Twenty-Three – Morgan
Twenty-Three
Morgan
“ A re you sure about having us stay with you? It’s not too late to book a hotel, and Audra might need help with the girls,” Papa said for the third time, prolonging our goodbyes. He ignored the gentle pressure of Mom’s hand rubbing his back, silently urging him to wrap up our video call. She could tell I was running out of steam.
“It’s fine, Papa.”
“Okay,” he said, his tone softening, “but only if you and Kelsey are both sure.”
Dad leaned forward, his deep brown hand reaching for the laptop keyboard. His larger frame dwarfed Mom and Papa, the springy salt-and-pepper curls of his natural hair dominating the screen. “I’m hanging up, Martijn.”
“Wait, Keon, we’re still talking,” Papa protested, his smaller, rounder hand batting at Dad’s much longer fingers. “Remember, honey, don’t get upset about those silly articles—”
“Night, squirt,” Pops called from the kitchen in the background. He was preparing Papa’s bedtime tea, though only a sliver of his dark brown hair and olive-toned skin was visible between the shoulders of the trio on the couch.
Papa plastered himself against Dad’s side, as harmless as a kitten, completely oblivious to Dad’s silent laughter. My fathers never tired of alternately irritating and indulging their precious tyrant.
“Keon! This is important. ”
“Love you, Morgan. Sweet dreams,” Mom said, reaching between her mates with a deft hand to hit the disconnect button.
Silence settled over the living room for a few blessed moments, only to be interrupted by Kelsey’s giggles from the reading chair in the corner, where she was busy reconciling invoices.
“I wasn’t second-guessing your offer for them to stay with us for marathon weekend, but now…”
I laughed and angled to face her, careful not to disturb Tenny, who was sleeping on my ankle. “Like you haven’t already started stockpiling food.”
“That’s for the sibling pack invasion, not the parents.” She stacked her papers neatly and closed her laptop with a decisive snap. “I don’t mean to sound bossy, but could you go to bed now?”
“Mhm.” It was almost ten, meaning this horrid day was nearly over.
I’d been on the phone for hours—with Grace, Coach Hager, various extended family members, and a few former work colleagues. They’d all reached out with the best intentions, wanting to ensure my head was still attached and in working order.
My siblings had opted for text check-ins. Except Jenna. Not that I’d expected to hear from her. She had valid reasons for maintaining emotional and physical distance from me.
And let’s not forget about the onslaught of emails and texts from unknown names and numbers, including a few interview requests sneaking into my work email.
All thanks to a premier sports outlet publishing an accident retrospective with a minute-by-minute replay of omega gymnastics’ darkest day. It sparked a wave of similar articles and social media posts, reminding a wider audience of an event I’d rather they forget.
The dramatic video snippets prompted Alijah to check on me multiple times throughout the day. His concern was sweet but unnecessary. I could handle the scrutiny.
At least he didn’t annoy me the way a certain noble bear did, hanging around the lobby at the end of the day, pretending to be on a phone call while sending smiling daggers at anyone who got too close to me.
Another waste of Cal’s chivalrous efforts. My resting bitch face was perfectly capable of dissuading people from talking to me.
Kelsey placed her things on the kitchen island and started brewing a pot of coffee. I might have been exhausted, but her peak productivity hours were just kicking in.
I sank lower into the loveseat, resting my head against the cushions, trying to gather the will to move .
“You’re not waiting for Jacobi to call, are you?” she asked, pulling a bottle of flavored creamer from the fridge.
“No. We’re catching up this weekend. Today’s not easy for him, either.”
When the accident happened, he’d been backstage, waiting to compete in the pommel horse final. I don’t know what haunted him more—being forced to watch endless replays of me fracturing my neck on a giant screen or knowing he’d been one of the omega men who competed on the vault earlier in the day.
That was one bronze medal he never took pride in.
Kelsey hesitated, weighing a question on her tongue until I raised a brow, encouraging her to spit it out. “Was it different not having him crash with you last night?”
