Chapter 10
WREN
“Excuse me, but who is the one out here looking like he just strolled off the movie set for Thor?”
Among the pumping music and pre-match light show, Nikita studies the players jogging out of the tunnel as if she’s about to pick the Derby winner.
She’s even got the team pulled up on her phone as we huddle together in our seats on the sideline.
As promised, my brother got us prime spots.
Right on halfway, and just behind the substitutes’ bench.
It’s close enough that we can smell the muscle rub and sweat.
My body lights up like the Fourth of July, the traitorous little bitch.
Thank fuck for ways to mask our scents while in big crowds like this.
There are probably close to ten thousand people packed in tonight’s sell-out season opener, and the last thing the three of us need is to be attracting undue attention from Alphas who catch wind of us reacting to the sight of ridiculously muscled men in short shorts running around.
This sport has gotta be an Omega’s fantasy come to life. Larger-than-life man-mountains, who look ready to defend their territory for as long as it takes, and take care of their teammates in the process?
The three pillars of peak Omega swoon.
Scent. Strength. Stamina.
Yep. That speaks to me on a cellular level.
I absolutely want a pack one day. That’s something I know will make my little Omega heart skip around with joy.
I just want to make sure I’ve had a chance to live my life and make decisions that are best for me first. Thank fuck my aunt and her husband understood that.
They’re both Betas, but they put as much effort as possible into trying to learn as much about Omegas when we ended up in their care.
My sister and I have always had their backing that whatever happens, they’re behind us all the way in choosing packmates ourselves, rather than some families who look to get their Omegas set up with a pre-arranged pack.
Look, to each their own. Formed packs aren’t necessarily bad.
There can be incredibly beneficial arrangements for both Alphas and Omegas that come out of them…
but that’s not my style. For right or wrong, I feel like I owe it to my parents to find packmates where romance is at the heart of our connection.
Until then, I can have my heats serviced, and I can bide my time while I accomplish goals, like my degree.
“Wren. Focus here.” An elbow digs into my ribs. “Gimme the tea on Thor’s doppelg?nger over there with the number ten on his back.”
“Oh, that’s Maddox. He’s starting fly-half. One of the Australian imports.”
“Well, he can fly his way over here.”
“Alright, back in your enclosure you go. Don’t make me start packing a squirt bottle in my purse alongside my mace.”
“You might be better off using the mace on her.” Gabbie giggles.
Nikita leans across me to swat her arm. “Hey. Hold all judgment… I see where your eyes are going. Don’t give me the sweet and innocent Gabriella trick. You’ve been checking out those thighs and buns on number fourteen ever since we sat down.”
Gabbie turns bright red.
I bump shoulders with her. “Wanna spill anything?”
“Nope,” she squeaks.
“Look, there’s big bro!” Nikita cups her mouth and starts hollering. “Go number twelve! Crush skulls, Murphy!”
I’m ready to dissolve with laughter. This girl is gonna be enough entertainment to bring along to games on her own.
Gabbie’s voice is a little croaky. “That’s your brother?”
“Yeah, that’s him.” My smile broadens, taking in the sight of his number set against forest green.
Finch jogs out and does his usual ritual of crouching down to rub his hands over the pitch, pinching some grass before standing up and rubbing it between his palms. “He’s a midfield specialist. Some of the other guys can switch between positions, but he’s always played number twelve. ”
“What’s his job? Other than being vice general,” Nikita hums, pretending to study the team sheet on her phone with the intensity of a reporter preparing for a game day press pit.
“Vice-captain.” I laugh. “He’s there to do a lot of tackling and a hell of a lot of running. Basically, he’s like a second line of defense behind the massive guys who are the forwards but also has to be fast enough to keep up with the speedsters on the wings.”
“Busy boy,” she muses, before smacking me in the arm.
“Okay, shush. Look alive, bitches. The pretty ponies are getting ready to start prancing.” Nikita wriggles in her seat as the announcer begins calling numbers and names, hyping the crowd, and the two sides go into their huddles.
