Healing an Alpha in Rut

Max

The rain is coming down in sheets, turning the road into a reflective sheet of glass under the streetlights as we close the doors to The Foundry behind us and hustle down the sidewalk toward Duke’s.

I pull my leather jacket tighter around my neck while the rest of the guys hold their coats over their heads, cursing myself for choosing the stylish option over a raincoat before I left my apartment this morning.

My phone buzzes against my thigh. I pull it out, the screen lighting up with a stupid photo of Kyle making an obscene gesture while eating a gigantic hotdog at a baseball game two summers ago.

“Please tell me you’re round the corner,” I say into the receiver, jamming a finger into my other ear to block out the noise of the downpour. “You still owe me a beer after I beat your ass in the ring last night.”

“Wish I was, man,” Kyle’s voice crackles on the other end, the rain clearly just as bad on whatever construction site he’s working on today.

One of his crew shouts something unintelligible in the background, and he shouts something back at them before putting the phone back to his ear.

“I’m gonna be at least another hour. We’re stuck on this roof trying to cover it with a tarp before this fucking rain floods the rafters. ”

“You’re up on a roof right now?” I frown, ducking under Dylan’s umbrella. “It’s shitting it down, Ky.”

“No shit, Sherlock,” he drawls into the phone. “I’ve got rainwater coming out my fucking ass. Just save me a seat next to you and claim a pool table. Need to even the score after last week.”

“It’ll be a cold day in hell the day you beat me at pool, dumbass,” I say, getting a disgruntled sigh in response. “Just get yourself over here in one piece, I’m not going back out into this weather to scrape your heavy ass off the pavement.”

“Relax, I’ve been on scaffolding in worse weather than this. You just worry about getting yourself a beer. See you in an hour.”

“See you, bud.”

I push open the heavy wooden door to Duke’s, the warm chatter from the bar dampening the sound of the rain pounding against the pavement outside.

I’m the first through, shaking the rainwater off myself like a dog as the rest of The Foundry crew files in after me, peeling off their coats and draping them over chairs.

“Alright, line ‘em up!” I say, my voice booming across the bar as I slap a hand down on the scratched countertop, the bartender giving me a friendly nod. “To another solid week! Best fucking boxing gym in the city, soon to be home to a bona fide undefeated regional champ.”

Cassius, the prospective champion in question, leans against the bar next to me, the wood creaking under his massive 260-pound weight. “We’ll see,” he says pensively, quiet enough that I have to strain over the hum of the bar to hear him. Always a man of few words.

Marcus, my long-suffering business partner and co-owner of The Foundry, slaps me on the back, rolling his eyes. “Give the bartender a second, Max,” he grunts, waving down the bartender while Cassius and the rest of the guys pile into our usual booth.

We squeeze in five minutes later, carrying a tray heaving with pitchers of beer and a round of shots that everyone groans about but knocks back quickly enough.

The bar is warm and buzzing, the rain-spattered windows fogged from the inside as everyone dives into the kind of rowdy banter you get when a group of amped-up alpha boxers need to decompress.

An hour slips by in a haze of cold beers and raucous laughter. My head turns every time the door swings open, expecting Kyle to swagger in looking like a drowned rat with his usual cocky smirk plastered to his face, but it’s always just another faceless stranger ducking in from the carnage outside.

I check my watch, frowning when I see how late it’s getting, and open our chat to ask him if he’s been washed away by the storm.

Before I can even type the first word, my phone vibrates in my hand, an unknown number appearing on the screen. Usually I’d decline a call from an unfamiliar number, but something about the timing sets alarm bells ringing in my head. I swipe the screen to answer.

The background chatter of the bar fades to a muffled buzz as a calm voice on the other end asks if I’m Max, and tells me she’s an ER nurse calling from the city hospital, and that I’m Kyle’s emergency contact.

Cold dread floods my system as she churns out phrases like workplace fall, severe injuries, and trauma bay, until all I can hear is the blood rushing in my ears and the line eventually goes silent.

“That was the hospital,” I say blankly to no one in particular, staring down at my phone screen, the hospital’s number staring back up at me. “Kyle had an accident at work. Fell off… something. I don’t know.”

The table goes silent. I try to move, but my legs aren’t listening.

“Shit,” Marcus breathes. “Is he okay? Max?”