“It was fine.” Clearly, I didn’t have any trouble sleeping—or blanking the calendar date right out, either. Maybe having Jacobi sleep over every year encouraged nightmares instead of repelling them. “I mean, I miss him, but maybe we don’t need to be so…vigilant about the accident anniversary moving forward.”
“That sounds nice,” she said carefully, trying not to sound too dubious. “In theory.”
“I just hate how much it bothers Mom and Papa. The articles can’t hurt me.” I ran a hand through my hair, realizing it was a touch too long. Did I have a follow-up appointment scheduled with my stylist? I couldn’t remember. “I just hope they don’t make things more awkward at work.”
“They’re not treating you differently because of what happened with Garvey, are they?”
“Not exactly. But some people are keeping their distance. Can’t say I blame them. I don’t think anyone expected him to be put on leave during the investigation. Normally, it’s the omega who gets the boot.”
Kelsey’s face contorted with disgust. “That’s bullshit.”
“Dynamic politics in a nutshell.”
My phone vibrated, announcing the arrival of a somewhat surprising text.
“Jacobi?” Kelsey asked, taking a sip of coffee.
“No. Christine, from the children’s hospital. Wants to get dinner on Saturday.”
“That’s going to be a long day for you.”
“I’ll make it work. It’s not like either of us has much free time.” I typed out my response, suggesting an udon restaurant near the stadium. “She’s in her last year of residency.”
No sooner had I hit send than another, even more surprising text arrived. It was a carefully polished group message from Alijah to Piper and me, along with another number I didn’t recognize. Alijah didn’t seem like the type to text after nine, worried that it might be rude. But I could easily imagine him writing and rewriting the same message for an hour, forcing himself to hit send before he lost his nerve.
Hi! Our pack is hosting a housewarming party next Saturday and would love for the Van Daal ladies to join us.
The event details followed in short order, including an address I knew all too well—unit 602.
What the hell were they thinking? Surely, Pack Redmond, of all people, had to know Wyatt was leaking compost fumes all over the building.
“The Redmonds are hosting a housewarming,” I said, not bothering to check my tone.
“What?” Kelsey plopped down on the couch beside me, helping herself to my phone to read the message. “Huh. I thought you said Owen was smart, like genius-level smart. If they think anyone—especially Piper—will want to eat fancy party food with a stressed-out alpha stinking up the corner…”
I groaned. This had the potential for unmitigated disaster. Would it be entirely unethical for me to mention Wyatt’s pheromone issues directly to Cal?
Before I could dwell on it, a separate text from Piper popped up.
We’re SO going! Can Kelsey and Rory crash?
“Oh, I doubt crashing will be necessary,” Kelsey said as she returned my phone, resting her chin on my shoulder. “This helpful neighbor fully expects to snag an invitation of her very own.”
Can we count you in, doc?
Ah, so the mystery number was Joaquin. Suddenly, the idea of unleashing my siblings on the unsuspecting Pack Redmond seemed like a fantastic idea. Too bad they hadn’t scheduled their housewarming for the weekend of the Millwright Marathon, when every Van Daal within two hundred miles would be in town.
“Are you going to tell them?” Kelsey murmured.
The neighbor debacle. Another situation I had no desire to be honest about. But they deserved to know the truth, especially Alijah. My issues with Wyatt had nothing to do with the rest of them, and getting my heart stomped by their temporary roommate ten years ago wasn’t a valid reason to keep them in the dark. Especially since Wyatt already knew.
“I’ll figure something out.”
***
Huddled against the trunk of a maple tree, I watched as the last few disappointed volleyball game attendees shuffled off to their cars in the Rhine Fieldhouse parking lot. Today’s loss had been brutal. Our girls all but surrendered in three straight sets, with nothing to show for it but a knee sprain and a few jammed fingers.
