Thirteen – Morgan
Thirteen
Morgan
C al was waiting for me in the lobby of Designation Services on Friday afternoon, standing just beyond the security checkpoint with a fresh cup of coffee in hand. Smiling at me like my presence was the highlight of his day.
“Hey, Morgan. Can’t wait to see what you’ve come up with.”
My enthusiasm was lacking. I could have used another week to finesse the content of my presentation. The near-constant migraine ensured some typos slipped through, and more than one idea wasn’t fully cooked. I’d taken a double dose of meds to prepare for this meeting.
As we headed into the elevator, Cal took a few sips of coffee—each accompanied by a slow, deep inhalation. He was trying to pick up my scent again. There was nothing to find, even after lowering my suppressant dosage.
When he leaned forward, arm brushing my shoulder as he hit the button for his office’s floor, I took the opportunity to jab him in the ribs with my elbow.
Cal choked on a surprised verbal hiccup and raised a brow at me.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” I said softly, despite my voice dripping with derision. “Are we not taking personal liberties?”
Pressing his lips together, Cal failed to suppress a grin. “Noted, Dr. Van Daal.”
While the rest of Designation Services was as sterile as its in-house laboratory, Cal’s office was an anomaly. The decor fell just short of a sports pub, walls cluttered with team pictures, pennants, newspaper clippings, and other football paraphernalia.
A large portrait of Cal in a navy and white uniform took pride of place—captured mid-motion, football cradled in his massive arm, one cleat barely touching the turf as he ran, hungry eyes fixed downfield. Taken right before his nose got shattered at a bowl game.
Omegas could help themselves to a basket full of rolled-up fleece blankets and throw pillows, all bearing the University of Northport logo, of course.A hand grip dynamometer hung from a discreet hook under the front lip of his desk just in case an alpha needed to redirect their energy during a meeting.He’d placed fidget toys and baskets of various goodies around the room—samples of scent-canceling wipes and sprays, condoms, and candy.
A little something for everyone.
“The floor’s all yours.” He settled into his leather wingback office chair, smoothing out the collar of his chunky maroon cardigan as he got comfortable.
As if I could miss how it highlighted the width of his shoulders. Show-off.
I set my laptop on the desk and opened my presentation deck, then slid a printed copy across the desk to him with a touch of reluctance. “It’s not polished yet, so apologies in advance if there are any mistakes. I emailed you the file, too, if you’d rather follow along that way.”
“This is perfect,” he said, pulling the hard copy closer and brandishing a pen.
First, we reviewed potential additions to the report library. Cal agreed with most of my suggestions, only vetoing a few with well-supported reasoning.
“Okay,” I said, “moving on to real-time system alerts. I think we can catch pheromone intimidation at the line of scrimmage.”
I savored his genuine surprise at my suggestion. It was bold, even for me.
“If a player wearing a PheroPass sensor experiences intense pheromone exposure for ten seconds or more during a game,” Cal read from the slide deck, “the real-time monitoring program will record the incident and issue an alert.”
“If the exposure continues, the alerts will become more urgent—just like the irregular cardiac rhythm protocol. The same thing will happen if they come across an unreasonable density of pheromones, like if they’re being suffocated at the bottom of a pile-up after a big play.”
“I like the general premise. A lot. But I see two immediate problems.” Cal underlined a few key points on the page. “First, proving that someone premeditated a pheromone release is incredibly difficult. Maybe even impossible for team sports. Reactions to intense pheromones are too varied.”
“That’s why we should focus on the cause instead of the reaction. I mean, if I was trying to throw you off your game, I don’t care how you react, only that you’re distracted long enough to miss the snap. Most cases I found in the literature cited repeated attempts to intimidate or distract other players. That’s where PheroPass can make a difference. If we have enough data, we can identify negative behavior patterns and prove intent.”
Cal tapped his pen against the horn on the Captain Tusker bobblehead next to his monitor. I watched the pirate narwhal’s bulbous head jitter around while Cal worked through his thoughts.
“Your research included the hockey referee scandal?”
“Of course. The library portal has a great analysis of the court case.”
