Chapter 45
WREN
“Ref! Come onnnn!” Nikita throws both arms in the air, sending couch cushions tumbling to the floor. “That was a rubbish call.”
Our game-day watching party today looks a lot more Omega-friendly than being huddled together with a hip flask and hand warmers.
While Theo was the first to suggest we make use of his corporate box—or more to the point, threatened to evict some poor unsuspecting ticketholders from the one they had been allocated, insisting that I choose wherever I would be most comfortable watching from—I declined the very overwhelmingly generous offer.
Even though it’s a home game here in Willow Falls, with how close my heat might be, I’ve been growing more worried that it could be too risky to attend a game among a big crowd.
Especially being three Omegas together, which draws enough attention alone, besides, it gives me hives at the mere thought of ending up becoming a burden on my Alphas.
Nothing like going into heat surrounded by tens of thousands of fans, and newscast cameras covering every angle of the pitch and crowd.
That would certainly be one way to break the news of my disregard for WFU’s rules and get myself kicked out in truly spectacular Omega fucks up, but make it national headlines fashion.
I mean, it makes sense. I don’t want to unnecessarily worry Connor or Theo while they’re out there trying to do their jobs. However, it doesn’t make it any less stupid that Omegas have to continually adjust our entire life, just because society isn’t set up for us.
We’re all bundled on Theo’s couch, with sheet facemasks, home manicures in progress, and our combined body weight in snacks spread out on the coffee table.
The girls came over to join me for tonight’s match, with a priority on comfort, along with a watch party for the game.
My plan to keep my Alphas happy while also supporting them.
Oops, and my brother. Can’t forget about him. Totally watching as a supportive sister. Go, Finch.
“How long until halftime?” Gabbie concentrates hard on painting her toenails a shade of sparkly lavender.
“Three minutes.” I lean forward, elbows on knees, heart in my throat.
These are the times when I’m torn between wanting to get up and walk away, barely able to bring myself to watch, while at the same time being glued to the screen so intently that I forget to blink.
The Wolves are in the lead, but only just. It’s so close to when they’ll go into the break before the second half, when they’ll disappear down the tunnel to reset. I’m sure their coach will be desperate to light a fire under their asses.
They’re ahead, I try to remind myself, but it has been a close battle with Seattle so far.
They can do it.
They can hang in there.
I know they were expecting to win this match by a much larger margin. Valuable points they would have been hoping for before heading into a stretch of away games. But the Seattle team has turned up prepared to disrupt the Willow Falls party.
“Yes! Get him, number thirteen!” Nikita bounces on the spot, gesturing wildly at the screen. While she knows it’s Atlas, she still has her funny superstition about calling the guys by their numbers, rather than their actual names.
One thing is for certain in this game: the team as a whole might be struggling to click, but individually?
Atlas is devastating. He does exactly what he’s so very good at doing and manages to fly up quickly to close down the available space for the attacking line.
Finch is right on his shoulder, the two of them working in complete harmony as they squeeze the Seattle player with the ball.
“Crush him. Get your smash on!”
I shoot a glance at Nikita, laughing a little to myself at how damn bloodthirsty she becomes during matches. She’s really embraced the whole rugby brutality thing with gusto.
“Are you sure you weren’t one of those Caesars overseeing the gladiator pits back in a previous life?” Gabbie deadpans. “I can see you with your wreath and toga giving the thumbs down to anyone who displeases you.”
“I’d like to think I’d have been well-suited to a crown, a throne, and yelling off with his head,” Nikita says far too enthusiastically.
My eyes flicker back to watch as the ball moves out wide, and Seattle still hold possession.
Damn it. They prod relentlessly with wave after wave of pressure launched at the Wolves’ defensive line.
But they’re not advancing forward; the Wolves have them trapped in their own half.
It would only take a tired body, a miscommunication, and a gap could open.
While they currently still have possession of the ball, it’s heart-stopping.
In the backfield, I’m keeping an eye out for the number fifteen to appear.
But because of his position, I only catch a quick glimpse of Connor when a brief, wide-angle of the pitch is shown.
