Ten – Morgan
Ten
Morgan
T yler was downright sulking on a taping station in the training room as I prepped his sprained finger for another home game. It was in better condition than last week—but he’d been pushing his limits.
“Stupid thing still hurts,” he grumbled, striking his heel against the side of the table.
A few stragglers lingered to get their ankles taped and knees braced, while most of the team was putting on their pads in the adjoining locker room. The relative quiet allowed us to converse at a humane volume, dulling the iron spikes that had been stabbing the right side of my head for the past hour. I’d never get used to the cacophony of game day.
“You’re in pretty good shape, all things considered,” I said, offering a flexible support glove made of nylon and spandex.
It had two finger sleeves, one that would brace his pointer and middle fingers, the other his ring and pinky fingers. An almost elegant alternative to the wads of tape he’d been sporting.
“Just one more week, and you’ll be good as new.”
Tyler gave the glove an experimental poke before taking it from me, turning it over in his hand a few times, regarding it with utmost suspicion.
“That doesn’t look very strong.”
“It serves the same purpose as buddy-taping—plus, it can’t get ripped. Your finger will be safe for the entire game.”
“It’s really better than tape?”
Tyler was sweet but dense. His finger only needed a bit of stability. Not enough infrastructure to rival the Roman aqueducts.
“The glove provides more support and coverage than you—”
“Just give him the tape, sweetie.” Coach Garvey sidled up, reaching over my shoulder. His elbow almost grazed the top of my breast as he took the glove from Tyler. “My boy knows what it takes to win, and it’s your job to give it to him—right?”
“N-no, it’s okay,” Tyler stammered, reaching for the support glove. His hand closed on empty air, a half-hearted attempt to save face. Players weren’t supposed to question my medical decisions.
“Relax, Hartsen. She’s going to fix you right up.” Garvey leaned against the side of the taping station, slapping the glove against his palm. His beady eyes lingered on the unmarked skin of my neck as he flashed his canines. “Aren’t you, sweetie?”
I ignored Garvey and pulled a roll of tape from the drawer beside my thigh. Catering to entitled alphas wasn’t in my job description—but here I was, keeping the peace for the sake of Tyler’s recovery.
“Don’t get upset,” Garvey drawled, inching closer as I taped Tyler’s fingers. He kept slapping the glove against his palm. “Just trying to help you out. I know you don’t have much experience meeting the needs of high-performance athletes.”
The dig at my qualifications was genuine, not innuendo. Garvey was under the impression that I spent the past three years at the children’s hospital kissing booboos better and nothing more. If only he were stupid enough to insult my designation outright or try to cop a feel. Then, I’d have a justifiable reason to lose my temper for once.
Alas.
Garvey wouldn’t do anything that blatantly violated my rights as an omega inside the stadium, with its top-of-the-line security and cameras in every corner—including the one directly behind Tyler’s head. No, he was perfectly content to channel the worst of the alphas-will-be-alphas mindset, where it’s not workplace harassment if they’re trying to be helpful.
“You’re going to take care of all my boys like this. Aren’t you, sweetie?” said Garvey, leaning even closer, tipping his tone from condescension into sleaze.
I wanted to knee him right in the knot.
Aside from Tyler, no one was close enough to hear Garvey’s words. Still, his body language was questionable enough to draw over Amir Okorie, our six-two omega linebacker with a mane of black locs and deep brown skin.
Landon joined him a moment later, the two forming a protective semicircle behind me.
“Have a second, doc?” Landon asked, his sharp gaze locking on Garvey.
Noticing that he’d drawn a critical audience, Garvey pushed off the taping station. He paused to smirk at my profile, tossed the glove into the trash with casual indifference, then clapped his hands and strode toward the locker room.
“Come on, boys! Time to warm up.”
Tyler sat frozen, tongue floundering as he tried to muster an apology. But I didn’t care. He wasn’t the first alpha patient to mistrust my treatment plan, nor would he be the last.