“Yeah. No. I don’t—” I finally stand up, stuffing my phone in my pocket and grabbing my damp jacket, not bothering to put it on even though I can still hear the rain hammering down outside. “Sorry, guys, I have to go.”

“Go, go,” they encourage, and my feet are already carrying me toward the door and out into the rain.

I barely register running through the streets until I find a cab to hail, telling the driver to get to the hospital as quickly as possible in a voice that sounds like it’s coming out of someone else.

The roads are totally gridlocked, traffic moving at a snail’s pace as everyone in the city piles into cabs and cars to get out of the rain.

I’m nearly tearing my hair out by the time the cab drops me at the entrance to the hospital parking lot.

I dart between cars, blinded by the glare of headlights as my feet slip on the slick asphalt. I’m soaked through by the time I get to the hospital, rainwater dripping from my hair as I stride up to the main desk.

“I’m here for Kyle Felham,” I say to the omega nurse at the desk, who jumps slightly when she looks up from her computer and sees me looming over her. She moves a bundle of paperwork out of the way of my jacket sleeve, which is creating a puddle on the desk.

“Are you family?” she asks politely. “Because visiting hours are technically—”

“He was in an accident this afternoon. I’m his emergency contact,” I interject, trying not to snap but unable to keep the panic from bleeding into my voice. “The hospital called me half an hour ago, maybe more, I don’t know—I got here as quickly as I could, but the traffic—”

“Kyle Felham,” she says, clicking something on her screen and giving me a reassuring smile. “I’ve just found him on the system. Room 398. Take the elevator to the third floor and follow the signs.”

“Thank you.”

I don’t wait for the elevator. I take the stairs two at a time.

A hundred different signs are pointing me in different directions, but I finally find my way to room 398, pushing open the door so aggressively that the nurse who’s hovering in the room gives me a pointed look, pressing her fingers to her lips.

But I couldn’t give a shit, because Kyle is lying in a hospital bed in front of me with one arm in a sling and half his face scraped raw, but breathing, and the mixture of nausea and relief that washes over me is enough to have me bent double, my hands on my knees as I fight back the fire in my lungs.

Kyle’s eyes are closed, the thin hospital bedcovers pulled up to his waist. Wires are running from his wrist to a heart monitor next to the bed, a jarring beep sounding every few seconds.

“Is he okay?” I rasp when I’ve caught my breath. “Sorry about the entrance. They didn’t tell me much on the phone. I was freaking out the whole way over here. I didn’t know—”

I cut myself off, unable to finish the thought. A wave of dizziness forces me into the chair next to his bed.

“Bless your heart,” the nurse says gently, her expression softening as she smooths down the bedcovers.

“He’ll live. He had a bad fall off of some scaffolding.

The arm is broken, and his other wrist is sprained from where he tried to break his fall.

A couple of broken ribs, some pretty nasty scrapes, but no lasting damage to his spine and no concussion.

He’s on some strong painkillers, so he’s out for the count.

He’ll feel like he’s been run over by a truck in the morning, and he’s going to need some help surviving for the next few weeks, but all things considered, he got away remarkably lightly. ”

“Thank fuck,” I breathe, not taking my eyes off Kyle. “Sorry. Thank you. Thank you.”

She places a warm hand on my shoulder. “I’ll leave you to it. He’s maxed out on morphine, but he’ll be able to press the button for more in a couple of hours.”

It’s quiet when she leaves the room. The lighting in here is white and sterile, and I get an overwhelming craving to be back in the warmth of Duke’s, or in the safety of my apartment with Kyle eating all my food in the background, without his arm in a sling or a gash in his cheek.

I run my fingers through my hair, letting out a shaky breath and instinctively searching for Kyle’s scent through the sterile smell of antiseptic. I rest a hand on his knee over the blanket, just to reassure myself that he’s actually all there.

Eventually I drop off in the chair, falling into a disturbed, uncomfortable half-sleep. I wake up, disoriented and dry-mouthed, to the sound of Kyle groaning.

“Hhrrmph. Fuck. Oh, god.”

Gray light is filtering through the wide hospital windows, and it takes me several seconds to remember where I am. Kyle instinctively tries to push himself up using his hands, recoiling in pain as his body makes it clear that’s not going to be possible for a while. I jerk upright.

“Hey, hey, slow down,” I say. “The nurse said you can push the button for more morphine.”

Kyle blinks at me groggily. “How am I meant to push the fucking button, Einstein?”