A fresh gust of wind whipped off the bay, slicing through the cotton sleeves of my shirt and finding every gap in my fleece vest. I shivered, breaking out in goosebumps. Winter Northport gear had been on my to-do list for weeks. Maybe I could swing by the university bookstore during lunch tomorrow— fat chance . My clinic appointments never ended on time.
Crossing my arms tighter around my chest, I glanced toward the women’s gymnastics training center. It’d be warmer inside, and Wyatt would be less likely to miss me than in my shadowy hiding spot. But stepping into the brightly lit building exponentially increased the chances of us being seen together. I wasn’t in the mood for extra attention.
The last thing I needed was for one of the student gymnasts to snap a picture of us together and for social media to start claiming I was too busy to speak with journalists but not too busy to flirt with the sport’s former fairytale prince. Especially with the Garvey situation still unresolved.
As I stared at the well-lit front entrance, a solid figure darted out the side door and headed toward the parking lot, moving as fast as possible without breaking into a jog.
Poor Wyatt. The girls had really done a number on him.
“Hey,” I called out.
Wyatt pulled up short, head whipping in my direction. A boyish smile brightened his countenance, teeming with surprised delight—pure happiness—something I hadn’t felt in years. He changed course, jogging across the leaf-strewn grass toward me. His bare, muscular calves flexed with every step, and his shorts rode up just enough to expose his rock- solid quads.
And my head was screaming.
My body stood rooted on a patch of damp earth on the East Coast, surrounded by autumnal splendor and Tolliver Bay. I understood the wind off the water carried the faint tang of salt, and the leaves crunching beneath Wyatt’s feet as he approached had a crisp, earthy sweetness—even if I hadn’t been able to smell it in years.
But my inner omega was trapped, paradoxically frozen beneath the relentless Arizona sun, reliving a similar moment on another campus in what felt like a different lifetime.
A few months before my accident, Ethan and his pack chaperoned me on a week of out-of-state medical school visits. After hours of being cooped up in the rental SUV, we stopped by Wyatt’s school on a whim for lunch, heading to our next planned stop in California. I’d been curious about where Wyatt spent most of his time, about what it might be like to live there if we ever moved from endless talks to something more real.
I never expected to run into him. Hadn’t even realized we’d parked near the men’s gymnastics building until we’d finished eating. Then he burst through the doors, gloriously sweaty in a tank top and shorts, his muscular form on full display—and in a hurry. Always in a hurry. Never wanting to draw attention to himself anywhere other than on an apparatus.
I called out his name. Couldn’t help myself.
But I hadn’t applied enough scent-cancelling spray to withstand the Arizona heat.
It was the first and only time we’d encountered each other outside of a ventilated environment. And I learned exactly why alpha and omega athletes are kept so tightly suppressed and segregated.
Because at that moment—when he caught the first hint of my pheromone signature between the spiced dust and dry heat, when the icy blue of his eyes thawed and turned covetous—he ruined me.
He quickly cut across the quad, on the verge of stalking me like prey. And I wanted to be caught, pinned beneath his powerful body. To submit.
At the mercy of some primordial, animalistic urge, pupils blown, we drank each other in, locked together in the middle of an illusory boxwood hedge maze. My hand fisted the hem of his sweat-soaked tank, and we huffed each other’s scents, reveling in the strange, electric wonder of discovering the true depths of our attraction.
The need. That all-consuming need. I’d been so close to throwing myself at him, wrapping my legs and arms around his solid frame, burying his face in my neck—where he belonged.
Until Ethan’s voice cut through the haze in an insidious stage whisper: “ Punk’s a lot shorter than he looks on TV. ”
The lowest fucking blow. Shattering the moment and any chance of verifying that fleeting sense of fate.
Wyatt went cold, his eyes shuttering as he mumbled something about heading to class and promised to call. Then, he forced himself to step back, severing that tenuous, covetous connection. A pain that had never truly healed.
Wyatt did call later that night—after I’d ripped Ethan a new one—but never mentioned how my pheromones affected him. Not then, not during any subsequent texts or conversations, either.