“You’re all set,” I said and put the tape away, unable to resist closing the drawer with a touch too much force.
Tyler retreated to the locker room.
I turned to Landon. “What’s up?”
“Well, just…” He frowned, uncertain how to approach the subject of Garvey’s behavior. “Want me to kick a ball in his face?”
“Accidents happen,” Amir added, punching a fist into his palm.
Shouts echoed from the locker room, ordering the guys to head to the field. They looked at me expectantly.
I shook my head and waved them off. “Business as usual. Focus on the game.”
As they filed out, Reyhan Parsha, the other sports medicine fellow—a beta—hurried over, a restless bundle of flustered decency, his dark hair sticking out at odd angles.
“You have to tell Dr. McEwen this time.”
“No need.” I had no interest in making a fuss, but that didn’t mean I’d suffer for nothing. “Could you handle Tyler from now on?”
“I don’t want to interrupt your treatment plan, but—” Reyhan’s face fell when he realized I was serious.
“It’s just a sprained finger. You can swap cases with me if it will make you feel better.”
“Not particularly.” Reyhan’s gaze traveled around the room, teeth worrying at his bottom lip. “Are you sure we shouldn’t tell Dr. McEwen?”
“Don’t worry about it, Reyhan.”
His eyes went wide. “Oh, come on! He’s demeaning and just so—so gross.”
“Doesn’t matter,” I said with a touch of forced lightness. “Nothing technically happened beyond a difference of opinion. But, since you insist, I’ll mention it. ”
“Thank you. And yes, I’ll take care of Tyler.” Reyhan sighed, fishing the discarded support glove out of the trash. He gave it a thorough once-over, brushing off imaginary dirt. “Because I have nothing better to do than tape his hand six ways from Sunday.”
“My hero.”
He pulled a face—and we headed toward the locker room together. Time to get back to work.
***
“Are you okay?” Alijah hurried into the stadium’s medical office, where I was in the middle of my pre-game pain prevention ritual. “Reyhan said Garvey was—”
“Nothing happened,” I said, dumping two pills into my palm. Sorely tempted to add a third. “I’m fine.”
“You sure?”
His fingers tightened around the strap of his digital camera. A bit of sweat dripped from his brow, trailing along the edge of a prominent cheekbone. What had Reyhan said to make Alijah run here?
“Promise.” I swallowed the pills with a mouthful of water. “Because I know the secret. Nothing irks an entitled alpha more than someone who doesn’t react.”
I offered a hard-won smile.
“Especially when you’re too busy doing your own thing to pay them any attention. Coach Garvey can say and do whatever he wants, but I don’t have to care. I have better things to do. A game to cover. PheroPass to work on. My attention is for better, more talented people—like you.”
Alijah looked at the floor, weighing my words against his own experiences. “You make it sound easy.”
“Focus on what you can control, and the rest will sort itself out.”
There was a box of tissues on the table beside me. I offered it to Alijah, but he looked down in confusion, oblivious to the sweat on his forehead.
I took a tissue and gestured to his face. “May I?”
Alijah gave a confused nod.
Resting my fingertips against his cheek, I encouraged him to lower his forehead until I could reachhis brow. He leaned into my personal space, hand resting on the tabletop, knuckles brushing against my hip, while I dabbed the sweat away .
Up close, his pheromones should have been obvious. Would be obvious to anyone else. Except me.
It’d been a long while since I’d truly resented being unable to scent another person, but a pang of disappointment hit me square in the chest as I studied the inviting planes of his broad nose. His scent had to be something fresh and sweet, like honeydew.
“You’re really not mad?” he asked quietly, eyes lingering on my chin. Not my lips. That would be ridiculous. “I can’t believe you’re not mad.”
“Oh, I was. Still am.” I stepped back, letting the tissue drop into the trash. “But I know how to pick my battles. Garvey isn’t worth it.”
“Never seen you lose your cool, not even a bit.”
