Thirty-Seven – Morgan
Thirty-Seven
Morgan
M y home office was usually a calm haven of quiet productivity—but not tonight. I sat at my desk, enduring a full-blown inquisition about all things Cal. Jacobi and Grace were out for their pound of gossipy flesh.
“I knew it—knew it all along—I just knew the pheromone stud was right for you,” Jacobi declared, pointing at the camera between sips of wine. “You may applaud my brilliance because—”
I muted him. Twenty minutes of his braggadocious nonsense was more than enough.
Jacobi gesticulated wildly, indulging in a silent tirade as he tried to unmute himself.
On the other half of the screen, Grace peered at me from within the cozy confines of her nest, bundled up to her ears in a fluffy purple duvet.
“What’s it like?” she asked, voice humming with curiosity. “Experiencing someone’s pheromones after so long.”
Tracing the edge of the spacebar on my keyboard, I searched for the right words—while willing myself not to dwell on last night.
How I’d licked said pheromones off Cal’s sweaty chest during another thorough fingering session in my bed. Or how I’d woken him up with a well-received hand job that could have led to something even more enjoyable if we hadn’t needed to drive to campus separately for early meetings.
“It’s…nice.” The hitch in my voice and the heat blossoming on my ch eeks gave away more than I intended.
“Ooh, nice is good. I like nice,” Grace said, rocking back and forth in her comfortable cocoon. “You deserve nice.”
Jacobi rolled his eyes and typed into the chat window: Nice girls don’t mute their friends.
“Well, I’m not a nice girl,” I shot back. “And it’s my account—so, sucks to be you.”
Grace nodded in agreement. “Damn straight. And it’s her table at the fall gala, too—so stop whining about not going.”
Jacobi’s nostrils flared, and he cracked his knuckles, warming up for a profanity-laden chat rant, which I superseded by returning his speaking privileges.
“You know I’d take you,” I said, “ if you were in town. But you’re not.”
“You didn’t even ask!” he spluttered. “And you know how much I love the fall gala. It’s my thing with Kels. Who’s she going to coordinate her outfit with if I’m not there?”
“Then you should have reserved a table first. Or, I don’t know, not moved to the other side of the country like an idiot.” Grace’s teasing hovered just shy of sounding pointed. She had a harder time respecting Jacobi’s decision to uproot his life for Hugo than I did. “And don’t drag Kelsey into this.”
Jacobi let out a melodramatic huff, fluttering his dense curtain of bangs. “Why not? Morgan’s dragging her— and Rory and Piper—along on a not-so-secret group date.”
“It’s not a date,” I said.
My two friends froze, exchanging wide-eyed glances before bursting into laughter.
“Oh, I like this Joaquin guy,” Grace said, her face flushed pink with delight. “He’s got your number.”
“ All her numbers,” Jacobi added with a smirk.
Great. If I couldn’t convince these two that the gala wasn’t romantic entrapment, how was I supposed to convince my siblings—or the university administration, for that matter?
“I didn’t realize you had such a weakness for cinnamon roll betas,” Jacobi quipped, refilling his wine.
Grace succumbed to another fit of hearty giggles, leaning sideways against a mound of pillows. “Why the hell are you surprised? He’s pretty. That’s, like, your number one requirement.”
“It’s his only requirement,” I snarked.
“Hey!” Jacobi protested. “Aesthetics are important.”
Grace rolled her eyes. “Fine—I’ll revise my earlier statement.” Her mischievous gaze darted in my direction. “You deserve fancy dates with very nice, aesthetically pleasing men who conveniently live across the hall.”
“I second the motion!” Wine sloshed precariously in Jacobi’s glass as he saluted the camera with exaggerated flair. “But—” He paused, suddenly serious, and sat up straighter. “Is there still a moratorium on blue eyes?”
“Excellent question.” Grace leaned forward, nearly pressing her nose against her phone screen. “Is there?”
