Twenty-Eight – Morgan
Twenty-Eight
Morgan
I ’d just finished a check-up with a running back recovering from a pulled hamstring when Dr. McEwen knocked on the exam room doorway. His face had a touch more color than last week. Probably took his boat out for a foliage tour.
“Van Daal, got a minute?”
“Of course.”
Time for yet another conversation about Coach Garvey. I’d spoken to HR three times in the past two weeks and had individual meetings with Dr. Flemming and Dr. Sethi. What’s one more?
I followed him across the taping area and down the hall, through a security door, into a warren of staff offices. His was sparse. Anatomical models lined the windowsill, a vintage nervous system diagram hung on the wall, and a modest ship in a bottle sat on his desk.
Dr. Flemming was waiting in one of the utilitarian guest chairs, wearing a friendly smile. His favorite pug-print bowtie put me at ease. This might not be a pleasant conversation, but at least I wasn’t in trouble.
“Hi, Morgan,” he said, gesturing for me to sit. “Thanks for joining us.”
I closed the door and sat down. “Of course.”
“You know what this is about,” Dr. McEwen began, settling into a severe-looking ergonomic black mesh and chrome chair. “So, I won’t waste your time. Garvey’s been written up for verbal harassment and minor omega rights infractions. We couldn’t prove anything beyond that, but he’s on the thinnest of ice moving forward. ”
“He’s also on leave for the remainder of the week,” Dr. Flemming added. “And will be required to complete additional workplace dynamics training.”
Dr. McEwen let out a disapproving huff. “The fool didn’t stop to think that every university employee has to take annual harassment training—and then ran off to bark at you. Well, he showed his ass all right.”
“I know it’s not the resolution you were probably hoping for,” Dr. Flemming said kindly, “but—”
“No,” I cut in with what I hoped was a reassuring wave, not wanting either of them to think they’d failed me somehow. “It’s way more than I expected. Thank you.”
The outcome was surprising—not just because the hard evidence was limited to an indirect surveillance video—but because the cause of Garvey’s tirade was even more troubling than I’d anticipated.
It had nothing to do with me. No perceived slights or pointed words. He lost control because he’d misinterpreted a standard mandatory training notice. If that was enough to unleash his pheromones on an omega in an enclosed space, what might he do next time, especially with a chip on his shoulder?
“This wasn’t an isolated incident.” Dr. McEwen leaned forward, the solid weight of his body pressing against the desk, trying to reassure me without exerting any alpha pressure. “If he does anything—and I mean anything —that gives you, Parsha, or any of the players even a moment’s pause, report it. I’ve got zero tolerance for this kind of shit, and Carling has even less.”
I glanced at Dr. Flemming, who was patting his mustache with satisfaction.
“Cal never pulls his punches when it comes to omega safety,” he said, trying to school his expression into something more businesslike.
“Came in swinging,” Dr. McEwen said with an amused rumble that almost passed for a laugh, “citing all sorts of legislative code, threatening to pull investments and take Redwing with him. Never seen the head of athletics move so fast.”
A stuttering buzz invaded my thoughts, drowning out almost everything except the image of Cal—the unfamiliar, too-serious, suit-wearing version—and his hit list. He’d followed through, within reason, even though I hadn’t asked him to.
But why? I wasn’t worth the effort.
Maybe Cal was just being true to his principles. A protective act tied to my designation, something he’d do for any omega in need .
No. That was an excuse—and a weak one at that. I knew how Cal felt about me.
But how did I feel?
We only met because of my fellowship, and yet it was the biggest obstacle standing in our way. If I were to ignore my job—no, if it were July…
I banished the thought and redirected my focus, voicing a lingering concern. “Did they figure out how Garvey got into a restricted area?”
“Tailgated.” Dr. McEwen grunted more than said the word. “Accompanied a player to the clinic for an x-ray, then camped out by a staff entrance. Caught the door when someone left for lunch.”
“Which is incredibly disappointing,” Dr. Flemming added, “given how much time and effort we’ve put into reminding staff to be aware of their surroundings.”
I felt for him. The sports medicine clinic staff took safety seriously and were usually hypervigilant around access points.
“Sounds like even more supplemental training is on the horizon.”
“Yes,” he sighed. “And plenty of it.”
After answering a few questions about my contact with HR, I reassured them I’d report any further incidents. Dr. McEwen departed for a budget meeting. I volunteered to escort Dr. Flemming to the exit, but he was in no hurry.
