Chapter 6 The Captain’s Problem
The Captain's Problem
~RAFE~
Iam trying very hard not to punch a wall.
The operative word being trying, because my fist is already clenched and the drywall is looking increasingly punchable and the only thing stopping me is the knowledge that Miss Abby Phillip would probably make me pay for the repairs out of my athletic scholarship.
Deep breaths. In through the nose. Out through the mouth. Channel the aggression into something productive.
Coach Jenkins would be proud. He has been trying to get me to meditate for three years now, claiming it would improve my focus on the ice. I have always told him meditation is for people who do not have real problems to solve.
Right now, I am starting to think he might have had a point.
Because I do not get into fights with my packmates. Not like this. Not physical, fist-throwing, blood-drawing fights that leave bruises and split lips and the kind of tension that takes weeks to fully dissolve.
Sure, Cal and I bash heads all the time.
We are both stubborn assholes with strong opinions and a tendency to dig in when we think we are right.
We argue about plays, about training schedules, about whose turn it is to do the dishes.
We have shouted at each other across locker rooms and hockey rinks and the living room of every apartment we have ever shared.
But fist fights?
Those are left on the ice. Where they belong. Where there are rules and referees and the mutual understanding that we are teammates first and everything else second.
Never in our own fucking dorm.
Never over a goddamn Omega.
Nerdy fucking MaeBell.
The name echoes in my head like a curse. Like a ghost I thought I had buried years ago clawing its way out of the grave to haunt me.
I remember her.
Not the woman who stood in my locker room earlier, all grown up with curves in places I should not be noticing and eyes that held fire instead of fear. Not the Omega whose scent is currently making my entire body feel like it has been plugged into an electrical socket.
I remember the girl.
Frizzy hair and oversized glasses and braces that glinted under fluorescent lights. The way she used to hunch her shoulders when she walked, trying to make herself small. The way her voice would shake when she answered questions in class, like she expected to be mocked for daring to be smart.
The way she cried in the bathroom every day for a year because of me.
Because of us.
Because I was a stupid fucking kid who thought cruelty made you powerful.
I shake off the memory like a dog shaking off water. I do not have time for guilt right now. I have enough problems without adding a guilt trip to the pile.
Speaking of problems.
Cal is standing on the other side of the living room, arms crossed, amber eyes still simmering with the kind of anger I have never seen from him before.
His lip is split where my fist connected, a thin line of dried blood at the corner of his mouth.
His knuckles are probably as bruised as mine, hidden under the sleeves of his hoodie.
He is not looking at me.
That is somehow worse than if he was actively glaring.
I still do not fully understand what happened. One minute we were having a normal argument about the Omega situation. The next minute, I said something about not being a softy just to make her comfortable, and Cal just... snapped.
Lost his absolute shit.
Came at me like I had insulted his mother or kicked his dog or committed some unforgivable sin against everything he holds sacred.
All because I said I was not going to roll out the welcome mat for some Omega who was intruding on our space uninvited. All because I refused to pretend I was happy about this arrangement.
What the fuck is his problem?
I know what he would say if I asked. He would bring up his younger sisters.
The twins, Maya and Madison, who are fourteen years old and presented as Omegas last year.
Cal has been different since then. More protective.
More aware of the shit Omegas go through just for existing in a world that treats them like commodities.
He would say he does not want to be the kind of Alpha their sisters would be afraid of. Does not want to contribute to a culture that makes Omegas feel unsafe.
Noble sentiment.
But I call bullshit.
Because Cal has never given a damn about random Omegas before. He is not some white knight crusading for Omega rights. He fucks them and forgets them just like the rest of us.
Just like I do.
So why is Mabeline Mae Rose suddenly worthy of his protection?
I have a theory. And I do not like it one bit.
He probably wants to smash her. Wants to be the good guy, the sensitive Alpha, the one who makes her feel safe and valued so she will spread her legs and let him sink his knot into her before I can even blink.
That is the only explanation that makes sense.
That is the only reason he would suddenly develop a conscience about the girl we spent an entire year tormenting.
Manipulative bastard.