They both stared at me, their expectant silence weighing heavily on my chest. Once again, I didn’t know how to respond.
Things with Wyatt were complicated. Too complicated. He was the easiest temptation to ignore, a habit ingrained over time, but his presence still cut the deepest. If I had my way, his name wouldn’t be on the attendee list.
“Don’t lose sight of the bigger picture, guys.” My clipped tone punctured their inflated hopes for my love life. “I work with him—with most of them. It’s not happening.”
“Why not?” Jacobi pressed, raising an eyebrow. “Subterfuge is sexy.”
Grace nodded, inching closer to the camera, her sparkling eyes practically filling the screen. “Very sexy—and don’t even try to deny it.”
“It doesn’t matter. I can’t date them without it tanking my fellowship.”
“Is that what your pheromone stud’s doing?” Jacobi asked with a knowing sneer. “Tanking your fellowship with his discreet and thoughtful behavior?”
“No, but…”
I wanted to say Cal was different. He was steady, capable of weathering the storms of my mercurial temper. Always attuned to our surroundings. I could trust him to keep his smiles at a collegial wattage and his behavior grounded—no surprise takeout barbecue or undressing me with his eyes, unlike a particular mated pair I could name.
Someday, I’d be able to read Cal like a book. But Owen? He was a human puzzle wrapped in layers of razor-sharp judgment. Impossible to predict. And I wasn’t sure I even wanted to try.
And I remembered everything about Cal. Every conversation, every look, every thrill.
Wyatt was a different story. How could we rebuild our prior degree of trust when I didn’t know what I’d said to destroy it in the first place?
“Face it, Morgan.” Jacobi tried his best to appear sympathetic despite the smug set of his mouth. “It’s a date—whether you like it or not.”
** *
The word date flashed through my mind whenever I bumped into Wyatt or Owen in the elevator. It flickered softly when Alijah peered into my exam room with a tenuous smile. And it blared like neon red warning lights when Joaquin slunk through the front door, helping Kelsey carry in a load of groceries.
No, the fall gala wasn’t a date. It couldn’t be.
I made this decision while sitting beside Cal on his surprisingly comfortable couch. He idly rubbed my feet while watching the Narwhals dominate their away game on his giant television. The soothing rhythm of his touch made it impossible to focus on my emails.
The gala was an event—and a considerable risk.
Dates were low-stakes affairs, marked by throw pillows and takeout, even if they came with stark white walls and a lack of window dressing.
And yet, the word continued to burrow deeper into my mind throughout the week, until it’d eaten at me so much that sleep became elusive Thursday night.
Rather than toss and turn, I curled up in my library nest, surrounded by my dragon’s hoard of soft furnishings, and basked in the firelight.
I was trying to finish my weekly clinical observation report. Trying and failing.
My attention kept drifting to my work inbox, where Owen was methodically replying to his backlog of emails. First, he offered feedback on a slide Cal approved three days ago. Then, he verified a figure Talia had already double-checked. Meaning he was choosing to ignore my urgent email from this morning.
Had they performed quality assurance testing on the PheroPass sensors or not?
The more I examined the data, the more pheromone spikes I found—an alarming discovery, no matter the cause. If the sensors were faulty, it was a fixable oversight, though it would cast doubt on the validity of the data. But if they weren’t… It meant someone was deliberately targeting players. A much more significant and pressing problem.
Shooting daggers through the wall toward the former omega suite in unit 602, where Owen was holed up at this very moment, typing away, I willed him to respond to my question.
Come on, come on .
A new email notification popped up…and it was copious feedback on the latest vibration therapy proposal. Fabulous. Almost timely. But it wasn’t what I needed.
Grabbing my phone, I fired off a brief text, unconcerned about the late hour.
Sensor QA—yes or no?
But still, no response.
“Asshole,” I muttered, punching a nearby pillow in frustration. Slumping down, I stared at the ceiling, weighing my options.