“I must admit, I’m a little jealous,” he said, peeking into the largest conference room, with its interactive whiteboard display and remote-controlled everything. “The sports medicine clinic isn’t much older than this place, yet…” He sighed and strolled down the hallway, hands clasped behind his back like a grandfather on a Sunday stroll. “Oh well, the gods of budgetary fortune may smile upon us next time.”
It wasn’t like Dr. Flemming to wax poetic about funding issues. A glance at my phone confirmed I still had ten minutes until my next appointment, enough time to figure out what he was trying to get at.
“Throw in the option to rename the clinic, and you might just get your wish.”
“The Belcrests are more selective than you think.” He paused, fussing with his bowtie between furtive glances. “I thought Cal might have explained their charitable philosophy.”
“Why’s that?” I asked, pulse picking up a notch.
Did Dr. Flemming know something about my tangled relationship with Cal, or had my choice of outfit betrayed me? The Captain Tusker embroidered on my preppy blue-and-white varsity sweater seemed to mock me—little snitch .
“Because you two… Haven’t you known each other for some time?”
I shook my head. “No. We only met after the start of my fellowship.”
Dr. Flemming blinked at me. The confusion was mutual. “But you’re a major donor for Brizo House. I volunteer there regularly, and your name’s near the top of the donor tree.”
“Yes, I’m a donor. Have been for years. Long before I met Cal.”
“So, you know it’s his mother’s. Her legacy?” The sadness in his eyes was overwhelming. Cal’s mom must have been an incredible woman.
“Were you friends?”
“Went to high school and college together.” His voice wavered. “Laurel was a skilled designation counselor. Empathetic, insightful. Poured everything into Brizo House after she got mated. It was a different time. Omega rights reform was still in its infancy, so omegas could still legally be sold to the highest bidder. Not that it’s ever fully stopped in certain circles. They call it a merger now or claim sparks flew during acquisition talks. Anything to make it sound palatable. But if you read between the lines…”
He stared out across the practice fields, knocking his hands together in quiet irritation. “Chaz insisted on filing courting paperwork, letting Laurel call the shots during dates. Made her think he was enlightened—a modern alpha. But when their mating announcement hit the papers, it only included her name, age, and designation. Don’t know why she went through with it.”
The shock was too big to suppress. “The Carlings didn’t approve?”
“No. Not even close. Maybe that was the appeal for him.” He turned away from the window, deep lines framing his eyes. “My pack was there the night they met. It was a joint fundraiser for an omega charity. Her first real job. Just five months out of college. Chaz was supposed to be canoodling with a senator’s daughter but spent the entire evening asking Laurel about operating expenses and tax deductions instead. She was only twenty-two. He was thirty-six.”
Well, I’d certainly missed that nauseating little nugget during my spotty internet research. I tried to keep my disgust with Chaz Carling from leaking through.
“Why are you telling me this?”
“Because she would have liked you, and I think…” Dr. Flemming held my gaze, a tenuous understanding forming between us that could never be spoken aloud—at least not here, not on campus. “I watched that boy grow up. Couldn’t be prouder of him. But he… He could use a good friend.”
** *
My head was a mess.
I barely made it through my next appointment without cracking. The alpha tackle was firmly on Team Garvey, disagreeing with everything I said out of spite. I had no qualms about benching him for the rest of the week.
As soon as he left, I grabbed my phone and puffer jacket—another of Cal’s choices—and went to Reyhan’s exam room. “I need to take a break. Back in a few.”
He nodded in understanding, his attention never wavering from the notes he was typing at his computer. “Got it.”
I ducked out the side door and headed down the sidewalk, through the security gate, toward the pavilion where I liked to eat lunch.
My head was so full of warring thoughts that it felt like they were dripping down the back of my throat, liable to choke me if I wasn’t careful.
A text dump to Jacobi would help. But where to start? A Garvey update seemed logical but ran the risk of worsening my already foul mood.
I could share my revulsion at the age gap between Cal’s parents. It would be like one of us hitting on an eighteen-year-old—a freshman in college, the same age as Rory. My stomach soured. Hard.
No, I should complain about the threadbare text I’d just received from Wyatt.
Told them. Cal was there. Didn’t go over well.
What was I supposed to do with that stunning lack of information?
After a few thwarted starts, I began typing straight expletives.
“Hey, doc.”
My head snapped up. Joaquin and Alijah sat on the same side of a picnic bench, looking adorably mismatched—Joaquin in worn black leather, Alijah in business casual khaki. Surrounded by empty takeout boxes, they were sharing an order of churros.