I finished applying for medical schools in July, and he turned twenty-one in August. We both had stellar gymnastics results heading into the world championships. My grades were excellent. His less so, but I tried to help where I could.
And yet, every time I hinted at my suspicions that our scents impacted each other to an unusual degree, Wyatt changed the subject.
It seemed like he wasn’t interested in me. That we were just good friends. Until one late-night call, when he asked in a breathy, heart-fluttering whisper, if I wanted to sneak out after the final night of worlds. Maybe we could get crepes, walk around Montreal, and actually see something of a competition host city for once.
For a few weeks, whenever I wasn’t focused on training or classes, I let myself dream. About having a boyfriend by the time I turned twenty-two at the end of October. My first real boyfriend.
Just imagine—celebrating a third individual world title with a gorgeous alpha by my side. It would have been perfect.
We would have been perfect.
But it wasn’t meant to be. I lost my title. Broke my brain. Never even celebrated turning twenty-two.
Because of the accident.
Why did everything always come back to that terrible moment—even now, as Wyatt’s initial delight at seeing me shifted, cooling into concern the closer he got.
“You all right?” Wyatt asked as he cut across the final stretch of sidewalk to reach me. “Saw the articles. Didn’t think there’d be so many.”
I took a subtle, steadying breath, grounding myself in the present. “It happens every year. People will forget by next week.”
He flashed a cheeky grin overloaded with dimples. “I don’t know. You were the hot topic during training. Pretty sure most of my team got lost in a rabbit hole of your career highlights last night. Lots of questions about whether your feet were unnaturally sticky because your landings were always so clean.”
“Because unlike you,” I said, giving him a mock glare over the tops of my glasses, “my coach made me run an extra lap for every step or hop.”
“She did not.”
“How would you know?”
“Because I’ve met Coach Hager enough times to know she adores you too much to make you suffer.”
“Ha. The only kind of affection she shows her gymnasts is tough love. At least until you retire.”
A mutual laugh soon faded out, both of us overly aware of the reasons behind my forced retirement. Not everyone got to go out on top, like Jacobi, or after reclaiming an elusive title, like Wyatt.
“Thank you for the gifts,” I said, breaking the silence.
“Did… Did I do alright?”
I looked at him in confusion. “Hm?”
“You…” He paused, glancing down as his fingers worried the strap of his duffel bag. “I do follow you on social media, you know. It’s not the same—not even close—but I do try to pay attention. You don’t post much, especially not about what you’re reading these days. I didn’t have a lot to go off.”
I hesitated, grappling with how to respond. The girl I used to be would have been beyond smitten. But the fractured version that survived didn’t know how to process men being nice to her.
“It’s impressive that you remembered so much.”
“All of it,” Wyatt murmured, his gaze still fixed on the shadow-strewn ground. “I remember… Morgan, I never meant—”
“I know.” My voice was steady as I cut him off. We weren’t doing this. Not after ten years. And certainly not here, on campus, in the open air where anyone might overhear. “As my brother recently reminded me, the accident… We were all just trying our best.”
He looked up, his eyes extra piercing when contrasted against his furrowed black brows. “Which brother?”
“That one.”
“Huh.” Wyatt stepped back, his hands settling on his hips as he gazed over the darkening water, teeth digging into his bottom lip. “So that’s his excuse?”
“Not making excuses for him. Even if he was acting on some misguided urge to protect his sister, it was a shitty thing to do. Really shitty.” I straightened my glasses, hesitating as I weighed whether to add what my inner omega had been dying to say for years. “There’s nothing wrong with your height.”
Wyatt let out a bitter laugh. “You don’t mean that.”
“Not everyone wants to strain their neck whenever they look their partner in the eye.”
“Unless they’re Cal Carling,” he shot back, his tone sharp and snide, catching me off guard.
White hot anger used my ribs for kindling. Cal had nothing to do with our mess—and even if he did, Wyatt was in no position to complain about it.
