Chapter 15 Fritz
Fritz
The flight attendant appeared at my elbow with a tablet and a smile that was all professional courtesy.
"Mr. Hastings, Mr. Bauer. The match is about to start. I've queued it up for you."
Hastings didn't look up from his laptop. "Thank you, Leanne."
She set the tablet on the table between us and disappeared back toward the galley.
I picked it up, settling deeper into the leather seat. The jet's interior was all cream and black, the kind of luxury that stopped feeling luxurious when you spent half your life thirty thousand feet in the air. But the Wi-Fi was excellent, and the screen was crystal clear.
Perfect for watching Etienne play.
"You're not going to watch?" I asked Hastings.
"I'm working."
"You own the team. You should watch."
His fingers paused on the keyboard. Just for a second. Then he resumed typing. "I can read the match report later."
"It's not the same."
"It's efficient."
I grinned. Hastings and his efficiency. The man would schedule his own heartbeat if he could.
The screen flickered to life. The stadium filled my view, thousands of fans packed into the stands, the pitch bright green under the floodlights. The commentators were already talking, their voices crackling through the tablet's speakers.
"Welcome to Twickenham for what promises to be an exciting match between—"
I tuned them out, scanning the field for Etienne. There. Number seven. He stood with the rest of the team, his jaw tight, his eyes focused.
He looked good. Dangerous.
The whistle blew, and the match started.
Fifteen minutes in, and Etienne was playing like a man possessed.
He tackled the opposition's fly-half so hard the man went down like he'd been shot. The crowd roared. Etienne was already back on his feet, charging after the ball.
"He's playing well," I said.
Hastings grunted. He'd closed his laptop ten minutes ago and was now watching the screen with the kind of focus he usually reserved for board meetings.
"He's showing off," Hastings said.
"Because Presley's there?"
"Obviously."
I laughed. "Can you blame him?"
Hastings said nothing, but his jaw tightened.
The camera panned away from the action, sweeping across the stands, then up to the VIP boxes. It lingered on one in particular, zooming in on the figures behind the glass.
And there she was.
Presley.
She stood at the window, her hands pressed against the glass, her eyes locked on the field. The cream jumper and navy coat made her look delicate. But there was nothing delicate about the way she watched Etienne. She was completely focused, completely absorbed.
The commentator's voice cut through my thoughts.
"And it looks like our French flanker has brought a guest today. A mysterious blonde in the VIP box. This is the first time étienne Moreau has been seen with anyone since his pack had a very public split with socialite Greta five years ago."
My stomach dropped.
Hastings went very still.
"Interesting development," the commentator continued. "Moreau's been keeping a low profile in his personal life, but it seems he's ready to step back into the spotlight with a new lady. Let's see if this mystery woman is a good luck charm."
The camera lingered on Presley for another few seconds, then cut back to the match.
The damage was done. The cameraman kept cutting back to the VIP box every few minutes when the feed would cut away from the action to show Presley watching the game, her expression changing with every play.
Hastings' hand curled into a fist on the armrest.
"That cameraman is sacked," he said, his voice flat.
I raised an eyebrow. "You can't sack someone for doing their job."
"He's not doing his job. His job is to film the match, not harass our omega."
"Our omega?" I echoed, unable to keep the amusement out of my voice.
Hastings' jaw tightened. "She's our surrogate. She deserves privacy."
"Right. Privacy." I didn't bother hiding my grin. "That's why you're angry."
"I'm not angry."
"You're about to snap the armrest off."
He looked down at his hand, then deliberately uncurled his fingers. "I'm concerned about the optics. If the media starts digging into her background—"
"They'll find a waitress from North Yorkshire who needs money. So what?"
"So she didn't sign up for public scrutiny."
"No, she signed up to carry our child. Which is going to be a lot more public than sitting in a VIP box."
Hastings didn't respond. He pulled out his phone, his fingers moving across the screen with quick, precise movements.
"What are you doing?"
"Checking the security feed."
"The stadium security feeds?"
"Of course. I own the stadium so I can look at the security feeds."