I huff in annoyance, crossing my own arms and leaning against the kitchen counter. The bruise on my cheekbone throbs with every heartbeat, a reminder of how thoroughly Cal handed me my ass in that fight.
Went for the knees. The dirty fucker went for the knees.
But even my wounded pride is not enough to distract me from the bigger problem.
The place smells like her.
Not overwhelming. Not in-your-face. Just there.
A whisper of vanilla sugar and frosted roses threading through the air, settling into the furniture, clinging to the walls.
She has been inside this dorm for maybe twenty minutes and already her scent is everywhere, marking territory she has no right to claim.
And the worst part?
It does not smell bad.
It smells good.
Dangerously good.
Infuriatingly, inconveniently, inexplicably good.
Other Omegas have never done this to me. Their scents are usually fine. Pleasant enough, I suppose, in a generic sort of way. Sometimes annoying. Sometimes headache-inducing if they are wearing too much perfume or if their heat is approaching and their pheromones are going haywire.
But hers?
Fuck.
I could smell her all day and not get tired of it. Could bury my face in her neck and just breathe until my lungs gave out. Could wrap myself in whatever she sleeps in and never want to wash it.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
My cock has been half-hard since she walked into the locker room, and no amount of mental cold showers is making it go down. It is humiliating. Infuriating. A betrayal by my own body that I did not authorize and cannot control.
I do not want to be attracted to her.
I do not want to notice the way her hips sway when she walks, or the way her eyes flash with defiance when she is angry, or the way her lips curve into that infuriating smirk that makes me want to kiss it off her face.
Not kiss. Bite. There is a difference.
She is supposed to be Nerdy MaeBell. The girl I tormented. The ghost of my worst decisions come back to haunt me.
She is not supposed to be the most intoxicating thing I have ever smelled.
This is not a good sign. This is the opposite of a good sign. This is a flashing neon warning that says danger ahead, turn back now, abandon all hope.
So yeah. One thing led to another, Cal and I started shouting, and before I knew it we were throwing punches in our own living room like a couple of feral dogs fighting over a bone.
Miss Phillip showed up because apparently our neighbors called to complain about the noise.
Our neighbors should mind their own fucking business.
She scolded us like we were children. Made us stand there and take it while she lectured us about appropriate behavior and conflict resolution and the importance of maintaining a peaceful living environment.
Humiliating.
Absolutely humiliating.
And then, just when I thought the day could not get any worse, I heard it.
Laughter.
Coming from outside.
Etienne's laughter, to be specific. That warm, genuine sound I have only heard from him a handful of times in the years we have been packmates.
What the fuck was he even laughing about?
Turns out, he was laughing with her. With Mabeline. Standing outside our dorm like they were old friends instead of virtual strangers, her broken suitcase between them, both of them grinning like the world was not currently on fire around them.
And then his brother showed up.
Bastien fucking Laurent.
I do not know where that asshole came from.
Do not know why he decided today of all days was a good time to start shit with his younger brother.
But watching the two of them square off, watching Etienne wrap his arm around Mabeline like she belonged to him, watching him threaten to knock Bastien's face in if he touched her again. ..
Since when does Etienne grow a spine?
I have known the guy for two years. He is quiet. Reserved. The kind of person who avoids conflict like it is a communicable disease. I have never heard him raise his voice, let alone threaten violence against his own blood.
But apparently all it takes to unlock his inner Alpha is one specific Omega with a smart mouth and eyes that hold too many secrets.
Great. Just great. So now both of my packmates are falling over themselves to protect the woman who is supposed to be our enemy. Or at least our unwanted houseguest. Or whatever the fuck she is.
This is fine. Everything is fine.
Nothing about this situation is remotely fine.
Now we are back inside, the door firmly slammed in Bastien's face, and Miss Phillip is going over the house rules like we are freshmen who have never lived away from home before.
"Curfew is midnight on weekdays, two AM on weekends," she is saying, scrolling through something on her tablet.
"The doors lock automatically after curfew.
If you are locked out, you can use the emergency call button by the entrance, but please be aware that repeated late arrivals will be noted in your file. "