“It’s called having a game face, Alijah. You can’t compete in the big leagues without one. It’s the first rule of getting inside your opponent’s head. Never let ‘em see you sweat.”
His usually cheerful laugh was deeper, softer, almost fluttery, brushing against tender spots I hadn’t realized I’d left unguarded. “I swear I’m ninety-nine percent sweat when it comes to you. No resistance whatsoever.”
His words beckoned an impossible thought, one so far-fetched I refused to acknowledge its existence.
Yes, he might make frequent visits during my working hours—but they weren’t too frequent, and he never tried to ply me with drinks or snacks. Never made innuendos or flirtatious comments. He’d never even texted me anything besides links to media coverage about PheroPass.
Alijah was an absolute darling who was nice to everyone—not just me. I wasn’t special to him.
The smirk on Joaquin’s face when he exposed the silvered mating bite on Alijah’s collarbone was nothing more than a boast. He wasn’t daring me to share Alijah with him or, even worse, to share myself between them.
Cheers echoed through the concrete hallway, punctuated by the distant rhythm of brass instruments and drumbeats. The marching band’s arrival heralded the start of the pre-game show. Alijah needed to be on the field to take photos, and I should to report to Dr. McEwen.
After putting on my sunglasses and securing my possessions in my assigned locker, I turned to Alijah. “Ready?”
He nodded, and I followed him through the cinder block labyrinth, the muffled sounds of the stadium growing louder with each step until we emerged onto the field.
The sidelines bustled with activity. Spectators filled about half the seats, tailgating in place with beer and concession snacks, cheering for the approaching marching band.
Captain Tusker’s mammoth, freshly painted logo at midfieldlooked especially menacing.
Alijah raised his camera, capturing photos of students in the front row, wearing green and blue striped overalls and headbands with foam narwhal horns.
I admired the man at work. The smooth brown skin of his hands and wrists, the subtle flex of his biceps beneath his long-sleeved polo, and the movement of his shoulder blades as he adjusted the camera settings. He wore his shirt tucked into jeans, and a navy blue and white nautical stripe belt highlighted his trim waist.
Alijah looked over his shoulder, attention drawn by a clang of cymbals as the marching band approached the end zone gate, his neck straining against the fabric of his collar just enough to allow a hint of his fern leaf tattoo to peek through.
When he turned back toward the field—toward me—Alijah gave a small jump, surprised to find me looking at his neck. The first stirring of a blush deepened the warm hue of his cheeks.
“D-do you need to go?”
“Not yet.”
“Oh, good. I mean, you can stay as long as…” He gripped his camera tighter and looked down at his sneakers, visibly flustered. “I’m trying to say that I look forward to hanging out with you during games.”
“Same here.”
We moved further along the sidelines until we found an excellent vantage point to watch the pre-game marching band performance. The piercing sound of a drum major’s whistle made me recoil.
Alijah leaned closer so I could hear him over the growing din. “You okay?”
“Yeah.” The habit of protecting my shortcomings was too ingrained to allow for honesty. “Just need a minute to adjust to the noise.”
Alijah’s near-black eyes trailed across my face, tongue worrying his bottom lip. “You sure?”
“Mhm,” I said with a slight nod. No sudden movements until the meds kicked in.
The brass section marched closer, and Alijah knelt to photograph them from a better angle.
My gaze strayed across the crowd of coaches and equipment staff, looking for Dr. McEwen and Reyhan, but my attention was snagged by Cal leaning down to answer a sports reporter’s question. The man could seamlessly transition to football commentary if his position as resident pheromone stud ever fell through.
Alijah shifted to the opposite knee, adopting an extreme lean, as he captured photos of the color guard, flags spinning from side to side before sailing high into the air, collar shifting to give me an inadvertent glimpse of his mating bite.
“How did you and Joaquin meet?”
“At the university bookstore, buying a stylus during an alumni sale. Well, I bought one. He was only pretending to.” Alijah glanced back, shoulders hunching toward his ears, failing to stop a bashful expression from spreading across his features. “Thought I was an employee. Because, you know…”
He gestured to his preppy get-up.
