Chapter 8
CONNOR
Glancing at the time on my phone, I wince. I’m gonna have to wear this one on the chin.
I’m not one to chase after guys or girls.
Despite what the internet might believe.
Another day, another opportunity to wake up and find out who I’m supposedly dating thanks to wild speculation online.
There’s nothing I could say or do that will squash the image the media loves to portray of star athletes.
Clickbait sells, attention economy rules, snappy little speculations run the hour-to-hour content cycle.
Drowning out the noise is about all I can do.
So, I do what I do best and play rugby.
I keep my nose clean, and my agent squashes anything wildly speculative that could be a problem. But for the most part, as long as I’m fit and playing well, I can keep the media focused on my game and not my personal life.
Not that there’s anything to report where that’s concerned.
As my shitty luck would have it, I’ve discovered my talents for scoring tries and putting in crunching tackles don’t translate well to other parts of my life. I’m excellent at finding myself tangled up in complex situations.
I’ve got a stupid secret crush on my teammate, and now a sweet little Omega who has got me all kinds of hooked already.
Walking away from where I left her at the library? Damn, that had me seriously considering finding a way to blow off training. But that shit would cost me a starting spot, and there’s no way in hell I’m gonna risk not booting up this weekend if there’s a chance she might be in the crowd watching.
Game days are a big deal for all the pro sports with home grounds here at Willow Falls.
The town packs out with fans rolling in from across the state and traveling with whichever away team is on the opposing side of the turf.
Through the year, the season rolls between rugby, to ice hockey, to football—not the proper type of football, mind you-–the American version.
Sports fans get to feast all year long, and whenever there’s a home game, it basically turns the whole place into one giant party.
Like Mardi Gras, but substitute beads and ghost tours for face paint and team chants.
And just in case she’s a no-show at the match, I may or may not have snuck a look at her schedule. It’s not like I’m gonna follow her around, but if I happen to know she’s got class at two p.m. on a Tuesday, then that’s just a coincidence.
She’s managed to burrow into my awareness in a way I’ve only ever experienced with Ace before.
Wonderful. Two crushes, both of whom couldn’t give less of a flying fuck that I’m a pro athlete. The irony is enough to choke me.
Murphy:
Renfro, you better not be late motherfucker.
Me:
Course I’m not. *kiss emoji*
Fuck. I totally am.
Murphy:
It’ll cost you ten reps for every minute you make us wait for your big highlander ass.
Me:
You like the look of my ass, Murphy?
Murphy:
*middle finger emoji*
Me:
Is that an offer?
Or a to-scale model of the skinny little Twizzler girth you’re working with over there?
Murphy:
Jesus Christ.
Palamo, are you with him?
Ace:
Nope. But I can tell you I’m already in the lockers, and Cap ain’t gonna be in the mood for either of you to be fucking around today.
Me:
Shit.
I’ll shout dinner tonight, lads. Steaks are on me.
Murphy:
How bad is it?
I peer through the rain dripping off the edge of my umbrella as I start jogging. The roof of our high-performance hub is in sight, but definitely not close enough for me to make it.
Me:
Sorry fellas. Might be in for a half dozen.
6 minutes. Tops.
Ace:
You motherfucker.
Murphy:
Screw you.
Me:
Kiss me with that mouth later, Murph.
I shove my phone in my pocket and start to pick up the pace. Copping a punishment is totally worth it to get another shot with mystery Omega. Even if it does mean we might end up heaving our guts up halfway through training today.
Under normal circumstances, captain’s runs are supposed to be the last chance to go through moves, calls, and generally settle into our game plan for the upcoming match.
However, this is round one. We’re right at the beginning of a season that will be long and brutal, physically, mentally, and emotionally.
This week’s match is our season opener. It doesn’t matter that we’re playing a team we thrashed easily last year; you never know how a squad will come together during the offseason.
We’re still in the thick of conditioning, coming out of winter, with only a couple of preseason hit-outs under our belts.
That means Captain ain’t gonna be in a forgiving mood.
As I reach the parking area, I’m already feeling the familiar sense of being at home that comes with getting together with the team. These guys are my family. My home away from home. I love playing pro rugby, but it never gets easier being away from the friends and family I grew up with.
Pack life runs strong in the Renfro blood. I’ve always known that would be my life, my dream for the future, wanting to find a pack of my own. To some extent, being part of the Wolves fills that void until whatever time that might happen for me.
It’s hardly a surprise, then, that I’ve crushed on my roommate for years. It’s fine to secretly harbor feelings toward your teammate and never have the guts to fucking tell him. We live together. We train together. We socialize together.
It’s fine. Totally fine.
Atlas Palamo is grouchy, unapproachable, never smiles, and has been a fucking weak spot for me ever since the day we first shook hands at training.
We’re both openly bisexual. We’re both Alphas.
And if there’s one thing I know for certain, it’s that we have each other’s backs on the field like nothing I’ve ever experienced before.
I’m a better player for having him in the starting lineup with me, and that’s where my biggest problem starts and ends, where he’s concerned.
I’ve never wanted to fuck up a good thing, for either of us. I’ve watched him make MVP lists and win awards. I’ve stood by his side as we’ve hoisted trophies together. The guy is on the cusp of World Cup selection. So why would I go and throw a hand grenade in all that?
Players can technically be in relationships, as long as they’re above board with the legal side of things.
