Chapter 45 #2
I try my best to shake off the feeling of dread and unsettled fluttering in my stomach.
The guys won’t be back until they’ve done the requisite post-match media pit and team debrief.
They won in a tense second half, where it was only a single extra try scored by Finch about three-quarters of the way through the game.
That lead from the front example of busting a gut until he made it across the white chalk finally seemed to do enough to secure the Wolves’ place in the lead.
From there, it was mostly a stalemate of penalties and trading turnovers.
The tension was thick with barely concealed aggression, mind you.
It was a torrid forty minutes, peppered with several more dustups with players grabbing each other by the collar and trading insults, combined with a couple of yellow cards handed out for very avoidable penalties.
One was a late hit by Connor on the same guy who took Atlas out, and the other was a team penalty for conceding multiple ruck infringements on their try line.
Atlas didn’t come back on the field in the second half, and the cameras didn’t show a glimpse of him, either. By the time the final whistle blew, I’d virtually convinced myself he’d been taken to the hospital.
While I’ve texted both Connor and Theo congratulating them for the win, something has held me back from outright asking about Atlas.
There’s a part of me, a tiny little flicker of awareness, that the real reason I’m so twisted up about him getting injured is maybe for a reason I don’t quite feel equipped to address.
He’s my brother’s best friend.
He doesn’t want to be around me.
He hasn’t even moved in here yet, despite Connor having shifted in immediately.
I don’t want to pick at the scabbed wound, but it fucking stings that he’s so obviously avoiding being in close proximity with me.
After our time together at the dog shelter that day, I honestly thought we might have shared enough of a moment… ugh… I cover my face with my hands and groan into the darkness of Theo’s bedroom.
Why am I fixating on this?
I know why.
The problem is, I shouldn’t be.
So, I lie in Theo’s bed, surrounded by his ocean scent washing over me, while wearing Connor’s shirt, inhaling deep lungfuls of his sweet rain and herbs, and my brain spins in circles about a third, entirely off-limits Alpha.
The girls went home about an hour ago, but I wanted to be here for when my scent matches get back. I haven’t seen them all day, and my Omega neediness is always particularly high on game days, never mind with the signs pointing toward me inching closer to the onset of my first heat.
A noise pricks my hearing. There aren’t any voices, but someone has definitely returned to the house.
I throw back the covers and quickly glance at my phone as I pad out into the hallway.
No text replies from Theo or Connor are showing to let me know they were on the way back, which is unusual, but maybe Theo came back early and was tied up with a business call while driving.
It wouldn’t be the first time he’s had to do late-night handling of any number of different situations—being the owner of a team with a roster of fifty contracted players, plus agents, sponsors, and managers, always seems to entail some sort of fire to be doused or people management.
Theo Brennan is a man with far too few hours in the day and too big a heart. He’ll drop everything to make sure even the third-string reserves who barely scrape a few minutes of game time, unless there’s an injury, are well taken care of.
I’m damn near running to the kitchen, ready to be wrapped up in big, strong arms and to hear his rumbling voice soothing how frayed I feel after watching the game. Except, when I reach the other end of the house, I skid to a halt.
It’s not Theo’s broad shoulders and steadying calmness. Neither is it Connor’s smirk and twinkling eyes.
That woodsy scent and citrus essence reach up to stroke the edges of my awareness, and my neck flushes when I see the figure looming over the kitchen counter with his back turned to me.
Atlas.
Not only is he here, in the dark, but he’s alone.
I hesitantly step toward him, somehow confused and yet also relieved that he’s actually here in the kitchen late at night. If he hears me, he doesn’t acknowledge my presence.
Wetting my lips hastily, I try to swallow the nervous energy spiking in my blood.
“You’re here…” I say by way of greeting.
I mean, we don’t exactly talk, so I just leap straight to the point.
“I didn’t know you would be here, or that you’d be coming back tonight, or…
” I roll my lips together to shut myself up, because I don’t really know what I’m saying.
And I’m kinda terrified of what I might say if I let my mouth operate of its own accord.
He makes one of those deep, masculine throat-clearing noises before dipping his chin. Still not looking at me.
My legs keep carrying me forward. My bare legs. God, I really didn’t think this through, and in my haste to rush out to tackle my Alphas, I’m only wearing an oversized T-shirt that very much doesn’t belong to me. It’s Connor’s. Will he know that immediately?
Well, no point being a prude about this. He knows the reason for my being here.
“I watched the game. I saw that late hit.” My voice stays soft, almost like I’m worried about scaring him off. There’s something about having him present in the house that feels more thrilling than I want to examine right at this second. Thrilling, but also… settling.
Another couple of steps brings me close enough to see the tense muscle in the side of his jaw pulse frantically. His massive shoulders seem to make the open-plan spaciousness of this room suddenly feel very small and enclosed indeed.
“Are you okay?” Quietly gnawing on my bottom lip, I wait with bated breath for him to say something, to at least prove to me that he’s not furious about having to be here, or that he hates me forever for upending his life with Connor.
“Fine. I’m fine.” His jaw is locked tight as he grits the words out.
My eyes catch on the ice pack and pills in his big hands.
When I cautiously slip in at his side, taking a proper look at his face half-hidden in shadow, I have to bite down on my lip to stifle a gasp.
He’s doing a good job of putting on a brave front, but the truth is he looks like he’s gone the full ten rounds in the boxing ring.
A busted eyebrow is covered with a butterfly bandage, and the swelling on his cheekbone is already an angry shade of purple.
“Atlas…” My hand flies up as if to reach out for him, but I stop myself before I do something so foolish. What was I seriously going to do? Stroke his face or something?
He gives me a subtle shake of his head. “You’ve seen Finch look worse than this. It’s nothing to worry about,” he mutters, not exactly at me, but in the direction of the kitchen island. “Go back to bed. Just ignore that I’m here.”