I indulged in a soft laugh. “Let me guess. He kept asking you about different models, looking for the perfect match?”
“Something like that. Might have died from mortification if he hadn’t insisted on treating me to coffee afterward.”
“To thank you for your assistance, of course,” I said, failing to fend off a smirk. “And to apologize for his genuine mistake. A gentleman would never unknowingly impose like that, especially not on a fine, upstanding young man like yourself.”
The back of his neck gathered color until Alijah’s embarrassment was strong enough to propel him to his feet. He fiddled with his camera, shooting me the occasional self-conscious glance.
“Sounds even worse when you say it.”
“Bet he texted you at least three times before you got home.”
“Wait, how—” Alijah turned to me, mouth agape, eyes blown wide. After failing to find a proper rebuttal, he knocked a tentative elbow against my arm. “Be nice to me.”
I patted his shoulder in mock consolation. “You have all my sympathies because I know a determined flirt when I see one, and Joaquin would probably hit it off with my best friend—like a pair of pyromaniacs in a fireworks warehouse.”
Alijah’s sheepish, involuntary shudder was more than a little cute. “That bad, huh?”
“Or that good, depending on your point of view.” We exchanged a laugh, and a lull followed as the band moved further downfield.
“I’ve been meaning to ask, how’d your pack business go?”
“Great! We’re all moved in. Still getting used to having so much extra space and all the unfamiliar sounds. Not that the building is creaky or anything. It’s basically a brick fortress. Everything’s just…different. You know? ”
So, those were moving boxes on Joaquin’s social media. My single foray into internet sleuthing had paid off.
“Do you like it?”
“Oh, absolutely! It’s amazing, the nicest place I’ve ever lived by many miles. The stove is so fancy I’m almost scared to touch it.” He paused, weight shifting to the opposite foot, increasing the distance between us. “But I do have one little complaint. Wyatt gets up way too early, like five-thirty in the morning early. Who does that? And then he makes coffee, so the smell wakes me up, and I can’t get back to sleep. Don’t get me wrong, I like the guy, but he just moved in, and I’m already a little annoyed with him.”
I didn’t even register Alijah’s distaste for my usual wake-up time. Too fixated on a single word. A name. His name.
Resinous bile pooled on the back of my tongue. The ghost of his scent was inescapable. “Wyatt?”
“Yeah, he’s our pack leader’s brother. Oh, I didn’t even think of that. Do you know him?”
A few production crew members squeezed through the tight space, forcing us to step aside. Alijah’s lean frame brushed against mine, pressing flush for a fleeting moment. He was taller than I’d realized—closer to five-eleven.
“Wyatt Redmond,” Alijah said. “He’s the new alpha women’s gymnastics coach.”
Ah. Taller—and capable of speaking treacherous words.
“Assistant coach.” Wyatt’s title slipped out, a mockery of my similar exchange with him on the plane. “And yes. You could say we know each other.”
“Really? That’s awesome!” His lush smile was equal parts hope and delight. A less hardened chunk of walking scar tissue might have been tempted to smile back. “You should come to our housewarming party. Or at least come over for dinner while he’s living with us. I mean, it’s supposed to be temporary, but we’re all hoping he joins our pack. Especially Owen. Wait, do you know Owen, too?”
“I’ve never met Owen,” I said, on the verge of swallowing my tongue. “But I’ve heard of him.”
So, the perfectionist brother of yore, the dictatorial nerd with a fancy new place to live, was named Owen. That didn’t mean he was our Owen, guardian of the grand piano. Perhaps it was just a coincidence. It had to be.
Because if it wasn’t…
That meant Owen Redmond bought Jacobi’s loft. Wyatt’s brother. And his pack, including a beta who might have an ill-advised crush on me, and his artistic rake of a mate. A pack that was letting Wyatt live with them for now, if not forever.