Either I submitted the report with a footnote stating that more information from Redwing was required to determine if the spikes were a fluke, or I could take action. The answer was obvious.
And that’s why Owen opened his front door Friday morning to find me waiting in the hallway.
“You owe me a reply.”
“Do I?” Owen stood in the doorway, as impeccable as ever, wearing a gray suit beneath his black overcoat, a travel mug in hand. Clean-shaven, without a single hair out of place, and glasses gleaming as though freshly polished. A sleek and annoyingly perfect package of professional arrogance.
“PheroPass quality assurance testing. I need it for my weekly report.”
“It won’t make a difference.”
He moved toward the elevator with measured, deliberate steps, his voice carrying that familiar blend of condescension and indifference that rubbed the PheroPass executives the wrong way. And me too, I realized, fingernails digging into my palms.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“If the coaching staff hasn’t taken action by now,” he said, pressing the call button, “then the university isn’t planning to address the issue.”
“And you’re okay with that?” I stepped into his path, tilting my chin up to meet his gaze.
The cold, steely gaze of a dominant alpha.
Every hair on my body stood on end. The air turned frigid—its sharp edge scraping against my skin, testing my resolve. Trying to reduce my autonomy into a fragile, ice-coated twig. So easy for him to snap.
A tremor ran through the right side of my neck, instinct urging me to bend to his will, to expose my throat in submission.
That would mean acknowledging Owen as an alpha with influence over me .
Fuck that.
It took every ounce of strength I had to hold my ground. I refused to look away or step back—to so much as flinch—even as his gaze turned into molten quicksilver, stealing the breath from my lungs.
I was right. He had to see that I was right. We had to push the university to investigate the pheromone spikes before someone got hurt.
Broken bones and other injuries were very real possibilities—but if an enraged alpha targeted an omega player, like Landon or Amir, they could be claimed against their will.
We had to do everything in our power to protect the student-athletes.
The elevator arrived with a cheery ding that only amplified the suffocating pressure.
“My,” Owen murmured, stepping closer. His head dipped as he brushed past me, his voice grazing my ear like a sharp blade. “Aren’t you eager.”
He pressed the garage button and adjusted the already symmetrical knot of his tie.
“Don’t worry,” he said. “You’ll get what you asked for.”
The door slid shut, severing the tension and leaving me slumped against the wall, gasping for air.
How could I have been so stupid as to challenge a dominant alpha head-on? Just because Cal never directed his dominance at me didn’t mean Owen would follow suit.
As my knees finally steadied enough to hold my weight, the door to 602 swung open. Alijah stepped out, tugging along a somnolent Joaquin, with Wyatt trailing behind, freshly showered and wearing his customary basketball shorts.
“Oh, hi! We’re going out for coffee. Want to—” Alijah’s cheerful voice faltered as his gaze darted past me to the elevator. His face crumpled, almost falling backward into Joaquin’s embrace. “Owen fought with you?”
Joaquin, now alert and dialed in, took a deep breath. His alpha senses deciphered far more clues from Owen’s lingering pheromones than his mate.
“Nah,” he said, raspy voice calm as he rubbed the back of Alijah’s neck. “Doc pissed him off, but he caved at the end.”
“What an asshole,” Wyatt muttered.
His coat strained to contain his tense muscles, and his clenched fists twitched at his sides. Icy blue eyes flicked toward the staircase. I was afraid he was about to chase Owen down and punch him square in the face .
“It—” Was my fault, nothing to worry about, just a near catastrophe because I’d gotten too used to my alpha boyfriend’s mellow brand of dominance?
Wait—did I even have a boyfriend? Not officially. Did I?
God, why was I such a mess?
“It was just a work thing. Nothing major,” I said, forcing an unsteady hand through my hair.
“Really?” Joaquin asked.