“Excuse me?”
“His pheromones were in the hallway last week, Morgan. And a few weeks before that. I’m not stupid.”
“No, you’re not stupid,” I said, “but that doesn’t mean you’re right either.”
“Oh, really?” Wyatt challenged. His gaze locked with mine. “So, he’s not interested in you?”
Digging my thumbnail into the side of my pointer finger, I redirected my growing irritation into that tiny prick of pain rather than exploding at the larger, more obstinate prick standing before me.
“I’d like to keep my fellowship, thanks.”
He waved off my reasoning. “Mm, no, that’s not—”
“Since you know Cal, that’ll make this next part less awkward,” I interrupted, crossing my arms. “You need to talk to someone about your pheromones. If you’re comfortable seeing Cal, I can get you an appointment next week. And before this goes any further, let me be clear—I’m saying this as a building owner. Tolliver Yards has gotten feedback about a strong scent in the gym and elevator.”
My words had the effect I’d been dreading.
Wyatt’s shoulders fell, curling in on himself as if he’d just taken an uppercut to the spleen. “Fuck.”
“In the interim,” I said, forcing out the rest of my spiel, refusing to feel sorry for him, “until you figure things out, you’re free to work out at my place. I should have all the equipment you need.”
Wyatt was already shaking his head before I finished speaking. “So you and Kelsey can hide from me and my big, bad pheromones every morning? No thanks.”
“Kelsey’s already agreed,” I replied, keeping my voice as mellow as possible. “She gets up after I leave for work, and our ventilation system is isolated and top-of-the-line. You won’t bother her.”
Wyatt ground his toe into a leaf, his voice so quiet I could barely hear him. “What about you?”
Leaning in to pick up his words, I watched his neck stiffen the closer I got and decided to have a little mercy on the guy. “I work out to sweat, not socialize. Will that be a problem?”
“No.” He exhaled, shoulders somehow drooping even further, and shook his head. “I’m the same.”
“The appointment with Cal.” I tucked a strand of hair behind my left ear, the simple movement drawing far too much notice from Wyatt. “Do you want it?”
A muscle twitched in his jaw as he debated his answer. “It can’t be you?”
Had this man been engineered in Tabitha Redmond’s lab specifically to try my patience?
“We work together, and you’re my neighbor. It’s not ethical.”
“Fine.”
“He’s the best, Wyatt. I wouldn’t recommend him otherwise.”
“Because you care?”
The question was beyond loaded—a many-pronged cudgel, a Morningstar aimed straight for my gut. But I played it cool.
“On some level, yes. I do.”
“But you resent me.”
“I think that goes both ways.”
“No, Morgan—no. Never.” He blew out an unsteady breath. “We were more than this—”
I stepped forward and hissed, “Stop.”
“I—I…” He swallowed hard but didn’t lose his nerve for once. “It’s still there for me.”
Congrats, I wanted to shout in his face. We’re both plagued by the same paranormal romantic activity. Aren’t we special?
The world’s most pathetic non-exes, who couldn’t even manage to make it to a single date before crashing and burning. Whose relationship couldn’t even weather one irate phone call.
Or so I’ve been told.
It didn’t matter how it went down. There was nothing left to resuscitate.
“I don’t want to hear it.”
Wyatt continued to press the matter. “Haven’t you ever thought—”
“No,” I snapped in quiet anger. “Because I’m not worth losing your job over.” I started down the sidewalk, trying to outrun my rising temper. “ I’ll text you a door code.”
“Wait,” he called. “The housewarming. Did you get invited?”
I stopped, cursing myself for forgetting. That was the whole point of this exercise in futility—to keep Wyatt from suffocating their party guests.
“Yes. Piper, too.” My aching head fell back, searching for absent relief. “Do they know?”
“No. At least, I don’t think so. Owen might suspect something, but it doesn’t matter. I’ll tell them. Might take a few days, though.”
I nodded, and we went our separate ways into the deepening twilight.