“Morgan!” Alijah leaned forward with a sweet smile. “Come sit with us.”
“Oh—hi.”
Was I ready to see these two? After a moment’s hesitation, I stepped into the pavilion and sat down across from them. Better to have it out, once and for all, and clear the air.
“I owe you an apology,” I said, mainly to Alijah. “I know Wyatt broke the news, but he didn’t give me any specifics.”
“It was quite the revelation.” Joaquin licked his thumb and leaned forward, planting an elbow on the table. With deliberate slowness, he dipped a churro into a container of chocolate sauce. “Can’t say it didn’t sting, though. Right, babe?”
Alijah shot a displeased look at Joaquin but still admitted quietly, “I wish you had told us.”
“But, because we’re gentlemen, we’re willing to forgive and forget—for a price,” Joaquin said, taking a large bite.
Alijah leaned over and whispered, “We are?”
He blinked up at Joaquin, who was in the middle of chewing. Something passed between them—maybe a subtle look or a nudge through the mate bond—because Alijah abruptly straightened in his seat.
He turned to me and said with newfound conviction, “Right. We are.”
While they clearly hadn’t planned this in advance, I figured Joaquin’s demands would be somewhat reasonable. Pushing me too far would only upset Alijah and thus defeat the purpose. Joaquin just wanted to make his mate feel better about my omission of the truth.
“What will it set me back?”
“Eat three lunches with us,” Joaquin said, “and play nice if we have questions.”
It sounded simple enough, though I wouldn’t put it past Joaquin to try something sneaky later.
“Deal.” I tucked a few strands of windswept hair behind my ear.
“Why—” Alijah hesitated, but his uncertainty didn’t stop him. “Why didn’t you say anything?”
If they wanted the truth, they’d get it. “Because I didn’t know where to start. It’s more complicated than you might think.”
Joaquin tilted his head to one side, sparks of curiosity gleaming in his dark eyes. “How so?”
“You’re living in what used to be my best friend’s loft. A space he custom-designed, just like mine. Because he dictated everything about Tolliver Yards. Everything . We redeveloped the building and the surrounding area. At what point was I supposed to say, ‘Cool, welcome, neighbor, you own your condo and a share of the building, but I co-own everything around it.’ Café, art gallery, grocery store, comedy club, parking lot. All of it.”
I looked between the mated pair. The surprised expression on Joaquin’s face was downright delightful to behold, but Alijah looked stricken. Not at all what I’d intended.
“I didn’t want to make things awkwardor dampen your excitement about moving in.”
Joaquin cleared his throat and shifted closer to Alijah, probably placing a comforting hand on his mate’s thigh beneath the table. “Wyatt left that part out.”
“He doesn’t know the extent of our property portfolio. Jacobi and I don’t like to advertise too much. Not everyone supports omega-owned business ventures.”
I glanced at Alijah. He was silent, his eyes slightly glazed, head bent, chin almost touching his chest. It didn’t seem like he was having an anxiety attack, but his presence felt heavier than usual. Sadder.
And I hated it.
“But,” I continued softly, desperate to reach him, to make him understand, “we have a website if you’re curious. Lists all our buildings and various holdings.”
“Text it to us?” Joaquin asked.
“Sure.” I pulled out my phone and started a new group chat with them, sending the link along with Kelsey’s contact card. “Kelsey wants to help with your housewarming. Let her know what you need.”
It took a nudge from Joaquin for Alijah to respond. But he still wouldn’t look at me, just picked at a speck of cinnamon sugar on the table. “O-okay. Thanks.”
I raised a brow at Joaquin, asking for a clue about what was happening with his mate. I don’t know why I bothered. His shit-eating grin and the flash of a canine tooth undermined the feigned innocence of his shrug.
While I wanted to have a longer conversation with Alijah, I didn’t have enough time today. And this certainly wasn’t the ideal setting.
“I need to go back to work,” I said, shifting to the side of the bench and getting back on my feet.
Joaquin wrapped an arm around Alijah’s waist, tucking his dazed mate against his side. He offered me a sly grin. “Can’t wait for our first lunch date.”
Halfway down the sidewalk, a sharp wind smacked me in the face—clearing my head of all extraneous thoughts except two cold, hard truths.
Alijah didn’t need me to worry about him. Handling emotional speedbumps was Joaquin’s job. The mate’s job.
And distractions were forbidden for the rest of the day, if not the rest of the month, I swore as I headed back inside. Especially the good-looking ones.