“Yeah.” Mustering what I hoped was a reassuring smile for Alijah’s sake, struggling against a face that felt like a mask of wet clay, muscle fibers too heavy and slippery all at once, I said, “Let me grab my coat.”
***
“Um.” Piper stared at the box of paperwork I’d just set on the dining room table, her eyebrow arched skeptically. “Did Beaufeather’s start a side business selling term papers?”
“No, it’s payback.” I began sorting through the reports Owen’s assistant had dropped off at the front desk, fulfilling Owen’s promise from our terse confrontation by elevator this morning.
Even a cursory glance showed that Redwing’s quality assurance testing had been both thoughtful and thorough, accounting for a wide range of variables.
Piper sauntered over and placed her hand on my forehead, her expression one of exaggerated concern.
“No fever. Just crazy.” She pulled back before I could retaliate, her mocking leer at odds with her graceful movements. “Incurable but not terminal.”
“That’s a relief,” Kelsey said, joining in on the teasing as she stepped out of the powder room in a burgundy velvet A-line dress.
“Ooh, that’s pretty,” Piper said, twirling her finger in the air, signaling Kelsey to spin. She admired the flared skirt with a critical eye. “But I’m not sure it’s the winner. Next!”
Kelsey begrudgingly returned to the bathroom to change.
Piper plopped down beside me, sliding her phone across the summary I’d been reading. On the screen was a picture of an elegant pink birthday cake adorned with pastel buttercream flowers, glittering butterflies, and gilded macaroons. Very Jenna.
“This is what you paid for, by the way,” Piper said with an air of forced casualness. “We’ll say it’s from me.”
Our youngest sister didn’t ask for much. She never had. But over a year ago, she made a special request: for our parents and siblings to join her in Tacoma for a long weekend to celebrate her twenty-first birthday. Every Van Daal in our parental pack was making the trip—except for Piper, due to dress rehearsals for her role as the Sugar Plum Fairy in The Nutcracker.
And me.
The invitation didn’t include me in the first place. Why would it?
Even so, I’d paid for her cake, and Kelsey would slip a craft store gift card into the present pile on my behalf. Jenna would assume it came from our parents, like every other birthday since my accident.
“Thanks for the update,” I said, pretending to focus on an error log.
Next weekend was already Jenna’s birthday. Where had November gone?
Kelsey soon returned wearing a vintage confection of seafoam green tulle. The dress floated around her like a cloud, its long, voluminous sheer sleeves and sweetheart neckline showing off the right amount of skin. She caught my eye, and I gave her a nod of approval—not that she needed it.
She knew what worked for her body and was selective about what made it into her wardrobe.
Piper darted over, practically vibrating with excitement as she danced around Kelsey.
“Oh, I love it. That’s the one—you’re wearing that tomorrow.” She snagged Kelsey by the wrist, grin turning maniacal. “Come on, time for hair and makeup. I want to take a bunch of pictures. Let’s make Jacobi seethe with envy.”
“He won’t care,” Kelsey said, gently pulling her hand back with a bemused smile. “Besides, we still need to figure out what Morgan’s wearing.”
“Pfft,” Piper scoffed, looking down her nose at me. “She’ll throw on one of her two black cocktail dresses and call it a night.”
Offering a sarcastic smile, I began returning papers to the box. “How well you know me.”
“Because you’re boring.”
“I prefer to be called a minimalist,” I said, hefting the box and heading for my suite.
“Which, as we’ve already established,” Piper called after me, “is boring .”
“So, sue me. ”
“Maybe I will!”
Kelsey rolled her eyes, already unzipping her dress as she padded toward the powder room. “Will you two shut up if I make nachos for dinner?”
The answer came in the form of deafening silence.
Good, I thought, dropping the box on my desk. Kelsey’s spicy black bean nachos were my favorite. A fitting last meal, considering I probably wouldn’t be able to eat anything during my complicated not-date.
Not because of nerves—but because tomorrow was the start of my second suppressant dosage reduction.