“Please tell me this is like a boy petting zoo. We can cuddle them and take selfies after the game?”
“Once you see how sweaty and gross they are… you miiiiight reconsider that.” I click my tongue.
“I dunno. Circling back to my whole getting chased through a forest fantasy…” She stops mid-sentence. “Stop the press. Number thirteen? Hello, Mr. Tattoos.”
My eyes flick to where Finch is currently relaying calls to Atlas—Ace.
The two of them are literally side by side on the field when they play.
Best friends and the closest of teammates in numbers twelve and thirteen, respectively.
They’ve gotta have an almost sixth sense bond between them, the way they connect on the field.
It’s something that wins them matches and titles year after year.
The two are a powerhouse combo, and the Wolves know it. A combo that earns them million-dollar-a-year contracts, no less.
“Yeah, he’s been friends with Finch for years. They’ve played together a long time.”
Gabbie sucks in a breath. “There’s your guy,” she whisper-shouts at me. Not that anyone could hear over the raucous chants of fans in anticipation of kickoff.
“He’s not my—”
“Oh my god. YES. There he is. Number fifteen!” Nikita sits up taller, dropping her phone in her lap. Both hands cup around her mouth. “Get it, Scotland! Your girl—”
I smother her mouth and just about tackle her straight to the concrete. The little minx is laughing hysterically as I cover her face with my glove.
“Ummphhhfff. Anggfffff.” Her protest against my palm is full of mirth.
“You’d better behave.” I glare at her.
“Calm your titties, he’s so far away down there by the goal posts, there’s no way he could hear anything,” she snorts while pretending to dust herself off.
She’s right, but my stomach is busy doing somersaults all the same.
The ten-second countdown booms around the stadium, followed by the referee’s whistle blasting on halfway as he sticks one arm in the air.
The Wolves are receiving, which means they’ll get the first chance to take possession after kickoff.
On the opposing team, their number ten drop-kicks a massive punt into the night sky, and the season is officially underway.
The forwards get straight to work. Hoisting one of the impossibly tall lock forwards into the air to secure the catch close to the ten-meter line. Missouri has turned up with fire in their eyes and look determined to try and win the ball back straight away.
“They look like boulders.” Gabbie winces as the first of the big hits of the night goes in, and the guy with the ball is tackled to the dirt.
“Those are the props. Numbers one, two, and three.” Low to the ground, solid as a mountain. The three front rowers rumble across the middle of the pitch in a way that I’m sure would make the earth shake.
“They look terrifying. What do they do, other than try to break bones with collisions like that?” She winces again as another punishing tackle goes to ground.
“Look, even Finch will admit he doesn’t know shit about being a prop. They specialize in the dark arts of scrums and mauls and rucks.”
Nikita snorts. “I know I’ve got a buzz going, but I’m sure you’re making these words up.”
That has me laughing. “It’s a whole thing.”
“Tell me more of this strange and foreign language you speak.”
At this rate, I’m gonna have sore stomach muscles from laughing so hard.
“The part where they all crouch down like two opposing packs and then smash into each other? That’s called a scrum.
It happens when someone either passes forward or knocks the ball forward.
One team will have the chance to put the ball in, and then the hooker needs to secure it.
He’s the only one who can touch the ball—”
“Oh my god,” she shrieks. “You are totally messing with us.”
“It’s because he hooks the ball… with his foot…”
“Yep. Okay. Whatever you say.” Her laughter is infectious. Taking a sip out of her flask, she passes it along for both me and Gabbie to share.
“You’re a twelve-year-old boy,” I tut at her, before taking a sip that burns a track down the back of my throat and makes my eyes water. At least it’ll do exactly the trick of keeping us warm. Eighty minutes is a long time to be sitting out in the cold for an Omega.
She pats my leg. “Now do the other ones. The whaddya call them? Mucks and roars?”