He pulled up an app, entered a password, and suddenly the screen showed a different angle of the VIP box. This one was from inside the room, looking out at the pitch.
Presley stood at the window, her hands still pressed to the glass. Behind her, Caron and the other wives chatted, their eyes occasionally flicking to Presley with expressions that ranged from curious to hostile.
But Presley didn't notice. She was too busy watching Etienne.
The camera caught the moment he scored. He broke through the defensive line, the ball tucked under his arm, and drove forward. The crowd erupted. He touched the ball down, then stood, scanning the VIP boxes.
When he found Presley, he pointed.
Right at her.
Presley's hand flew to her mouth. Even through the grainy security feed, I saw her smile. Wide and genuine and completely unguarded.
My chest tightened.
"She's beautiful," I said quietly.
Hastings said nothing, but his thumb moved across his bottom lip, a tell he probably didn't even realize he had.
"You like her," I said.
"She's our surrogate."
"You like her more than you're letting on."
"I respect her. She's been through a lot, and she deserves—"
"Hastings."
He stopped, his gray eyes cutting to me.
"Just admit it."
His jaw worked. His thumb pressed harder against his lip.
"She looks hot," he said finally.
I blinked. "What?"
"In the feed. She looks hot."
"She is hot," I agreed. "She's gorgeous. She's funny—"
I looked back at the screen. Presley had moved away from the window and was now sitting in one of the plush chairs. She'd taken off her coat, and the cream jumper clung to her frame. She looked flushed, her cheeks pink, her movements slightly restless.
"I mean she looks hot, like her heat is starting."
The words hit me like a punch to the gut.
I looked at the screen again, cataloging the signs. The flushed cheeks. The restless movements. The way she kept adjusting her position like she couldn't get comfortable.
"Scheisse," I muttered.
"Her heat isn't due for another week." Hastings' voice was tight. "But stress can trigger it early. Or—"
He didn't finish the sentence, but it was clear what he was thinking.
Scent matching could trigger early heats.
"Etienne needs to get her home," Hastings said, already pulling up his phone.
"The match isn't over."
"I don't care. If her heat hits in that box with all those people—"
He didn't need to finish. The thought alone was enough to make my stomach turn.
An omega in heat surrounded by strangers. By alphas who weren't bonded to her. It would be chaos. Dangerous.
Hastings typed out a message, his fingers moving faster than I'd ever seen.
On screen, Presley shifted again. Her hand went to her throat, fingers pressing against her scent gland.
"Verdammt," I breathed. “Heats don’t come on this quick.”
"Call the coach and tell him to send Etienne home," Hastings said. "He needs to get her out of there now."
I was already dialing.
The phone rang once. Twice. Three times.
"Come on," I muttered.
The match was still going. Etienne was on the field, tackling, driving forward, completely unaware that our omega was about to go into heat in a room full of strangers.
The call went to voicemail.
"Leon, it's Fritz. Call me back immediately. It's an emergency."
I hung up and looked at Hastings.
His face was stone, but his eyes were dark with something I rarely saw in him.
Fear.
"How long until we land?" I asked.
"Just over an hour."
"Tell the pilot we need to turn around."
On screen, Presley stood abruptly. She swayed slightly, catching herself on the back of the chair. Caron said something to her, but Presley shook her head, moving toward the door.
"She's leaving," I said. "That's good. She's leaving."
But the camera angle didn't follow her into the hallway. We couldn't see where she went.
Hastings leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, his hands clasped together so tightly his knuckles went white.
"She'll be fine," I said, trying to convince myself as much as him. "Etienne will take care of her."
"He better."
The words were quiet, but they carried the weight of a threat.
I looked back at the screen, at the empty chair where Presley had been sitting, and felt the same pull I'd been trying to ignore for days.
She felt like ours. No longer our surrogate. Certainly not a transaction.
Ours.
And we were thirty thousand feet in the air, closer to New York than London. Fear coiled in my gut.
The match continued on the tablet. The commentators talked about possession and tactics and the brilliant try Etienne had scored.
But neither of us was listening anymore.
We were both watching the security feed, waiting for Presley to come back into frame.
Waiting to see if our omega was okay.