Allegedly, a group of hockey officials were bribed to manipulate the outcomes of crucial games. The referee was instructed to target a particular team during face-offs, releasing excessive pheromones for a split second just before dropping the puck.
No one was immune to a sudden pheromone spike, and it might take a few seconds to combat your instinctive reaction—anger, fear, panic, lust. Even I might get nauseous. Just long enough for the other team to snag the puck.
“Huge scandal when I was in high school. If you lose enough face-offs, you lose the game. Lose enough games—you tank your season.” Cal rolled the pen between his palms. “But even with all the hoopla, it wasn’t enough for a conviction.”
Like all sports venues, hockey arenas followed strict ventilation and pheromone neutralization guidelines. The players also wore uniforms made from scent-canceling fabrics, just like my old leotards. Inadvertently making it all too easy to get away with pheromone-based offenses.
“But imagine how different the outcome could have been with the right data,” I said, folding my arms on the desktop. “What if the prosecution could access years’ worth of emission records? And what if it went beyond the players, and they had access to the officials’ data, too?”
“I’m not sure Redwing has considered the historical record implications of PheroPass yet. This might be a good introductory topic.”
“And referees are another avenue for sales.”
“The higher-ups do enjoy their money.” Cal paused for a moment. “ Okay. I’m sold. Just because no one’s proved a case of athletic pheromone intimidation in court doesn’t mean it can’t be done. Especially when you combine the PheroPass reports with bank records and other evidence.”
“I still think we could catch some players red-handed.”
“Don’t you mean sniff them out red-nosed?” Cal drummed a jaunty rhythm on the desktop, happy to ignore my grimace at his corny joke. “My second issue is the time. Ten seconds feels like an arbitrary number.”
The sun dipped lower, setting the autumn foliage on fire and stinging my eyes. I angled my head away from the office window.
“I tried to calculate the average time between players assembling at the line of scrimmage and the ball being snapped.”
“But teams have more time than that to throw the football. What if the pheromone bomb comes with two seconds left on the play clock? The opposition could justifiably blame it on an influx of adrenaline.”
A series of metallic clicks sounded, followed by the cooling relief of shade. Cal lowered the blinds and continued as if it was nothing.
“And elevated readings following a tackle could be explained by proximity. The closer you are, the more pheromones the sensor picks up. And ten seconds is way too long. It’s more like a nanosecond. Just a nasty wall of pheromones smacking you right in the face.”
“People did that—to you?”
“Sometimes it’s obvious you never competed against alphas.” Cal didn’t need to scent me to sense my displeasure. He flashed a self-conscious smile. “I have my blind spots, too. Individual sports are a mystery to me. That’s why I initially didn’t understand your push for reproductive cycle monitoring—despite my professional background.”
“I know what you mean. When I was competing, my heat schedule dictated my entire season. It took ages to finalize. But trying to scale that same level of obsessive detail for a hundred players? Pure insanity.”
“When I played, we kept it simple and took enough meds to delay ruts and heats until the off-season. Not a great idea.” Cal ran a hand through his sandy hair. “It’s better now, but still not good enough.”
We resumed reviewing the presentation. Cal picked apart more than a few ideas, every sentence insightful, pointing out weaknesses the Redwing execs might take issue with that had never occurred to me.
I liked him this way, channeling his inner designation nerd.
We didn’t reach the final page until an hour past our scheduled end time.
“What’s this?” Cal asked, tapping his pen against a sticky note with a giant asterisk.
“An idea—maybe. I’m not sure yet. And I don’t think we have enough time for it today.”
It was already after six. The sun would set soon, and I didn’t like driving after dark.
“Speaking of ideas… I have one of my own.” He nonchalantly adjusted his glasses. “Are you free for dinner?”
Our gazes locked. A restless nerve spasmed in my chest. Cal made me want things. An impulse I could not afford to trust.
“Do you think that’s wise, Dr. Carling?”
“Our contact from Redwing—Owen—will be there.” Cal quickly pivoted, making it a group event rather than a potential date, but I wasn’t sure I believed him. “Pitch it to both of us.”
Networking was not one of my strong suits, and I tried to avoid the drain of socializing as much as possible. But…
Maybe I could suffer through one meal—for Jacobi’s sake.
I still owed him a proper Owen update, after all.