My new neighbors. Maybe. No, they couldn’t be. Probably.
God damn it.
***
The rest of the game was a blur, spent within a strict six-foot radius of Dr. McEwen. Sticking to the head physician and his silent intimidation meant no one would bother me.
I couldn’t handle another provocation.
No happy little grins from Alijah or questions about what food I liked so he could plan the perfect dinner menu—and no uncomfortably prescient observations from Cal, who looked far too delectable in today’s cream cashmere dream.
The next thing I knew, I’d been sitting in the underground parking lot of Tolliver Yards for twenty solid minutes, unable to get out of my car.
What was I supposed to do?
Should I go up and present my hypothesis to Kelsey? That Owen was a Trojan horse. Maybe I should cut our losses and set the complex on fire.
No, I couldn’t do that. Not until Kelsey and the cats were outside.
But that would torch Kelsey’s product stash in the primary suite-turned-stockroom.
So what? I had the money to replace it—all of it, down to the very last sulfate-free, paraben-free, phthalate-free, cruelty-free, dye-free, vegan, organic bath bomb. Kelsey would understand.
Except she absolutely would not.
But that’s why I had Jacobi. He’d probably overnight a package of matches and paint thinner from California.
The alternative to arson was confirmation, which meant I had to get out of the car. I either went up to the sixth floor and knocked on the door to 602 or made a pit stop in the lobby.
I opted for avoidance. No more personal interactions for me. Not today.
The mailroom provided a definitive answer. Right there, in black and white. Perfectly legible. To Jacobi’s exact specifications. Why had I agreed when he proposed mailboxes with name labels ?
601 - M. & K. Van Daal
602 - Pack Redmond
At least my course of action was clear.
Scream into a pillow for ten seconds. Take more pain medication. Pet the cats. Run on the treadmill until my feet went numb. Stave off my rage with copious amounts of swearing in the shower. Scream and swear some more. Pet the cats again.
Nothing helped. I was so screwed. Utterly screwed. Things could not be worse.
Looking for solace, I turned to the one sure thing in my life—the reassuring brilliance of Cal’s research. I retreated to the library nest and sifted through my reading pile for a white paper I’d been saving for such an occasion: Supporting Pack Stability During Military Deployment .
Authored by Cal Carling…and Owen Redmond, Vice President of Technology Research and Development for Redwing BioTech.
What the fuck.
I couldn’t reach for my tablet fast enough. Owen prompted way more search results than I was prepared for. He earned a master’s and a doctorate in bioengineering from the University of Northport. And authored a ton of papers—quite a few with Cal.
Perfectionist? Ha. Try genius.
Tabitha Redmond didn’t appoint thirty-six-year-old vice presidents without merit.
Wait.
Wyatt had a quirky but generous Aunt Tabby, who I’d always pictured living in a seaside cottage somewhere in Maine with her eccentric pack of lady loves and their six cats, smoking pot between hot yoga classes and volunteering at the soup kitchen.
Aunt Tabby was Tabitha Redmond , the legendary bioengineering barracuda whose products dominated the designation technology market.
It sure would have been nice if Wyatt had mentioned that little detail.
A headline about the recent development issues with PheroPass caught my eye, and I clicked on the article. The header image showed a man with wire-rimmed glasses and knife-like features, wearing a crisp black suit, pointing to a mock-up of the sensor. He had the same wavy black hair as Wyatt.
The caption confirmed his identity, but I couldn’t believe it. This man couldn’t be Owen Redmond. He was too tall .
See? I was right. Owen was a Trojan horse of the first magnitude.
He’d come up with the original concept and prototypes for PheroPass. Had he been laughing at my earnest emails, pleading for more reporting functionality, knowing it was a losing battle—and never saying a word to me?
Did he know about the proposal Cal had tasked me with? Or had he told Cal to let the medical fellow handle it—since she couldn’t mind her own business, and the execs would veto everything anyway?
