Forty-One – Morgan
Forty-One
Morgan
W hile I didn’t vomit my guts out Thursday morning, the day could hardly be classified as an improvement. Not when I bumped into Owen first thing, looking well-pressed and razor-sharp, waiting for the elevator with his travel mug of coffee.
“Morning,” I said, because my autopilot was polite to a fault.
His flinty gaze swept over me—pallid skin, sunken eyes, and the cold sweat clinging to my hairline.
“I thought I made it clear on Monday,” he said, taking a slow, judgmental sip of coffee. “You’re not well.”
“Tell that to my schedule,” I huffed as the elevator doors opened. I cut in front of him, not bothering to hold the door.
Owen followed at my heels. “Sick leave exists for a reason.”
“I know my limits,” I said, jabbing the garage button.
“You do?” he asked, arching an imperious brow. “Doubtful.”
I wanted to snap back, but I had no energy to spare. Even my ever-present anger was nothing but embers.
Running on fumes, I pushed through a brutal orthopedic trauma rotation, only to have every appointment at the sports medicine clinic run long. Which meant I missed my pain med top-up at noon and skipped lunch.
Not that I had anything to eat in the first place. I’d forgotten to grab one of Kelsey’s pre-packed lunches from the fridge on my way out the door—again. If Kelsey found out I’d missed lunch two days in a row, she might drown me in a vat of Oma’s split pea soup when she got back. Literally drown me.
At the appointed time, I dragged myself to Dr. Sethi’s office for a prolonged lecture on the importance of timely paperwork submission, which I accepted in respectful silence.
“The university guidelines are crystal clear. You should have submitted this at least two months ago,” she said, pointing to my heat leave request on her desk.
The blotter matched the rest of her decor, a dizzying bouquet of vibrant florals so saturated they almost felt radioactive. The busy patterns, combined with the glare of the afternoon sun, assaulted me.
But I refused to wince. I couldn’t afford to show any signs of weakness.
“You were very lucky this time. This wouldn’t have gotten approved if Gilbert hadn’t vouched for you.” She pressed her frosted pink lips together and studied me. Judged me. Found me wanting. “Your lack of foresight is quite disappointing.”
Her demeanor was harsher than usual and disproportionate to my offense. Had Heather said something about the ballet gala? Or did she suspect that Cal and I were together?
“I apologize for the oversight, Dr. Sethi. It won’t happen again,” I said, injecting as much sincerity into my voice as I could muster.
“Oh?” She tapped her manicured finger against the paper. “Then why did you only request one leave?”
Apprehension pricked at my scalp. “It’s what my designation counselor and I decided would be best for now, given my situation.”
“Yes, I’m aware of your extenuating circumstances. But your fellowship agreement doesn’t permit two to four heat leaves as a suggestion.” Dr. Sethi’s pen slashed across the approval line with practiced precision. “Schedule a second heat for the spring—and do so promptly . Understood?”
I focused on taking steady breaths, ignoring my screaming omega, who was convinced that Dr. Sethi knew everything . That Cal was my boyfriend, that we’d been intimate, and that he was planning to be an integral part of my upcoming, but still very unwelcome, heat.
But I didn’t panic. Civility was the best course of action.
“Yes, Dr. Sethi. I understand.”
She slid the paperwork toward me with a dismissive flick as if shooing away a distasteful pest. I slipped the form into the front pocket of my work bag.
“I’m amenable to accommodations—not exceptions,” Dr. Sethi said, leaning back in her chair, twisting the largest of her diamond mating rings. “Don’t leave openings, Morgan. You never know who might take advantage of them.”
***
As I zoned out in front of the vending machines, debating whether veggie chips or pretzels would be less bothersome to vomit up later, Joaquin and Alijah came down the hall. They were heading for the staff breakroom, hand in hand, whispering happily, with Joaquin carrying a bag of takeout.
For once, I was glad I couldn’t smell the food. It might have made me sick on the spot.
Joaquin spotted me first, sending a silent message through their bond that made Alijah’s face light up. He turned, dark eyes sparkling as he took me in, his smile growing broader the closer he came, his entire being so bright and vibrant that pain ricocheted through my skull.
I had to look away.
“Hey,” he said, stepping into my personal space, still smiling, still so happy—just as Coach Garvey and a few of his minions turned the corner. “Do you have time this weekend? I thought maybe we could go—”
“I’m working.” My blunt, unyielding tone shouldn’t have come as a surprise—I wasn’t a warm person—but it devastated Alijah. His mouth went slack, and his eyes lost their luster.