But packs? That’s where pro rugby has yet to join the modern era.
The game is too worried about the system being rigged—teams stacking talent under the guise of fake pack dynamics, and rotten rumors of paying off Omegas to enter into a fake arrangement to benefit pro teams have always hung around like a stench.
All of that aside, at the heart of it, their bigger concern is multiple players belonging to the same pack, who could end up sidelined by an Omega going into heat.
It comes down to one thing in their eyes: butts on seats and tickets sold. The players guarantee fans show up week in and week out. If there’s no certainty of players kitting up, then all those dollars start to look mighty shaky.
The system is bullshit, but it’s how they’ve continued to roll forever.
“Yo, Renfro!” a deep voice booms at me as I jog toward the locker room. “Cap is gonna have us all busting a lung because of you. What gives?”
“Ach. You know I’ll make it up to you, Gus.” I salute our tighthead prop, Nate Angus. “Besides, you’re always telling me how you could use a little extra cardio.”
“Literally never. Those words have never crossed my lips, wanker.”
I smirk to myself, slipping through the door to the changing rooms. The guy tips the scales at over two hundred and sixty pounds. He just wants to tackle hard and jog around the middle of the park.
As I toss my bag down and pull out my boots, the back of my neck prickles with the all too familiar sensation of Palamo’s eyes on me.
I swear to god I feel him before I ever see him.
He might say all of five words on a good day, but there’s a whole lot he can get across without any need for talking.
Pulling my sweats off, my training kit is already underneath, and I lace my boots up. Feeling his eyes drilling into the top of my head, when I tilt my face up, he’s right there. Arms folded, all that ink covering his forearms and biceps on display. Script lining the side of his neck.
That scowl is sexy as fuck. I live for that stupid scowl.
“Miss me, princess?” I give him a wink.
“Where were you?” His nostrils flare ever so slightly.
“Out for a little stroll. Getting my head in the game. Consider me a good Samaritan; I ended up saving a helpless woodland creature.” I hop to my feet and fish my mouthguard out of my bag.
He looks me over, something unreadable in those hazel eyes.
Walking past, I clap him on the shoulder. “Alright, let’s go get this over with. I’ll buy you a nice, fat, juicy ribeye for supper tonight. Take you somewhere ultra fancy, you can even put on a pretty dress if you want. Gotta treat my baby right.”
The furrow between his brows deepens.
Look, I’m not saying I handle this attraction in the healthiest of ways. I end up mostly joking about the two of us dating… maybe I’m just trying to fucking lob ideas out into the universe like hand grenades at this point.
That’s how manifestation works, right?
“Renfro.” The familiar bark of our captain hits me as I step onto the turf. We’ve got a covered training arena, thank fuck. Game days, we gotta suck it up and play through the mud and rain at our home stadium, but at least, on a day like today, it can be pissing down outside, and in here we’re dry.
Until we start sweating buckets, or blood, with whatever drills are waiting in store for us.
“You wanna let the team know what was more important than getting here on time?”
“Would you like the PG version or the R18 uncensored cut?” I start stretching out my shoulders.
“How graphic do you want it? Full lurid details? Might have to cover junior’s ears over there.
” Winking at one of our rookies in the reserves, he goes a bashful shade of pink.
The kid is a talented player, but he’s young and shy.
Cap pinches his brow, muttering a curse in Tongan under his breath.
He’s married to his Beta and worships the ground she walks on, rightly so.
Samara Tipene is as much of a rock for this team as he is.
Besides having three kids under ten, she coordinates heaps of our team bonding stuff and makes sure any new partners of players are always given a warm welcome.
The guy is headed for retirement within the next couple of years, barring injury, and we all want to go hard to make sure his final seasons are the best send-off we could give.
“Murph, you deal with this.” He jerks a square jaw made of granite at me. “Vice-captain can pick the punishment. What was it, five minutes late?”
“Six.” Murphy drops the tackle pads he was carrying. “You know what that means. On the try line, fellas.”
The squad erupts into grumbles and curses. Yeah, I’m likely gonna cop some extra hard hits today for this one.
Just as we all line up, ready to start running, one of the wider squad forwards clearly has no sense of self preservation and decides to pick that moment to pipe up. “Murphy, what’s this I hear that your sister’s in town? She just started at Willow Falls?”
A low chuckle and some whistles ripple through the squad. Someone howls. A few of the guys drum on the padding around the base of the goal posts.
Next to me, Murphy growls a colorful expletive under his breath.
“She gonna be our lucky charm this season?” someone else calls out from farther along the line.
I can’t help but grin to myself. This is news to me.
Ace didn’t mention a thing, and the two of them have been best friends since playing in the junior division.
It’s gonna be prime material to wind him up about this season.
Finch Murphy is already snorting like a damn bull. “No one breathes near her. No one even so much as looks her way. Got it?”
I keep my head down, loosening up my calf muscles with a quick stretch.
Internally, I’m already rolling my eyes.
Yeah, it’s no secret that Murphy has two younger sisters, but he kept that particular card—that she’s started studying here at Willow Falls—reeeeeal close to his chest. Time to sit back and watch this shit show.
Don’t blame him in the slightest. At least that’s the last thing I’ll ever have to worry about. Some rules are just tattooed on the inside of your eyelids.
There’s absolutely no way I’d go anywhere near the vice-captain’s little sister.