretending to care about the TV.
“Hey,” he says after a minute, not looking away from the screen. “You think Korbin’s gonna blow a fuse when he finds out you’re all in with this girl?”
“Probably.”
“And you’re okay with that?”
“Not really,” I admit. “But I’m not doing anything wrong.”
“Yet,” he repeats, like it’s his favorite word tonight.
He finishes the last sip of his coffee and stands, stretching.
“I’m headed to work out before you start naming your future kids. Don’t fry the circuits, Romeo.”
“Screw you,” I call after him.
He waves a hand without looking back.
Bayleigh: I was just thinking… It’s weird. Talking to you like this should feel wrong.
Me: Does it?
Bayleigh: No, it feels easy.
My chest goes tight.
Me: Easy’s rare. Don’t question it.
She doesn’t answer for a while, and I figure that’s the end of it. I start to set the phone down, but then it lights up again.
Bayleigh: You really don’t care that I’m a Krakens fan or deaf?
Me: I could live with worse.
Bayleigh: Like what?
Me: Someone who doesn’t like wings after a game.
She sends back a photo—a basket of half-eaten wings from last night.
Bayleigh: Guess I’m safe, then.
Me: For now.
I grin at the screen like an idiot. My head’s buzzing—not from caffeine, but from her.
I know this is reckless. Korbin already gave me shit for even talking to her, but if he knew I was still texting her? Still thinking about her? He’d lose his mind.
Maybe he’s right. Maybe I am out of my damn mind.
But it doesn’t stop me.
Bayleigh: So… what happens next time our brothers fight?
Me: We place bets. Loser buys wings.
Bayleigh: Deal.
It’s such a small thing, that word. But it feels like a start.
I scroll back through our messages before setting my phone down. Every line feels like a little piece of her voice, even though I’ve never heard it.
There’s something about her—soft but strong, sweet but not na?ve. She doesn’t flinch around me, doesn’t play coy, doesn’t tiptoe like so many do when they find out who I am. She’s just… Bayleigh.
And that’s the problem.
Because the more I talk to her, the less she feels like some rival player’s omega sister, and the more she feels like someone I’m not supposed to want.
My phone buzzes one last time.
Bayleigh: Talk to you later, Lincoln.
Me: Count on it, Bayleigh.
I watch the dots fade from the chat, the conversation finally ending after all the back-and-forth. The mint and green tea scent’s long gone, but it’s still stuck in my head, threaded through everything like static.
From the garage, the faint clang of Milton’s scent and metal weights drifts through the house—steady, grounding, real life moving on while I sit here replaying her words.
I scroll back through the thread one more time, a stupid grin tugging at my mouth.
Yeah. I’m screwed.
Because somewhere between last night and now, she stopped feeling like a sexy meet-cute and started feeling like trouble I actually want.