I hated this. The entire situation. Having to be detached and professional all the fucking time. Hurting Alijah—even though I’d tried to make it perfectly clear why we couldn’t get any closer.
Joaquin looked at the approaching alphas. Understanding hardened the lines of his face, muscles taut, keeping his dominance on a tight leash. He placed a protective hand on Alijah’s shoulder, just above his bond mark.
“Come on, babe. Let’s go.”
“But—”
Joaquin’s grip tightened, sending a warning pulse through their bond that made Alijah flinch. His panicked eyes darted over my shoulder, alarm turning into a scowl as they landed on Garvey.
“See,” one of Garvey’s minions snickered, pressing the button for a sports drink. “She’s walking around, being a tease, but you’re the one who got in trouble.”
Anger contorted Alijah’s face. He opened his mouth, intending to defend me, but Joaquin and I acted first.
“Leave,” I hissed. The last thing I wanted was for the Garvey squad to start targeting Alijah.
Joaquin pulled his mate to safety—away from me—but not before leaning down to whisper, “You look like shit, doc.”
I stood frozen, perfectly neutral, in complete control. Breathing in and out at regular intervals. Heart beating. Nerves firing. Internally screaming. Totally fine.
“Wonder if they’ve gotten a dose of her bedside manner,” one of Garvey’s minions said with a crass laugh.
“Just hope it’s an improvement over her medical skills,” Garvey sniggered. “Fucked Hartsen’s hand right up.”
The other minion tore into a bag of chips, yapping with his mouth full. “Yeah—but at least she’s got nice tits.”
With hands that felt detached from my body, I swiped my credit card without so much as a single tremor and purchased a protein bar. Folding my knees, I dropped down to collect it—purposefully denying Garvey and his crew a good look at my ass.
I wasn’t here for their amusement or consumption.
“Nah, not hot enough to claim her,” Garvey said. “Besides, something’s wrong with her brain.”
And I most definitely wasn’t here to be discriminated against.
Turning, I removed my glasses—and unleashed my omega, in all her venomous glory, a Gorgon with an eternal grudge, who reduced three full-grown alphas to stone.
Garvey’s lips pulled back, baring his teeth. One minion choked on his chips as if the air had turned rancid, while the other clutched the vending machine for support, staring at me with wide, glassy eyes. Their reactions puzzled me, but I refused to waver.
“Yes, suffering a TBI impacted my life in all sorts of ways,” I said slowly, wiping my glasses on the hem of my shirt. “And yet, your cognitive abilities are the ones that are so impaired you think it’s acceptable to mock my disability and sexually harass an omega in public—with a witness.”
I nodded toward the breakroom, where Joaquin leaned against the doorway. His posture was casual, but his feral sneer promised retribution—as did the phone in his hand, recording every second of the encounter.
“Whoa, whoa, take it easy, sweetie.” Garvey held his hands up in a misguided attempt to placate me. As if my reaction was somehow unwarranted. “It was just a jo— ”
“No, it wasn’t a joke,” I cut in sharply, sliding my glasses back into place. “It was strike one.”
I gave them each a pointed glare in turn.
“I am not here for you. I do not want to talk to you. And unless one of your players requires my services as a physician, do not approach me. Understood?”
They nodded, giving Joaquin a wide berth as they retreated down the hall, back toward their offices.
Ignoring Joaquin’s probing gaze, unusually heated and tinged with predatory intent, I returned to the medical center. Despite my outward calm, I was so drained and lightheaded that I could barely walk straight. My internal monologue contained nothing but expletives.
Before I could take a single bite of the protein bar, a thunderous Dr. McEwen charged through the door.
Had Garvey complained about what I said?
“Van Daal, Parsha—conference room,” he ordered, then marched off.
Bolstered by a jolt of adrenaline, I grabbed my laptop and hurried after him.
“What’s this about?” Reyhan asked as we rushed down the hall.
“No idea.” At least I wasn’t getting fired. Yet.
Dr. McEwen projected the player injury list on the conference room wall monitor. Tyler’s name was still there—along with a startling number of new additions.
“Half the starting defensive line is out,” Dr. McEwen said, highlighting their names. “And except for Amir’s sprained ankle, all the injuries were incurred after the last game.”
That was the equivalent of a starting player getting benched every day this week. Reyhan and I exchanged worried glances. What the hell was going on?
“This isn’t normal,” Dr. McEwen said. “So, explain it to me.