I didn’t want to doubt Cal’s seeming sincerity, the chivalrous temptation who supported my every move, but Owen was his long-time collaborator. They must have talked about me at least once.
Oh god. What if Cal and Owen were friends? Legit friends who actually enjoyed each other’s company. As if Owen being Wyatt’s brother wasn’t bad enough.
Shit. How was I supposed to keep a straight face around Cal on Monday? He was too good at reading me. Maybe I should keep avoiding him so that I wouldn’t say something disparaging about the Redmond infestation.
Why did it have to be Owen Redmond, of all the Owens in existence, who moved in next door?
And why— why —was he the central connection for the four men already pushing my boundaries?
It had taken me three months to quietly mourn the loss of Jacobi’s reliable, snarky refuge. I had to respect my best friend’s life choices, and neighbors were a fact of life—a tertiary presence I didn’t have to acknowledge. Kelsey would handle the niceties while I carried out my routine undisturbed. But today’s revelations ruined that plan.
My safe space had been compromised. Wyatt had access to my floor. He was living across the hall, in my best friend’s custom-built loft. And there was nothing I could do about it.
He could be standing outside my door right now, waiting to demand answers—to make me explain myself—but I couldn’t. It wasn’t possible. The memory of our final conversation was missing, like everything else from the first three months after my accident.
Gone. Just like Wyatt himself.
My skin felt too tight. Every blood vessel in my body was about to burst. Maybe I should document my symptoms just in case they were the precursor to spontaneous human combustion.
I snapped.
Locked inside my nest—the real one, hidden behind the panel door in the foyer of my suite—where no one could see or hear me, where it was safe to detonate, I kicked over chairs and accent tables, ripped off the bedding, hurled framed photographs and glass objects at the upholstered walls, and shredded the faux pothos plants. I needed the destruction more than my next breath. Ranting and screaming all the while. My head pounded so violently it felt like it might split in two.
Until Cal’s text arrived.
Great job at the game today. You okay? You seemed a bit off. Don’t mean to pry, but I’m here if you need to talk.
Off. What an understatement. I was a mess, actively creating an even bigger mess out of what had once been a gorgeous room, the nest that was supposed to be my sanctuary.
What a futile overreaction. A colossal waste of energy. I didn’t have time for this. Not if I wanted to squeeze all the information from this week’s ultrasound course into my brain or finish my presentation for Redwing. Not if I didn’t want to fail.
I could not fail.
Men were of no use to me. They never helped me stick a landing or win a medal. Didn’t help power me through the most challenging days of my recovery, pass my medical boards, or navigate my residency-induced burnout. I did it. My determination got me here. Men wouldn’t jeopardize my fellowship, that’s for damn sure.
But what about these men—these alphas, this beta?
I didn’t have any justification to hate them. We didn’t know each other. I barely even knew Wyatt at this point. Couldn’t even bring myself to dislike them, not really. Didn’t want to avoid them, either, darting to the elevator every morning, too paranoid to walk around the parking garage.
So, I had to suck it up and play nice, no matter how much I resented the circumstances. And stick to taking the stairs in the morning. The elevator was too risky. I could afford to be caught off-guard once, but not regularly. It was imperative for my well-being that I maintain control.
Seeing patients at the sports medicine clinic, guidance appointments with Dr. Sethi, lectures, rotations, PheroPass data review, case records, assigned reading, covering football and volleyball games, training room hours, my job search, interviews, going to my own medical appointments, plus my damned heat in December…
I was doing so much, on the verge of too much.
But I was going to succeed—the same way I made it through medical school and my residency—with single-minded determination and a ton of pills.
A trio of texts from Kelsey drained what little fight I had left.
Status check.
Status check.
Five-minute warning.
I owed her an explanation, which meant I had to tell her about Owen. All of it. His relationship with Wyatt. The newly discovered professional link to Cal and PheroPass. And the identities of our two other new, very mated neighbors.
A dry run for blowing Jacobi’s ever-loving mind.