“Rucks and mauls.” As I talk and do my best to keep a straight face explaining things, Gabbie leans across my lap to pass the flask back to Nikita.
“It’s when someone gets tackled. If they go down on the ground and all the bodies pile in, they can fight to get the ball.
If the player gets caught up on his feet and shoved around while he’s still standing… that’s a maul.”
“I don’t understand a thing.” Her dark eyes sparkle as she grins. “And I’m officially obsessed.”
The first half is tight. Both sides are obviously feeling the pressure of game one, the struggle to settle into new combinations that usually comes later in the season.
Other than trading penalty kicks, by the time the first forty minutes are up, the score is close.
6-3, with the Wolves only ahead by a whisker.
“Oh my god, that felt like it went so fast.” Gabbie looks at me. “Your brother was nearly over the line. I could have sworn he scored.”
Nodding, I stand up as the players jog toward the tunnel.
They’re coming right at us, and I force myself to drop my eyes because I don’t want to risk Connor spotting me.
As much as my romantic heart flutters at the idea of him knowing for a fact that I’m in the stands, it would be the worst if he realized I was here partway through the match.
Because as of full time, he’s going to know the truth. That I’m Finch’s sister, and that’ll be the end of it.
After the players leave the field, the trainers and reserves all follow after them, heading down below the stands into the lockers. Knowing a typical match, there will be a whole heap of running repairs. Cuts, sprains, or even worse, in some cases.
Finch has played with a broken hand before. I know Atlas once finished a match after dislocating his shoulder. One of the other guys popped it back in for him, and he played the final five minutes before being rushed to the hospital for scans.
These guys put their bodies on the line week in and week out.
“Let’s go get drinks.” Nikita nudges me and grabs my hand.
As I glance back at the field, I see that a sideline reporter with red hair and airbrushed makeup has a TV camera and microphone pointed at Connor as he makes his way toward the tunnel.
They love grabbing him whenever possible for a quick sound bite about how the game is going, and clearly, he’s still the trending player to nab a piece of.
A hot, ugly, bubbling rage surges up the back of my throat, seeing him looking down at her, nodding as he quickly answers questions. The bitch reaches out to touch his forearm.
I imagine reaching out to swiftly punch her right in the vagina.
“Yep. Drinks. Perfect plan.” Taking hold of Gabbie, we wind our way up through the stands, and I’m intent on keeping my head down.
There is no sense in my getting caught up in Connor or who he talks to. The guy is likely to be drowning in nudes sent by fans, offers of hookups, and probably has a secret girlfriend on the side. Ugh.
The way he looked at me that day outside the library and told me that he wasn’t like that was all good and believable, until the truth of seeing him in professional athlete mode just slapped me across the face.
He’s not the guy hiding out in cafés wearing his cap pulled down over his eyes.
This man is an international superstar, with boots on his feet worth seven figures a season.
Crowds flood the main concourse, rushing to get their halftime refreshments and pit stops in order. The mood is festive, with chants and the type of rowdy singing that tends to follow rugby teams around, no matter where they are.
We stay linked together, sticking to our plan of always keeping eyes on each other as Omegas, having each other’s backs.
While we wait in the queue, Gabbie and Nikita both pull out their phones to check messages, and I’m just about to do the same—knowing that Lark will be expecting an update from the sideline—when my shoulder is jostled from behind.
It bumps me so hard that I stumble, and big hands catch me by the elbow.
Turning around, I have to crane my neck to look up, following the arm that steadies me from falling over. Up, up, up, I follow the line of a tailored suit jacket until I reach a strong jaw lined with a trimmed beard.
My pulse kicks up into the stratosphere as it hits me.
It hits me with a force that may well be enough to send me to my knees on this very spot.
Piercing light brown eyes, with honeyed, amber flecks in the center stare down at me.
This can’t be possible. Not here. Not like this. Not right now.
My scent match.