Reyhan’s professional pride got the better of him. “We didn’t—”
“Not pointing fingers, Parsha. I’m asking for your opinion as a medical professional.”
Reyhan tried his best, offering a few muddled theories. Maybe the defensive coaches pushed the players too hard, or the team wasn’t doing enough stretches. Nothing that made sense.
Meanwhile, I opened my laptop and pulled up the pheromone exposure record for the injured players.
It was what I suspected. Except for Amir, each player encountered a pheromone bomb just before getting injured .
“Van Daal?” Dr. McEwen prompted, shifting his focus to me.
I needed to tread carefully. Not only was I bound by an NDA, but I wasn’t authorized to disclose PheroPass data to third parties.
“You should talk to Cal.”
Dr. McEwen let out a dubious huff. “What’s Carling got to do with this?”
I changed my approach slightly. “There’s data I’m not authorized to use in a clinical setting for diagnostic purposes, but…”
“Spit it out, Van Daal.” It wasn’t a bark—but it was damn close.
Reyhan shifted lower in his chair, his head bowed in submission, with his eyes fixed firmly on the floor. I was less affected—a surprising bonus of frequent exposure to Cal’s friendly yet firm brand of dominance.
But that didn’t make me immune.
“This cannot leave the room,” I said, emphasizing each word. “But there’s reason to suspect someone is subjecting the defensive players to pheromone intimidation. I reported it to Redwing a few weeks ago.”
My words sucked all the air out of the room. Reyhan went slack, his mouth hanging open as he stared at me in disbelief. As a beta, pheromone intimidation was more of a foreign concept than for alphas or omegas, but it was still something to fear.
Darkness swarmed Dr. McEwen’s face. “Did Redwing report it to the coaching staff?”
“Yes,” I said reluctantly, “they did.”
Dr. McEwen fought to contain his frustration, knocking his palm against the table. “Set up a meeting with Carling. I want to talk to him myself.”
“On it.” I pulled out my phone, nearly dropping it as I composed a typo-laden email to Cal, ignoring the foreboding tingles in my legs and the tightness winding through my gut.
What a shitshow—but the day wasn’t over yet. I still had a women’s basketball game to get through.
***
After finding a spot in the far corner of the Rhine Fieldhouse parking lot, I took a few minutes to wolf down the protein bar—and made the mistake of checking my personal email.
The first message was a polite rejection from a hospital upstate. No big deal. They hadn’t even invited me for an interview .
But the second email was harder to swallow. A rejection from Ballantyne University.
It’s okay, I told myself. It’s just part of the job-hunting process. Besides, this saves me the hassle of turning them down. Even before Cal entered the picture, I never wanted to move to Minnesota.
However, the Northport metro area didn’t have many openings that were a good fit for my background and designation, let alone the health accommodations my condition required. Most of the local hospitals didn’t offer much in the way of sports medicine. Even the children’s hospital hadn’t posted a suitable position in months.
Despite Dr. Flemming’s hints, I doubted the university would interview me for the sports medicine clinic opening. Even if they did, there was no way they’d make me an offer. Not when I was competing with hundreds of other candidates with years of experience under their belt. Healthy candidates. If they did opt for a medical fellow, Reyhan, the reliable beta, would be the obvious choice.
What if I couldn’t find a job?
No. I would find a sports physician position at a reputable organization. Nothing less would be acceptable—not after slogging through ten grueling years of medical school, residency, and this fellowship. After everything I’d put Kelsey and the rest of my family through, there had to be a tangible result. To prove how far I’d come. That I’d recovered.
But—had I?
My pulse raced, its rhythm at odds with my pounding head. A fresh wave of nausea hit, knocking the wind out of me, flooding my mouth with bitterness. I leaned against the steering wheel, fighting the urge to dry-heave as I grappled with the possibility of abject failure.
Focus, I told myself, focus on what you can control. Right now, that means being a conscientious doctor during the basketball game. Then go home early. Text Kelsey and Cal that you’re okay. Pass out until tomorrow. It’ll all work out somehow—so long as I maintain control.
Five things. Start by looking for five things.
A dorm room across the parking lot still had Halloween decorations in the window. Two girls shuffled toward the Rhine Fieldhouse wearing matching narwhal onesies and carrying shiny green pompoms. A television reporter touched up her lipstick while she walked, using her phone camera as a mirror. The sun was about todip into my line of sight, reminding me to swap out my sunglasses.
And Wyatt’s car was parked across from me.
My bottle of pain meds opened on the fourth try. Everything was fine.