At this stage of the match, tension is high, and muscles will be burning.
When I spot him, he’s bent at the hips, sucking in deep lungfuls of air, gripping his shorts and yelling instructions at the players ahead of him in the defensive formation.
He’s dialed in. Completely focused. Absolutely hungry for tonight’s win.
My Alpha is phenomenal to watch—I mean, I’ve always appreciated him as a player, but that’s evolved the longer I’ve had the chance to spend time with him while staying at Theo’s place.
The guy is such a talent, and in a strange way, I can see how his game has improved even in the short time since our scent matching, since we’ve all started cohabiting.
I’m pretty sure Connor idolizes Theo a little; it’s kind of gorgeous, really.
He won’t ever admit it out loud, but I catch the occasional moment when they’re together in the kitchen in the mornings before they head out the door, and Connor is hanging on Theo’s every word about something from when he used to play.
He’s like a giant sponge, absorbing all things Theo Brennan by osmosis.
I can’t help but wince a little when I think about how Connor wanted a date with me so badly, and now look at the mess we’re in. Sneaking around and hiding, and we never got to do the dating thing at all. We jumped straight to the knotting and scent matching.
It makes me wonder about the future occasionally. Will we ever have something that isn’t hidden?
But then, I like that we can just be together without anyone else knowing, without our budding connection belonging to the public.
We’re able to start something that doesn’t have to be labeled or put under the pressure of dating, of forming a pack with an athlete in a high-profile way. That makes me more than a little giddy.
My drifting thoughts of pack dynamics draw a secret smile to the surface while I’m busy thinking about what it will be like when the two of them get back after the game tonight. It’s only the noise from the TV that pulls me back to the game.
The crowd roars, seeing what is unfolding on the field in real-time. Atlas’s number flashes across the screen. My heart leaps into my mouth. He makes a bruising solo tackle, immediately gets to his feet in one superhuman, fluid motion, and has his hands over the ball, ready to make the steal.
Oh my god. He’s going to win a turnover.
I glance at the clock. This is their chance. An extra three points from a penalty right on halftime would be exactly the type of psychological blow they need.
“What’s happening?” Nikita’s voice lifts into her trademark stressed and confused about the rules squeal.
The ref blows a long whistle blast.
“That’s good. A penalty. We need that. If Maddox lands this kick, we get three more points,” I gasp, my teeth catching my bottom lip, watching the close-up on Atlas as he reacts to the call.
It’s as if he’s in slow motion. All I can focus on is the way his gorgeous brown skin glistens with sweat, those tattoos looking particularly defined under the floodlights.
The rugby ball is wrestled away by him from the other team, held between his big hands, and he’s about to toss it to Maddox.
That’s when it goes wrong.
Out of nowhere, a body flies in.
Atlas crumples to the ground, blindsided.
“No!” we all simultaneously gasp.
“Wait—that can’t happen after the whistle? He can’t do that, can he?” Nikita shrills.
I’m up on my feet. “What the fuck, ref?” My heart pounds, seeing Atlas’s body lying on the ground.
All around him, bodies start racing in, reacting with ferocity as they come to his defense after being illegally taken out off the ball.
“That’s dirty play and a fucking cheap shot.
Is the ref blind? Where are the sideline refs?
He can’t just let that asshole get away with that!
” I’m spitting with fury, outright yelling at the screen, frantically gesturing.
I realize the room has gone extremely quiet.
When I turn, the others are eyeing me quizzically.
“That was a late hit.” I offer a weak explanation for my outburst, swallowing hard, before brushing hair out of my face.
My chest feels like a two-hundred-pound weight just landed on me as I chew the inside of my cheek.
Folding my arms across my stomach, I keep my focus on the screen, rather than my friends still glancing at me after that dramatic performance.
I realize this is the type of feral goblin behavior—the type of unhinged, ready to launch myself through the screen and attack that bastard with my teeth, sort of reaction—I would expect from myself if it were Connor getting injured.
Not Atlas, who I’ve barely seen.
Not the man who ignores me.