Chapter 26
THEO
“You’re a right mystery these days, Brennan.” Coach taps his beer against mine. “First, you skip the big function for the season opener, which I’d have put money on you being there. Now, you’re out at a fucking bar, to celebrate an away game of all things, long past your bedtime.”
“Fuck you. We’re the same age, in case you’ve forgotten.”
“Yeah, and I’m a fountain of youth compared to you.” He touches his front teeth with his tongue. The characteristic Charlie Robinson charm dialed up to full volume.
“Noted. Bet you won’t be so goddamn smug when I get you in the gym and remind you of a few things. Namely, how I can outlift you with my eyes closed.” Taking a drag from my beer, I have to hide the expression on my face that wants to sit there.
It’s loud. It’s crowded. This place is full of drunk college students.
There’s only one reason I’m here, and it’s got absolutely nothing to do with showing up for my team’s event.
I’m wrapped around the invisible finger of a five-foot-tall, blond Omega, who’s driving me to absolute goddamn distraction every second of the day.
“—gonna need to iron out those breakdown combinations.” Coach is talking, gesturing with his drink, but I’m barely concentrating on his debrief of today’s game.
They clung on for a win, but I know he’s got a brutal week planned for the team after that performance.
All of them know they scraped through on luck of the bounce, more than anything.
Boston could have slotted that drop goal to win it.
In Coach’s eyes, there was no reason for the match to have ended up that close in the dying moments.
“Going off their feet at the breakdown every time? Those ruck penalties fucking killed us...”
Yeah, he’s grinding the words. Still stewing over the minor slipups in discipline that made it a stressful fucking game from where he was sitting.
Hell, it was stressful watching it from the comfort of my home.
I was wearing holes in the floorboards through that last ten-minute stretch of the match.
“… Need to get over the ball faster.”
Look, I know what he’s saying. We’ve had what feels like thousands of conversations, poring over all the tiniest of details in the game plan each season.
He’ll come over for a beer and bounce ideas with me.
The two of us have the same sort of outlook on defense and fitness, and how that’s the key to consistently winning.
Attack is flair and talent, and to a certain extent, you can train for different scenarios.
The backline can gel and hum together like a well-oiled machine thanks to hours spent on the paddock.
But honestly, rugby is a game of inches and luck a lot of the time.
That oval ball can be your sweetest goddamn dream, or hell.
It lands the right way, pops up into your arms easily, you hit that try line and celebrate.
However, there’s always the other possibility, where a cruel bounce can turn everything upside down within a blink, leaving you flat on your back while the opposition scores a runaway try at the other end.
“Maddox needs to get that accuracy percentage up on his kicking.” He takes another long sip, as the music thumps around us, and lights flash. “I’m gonna have one of the PTs look at him closer to make sure he’s not carrying an injury.”
“Good idea.” I nod. My eyes remain firmly fixed on scanning the room below us, except all I see are the tall, oversized figures of our team clustered together around bar leaners in this VIP section, and beyond them, the bar full of people enjoying a night out.
It really is the point in the evening when it turns into a nightclub here. There are guys wearing beanies with mesh tanks who’ve probably just done a line of coke out the back, and I’m in a fucking dress shirt, well aware I’m old enough to be their father.
I’m struggling to focus on anything but looking out for her.
I knew if I told Wren I was coming tonight, she probably would have spooked.
Is it a sneaky move? Possibly. The way I see it, this is more like a calculated play by a desperate man barely keeping his shit together.
I’m counting on the fact that she’ll come along to support her brother.
Even thinking for the briefest second about Finch Murphy—my fucking vice-captain of all people—that’s another enormous problem on top of the already complex situation I find myself in.
How the fuck am I supposed to take care of my Omega—my scent match, who I’m drawn to protect and look after with every cell of my being—when I’m crossing so many goddamn boundaries just by thinking about her?
Having to stay away has been torture, which means I’ve turned into something of a lurking shadow.
Unfortunately, I’ve gotta admit to myself it’s not the healthiest behavior, attempting to track her every move without her knowledge.
But what else am I supposed to do without driving myself to distraction?
I certainly can’t keep fucking my fist every day to her photo. That’s what.
So, in an effort to satisfy my Alpha need to protect a girl who is playing the ultimate game of hide and seek, I’ve been keeping an eye from a distance.
Although it’s impossible not to end up feeling like some sort of old creep hanging around campus at every opportunity.
Because that’s all I can do. Without raising some serious fucking suspicions, I can’t find out where she is exactly, but at least I’m close by…
you know, to be helpful. In case she needs something. Anything.
Even though, infuriatingly, the beautiful little Omega is stubbornly self-reliant.
I’ve spent hours on end parked up in my truck searching online to try and figure out what the fuck to do in a situation like this. Funnily enough, there aren’t exactly online forums for guys who are scent-matched to their son’s ex-girlfriend, who is also an off-limits scholarship student.
My search history is a fucking embarrassment.
Nest building: top ten must-haves?
Taking care of an Omega who doesn’t want to be taken care of?
What to do when your Omega is stubborn and hyper independent?
How to lure an Omega to your house: non-creepily.
Scrubbing a hand over my mouth, my chest feels like it’s being crushed by a boulder. The thump of deep bass in here isn’t helping this on-edge sensation. It’s worse than any fucking grand final I ever played in during my pro career, that much I know.
“Alright, Brennan. I’m gonna cut out. I might be married to this goddamn team, but that doesn’t mean I gotta stick around all night.
” Coach sets his empty bottle down and pulls out his phone.
“Gotta remind these assholes they’re expected at the pool for recovery tomorrow, no matter if they’ve got sore heads and feel green around the gills or not. ”
“Yeah, I’ll probably head out soon, too.” I’m so full of bullshit.
Giving me a slap on the back, Charlie heads in the direction of the largest group of players, who all give him a cheer. They really do fucking love and respect the guy. Yet another reminder of what makes this team special—we’re family on and off the field.
Making my way up to the bar, I’m stuck with roaming thoughts prowling inside my mind like a wild animal inside a cage.
The fact I’m well goddamn aware of just how close the Wolves are as a unit makes it even shittier that I’ve got personal interests that could upset all that.
How selfish would it be of me to do something that could potentially cause a giant fucking rift in that tight-knit group?
As I wave down the bartender who’s busy serving a group at the other end, I’m teetering on the edge of accepting defeat and following in Coach’s footsteps to leave. It’s not like she even knows I’m here, so wouldn’t it be better just to disappear?
But I clearly don’t feel strong enough to make that decision, because I find myself paying for another damn drink, staying right where I am, leaning at the bar, sipping on the cold beer.
I’m so fucked.