16. Tori
I’m in the tunnels when Oliver takes that insane check, and it’s all I can do not to run out onto the ice with the medical team. My heart beats a thousand times a second, and I’m not sure if I’m doing a good job of hiding my emotions. I’m just lucky no one is looking at me, or I’m sure they would see the tears burning the edges of my eyes and the trembling of my hands as I struggle to breathe. When they wheel the stretcher past me toward the exam rooms, I press myself flat against the wall, willing my feet to remain still.
It occurs to me that this is one of the many reasons I swore off dating hockey players. This is a dangerous sport, and injuries are par for the course. But knowing that doesn’t make the anxiety go away. Or the desire to attach myself to the stretcher and refuse to let go.
After play resumes, I lose my restraint. My heels click loudly on the concrete as I power walk toward the exam room, voices growing louder with each step. I pass one of the assistant athletic trainers as he heads back to the bench, his face grim. Fuck. By the time I hit the carpet in the medical hall, my steps are more like a slow jog. When I see the closed door, a buzzing fills my ears, and I come to a halt just a few paces away. I can’t go in there yet, so I settle on the next best thing: leaning on the wall opposite the door.
I haven’t felt this sort of anxiety since before I was put on meds six years ago. The kind that makes my vision tunnel, my heartbeat like a war drum, and freezes my veins until I’m covered in a cold sweat. And the only thing I can think about is how much of a bitch I’ve been to him over the last forty-eight hours.
I wanted to forgive him, to give him a chance to better explain himself and maybe address some of the lingering concerns I have about forming a pack. I was going to go over to their place later this week, after they got back from their short road trip, when they had a day off for us to really hash out what the hell we’re doing together. But now…
The logical part of me knows he’s not dead. They wouldn’t have gone into an exam room if his injuries were that serious. They would have rushed him to the standby ambulance and taken him to the hospital. But the part of me I recognize as my omega nature is climbing the metaphorical walls, screeching and howling to go to him. That he won’t be okay unless I’m there to ensure he’s getting the best care.
But I can’t.
Because, at best, I’m just a concerned friend. At worst, I’m a co-worker who should only have a professional interest in his condition, as it relates to my job of getting team news to the public.
And I’m the only one to blame for things being the way they are. Because I’ve been so busy looking at all the ways being in a public relationship could harm me that I hadn’t stopped to consider the benefits.
I wouldn’t be trapped outside the room while my boys are being treated. I wouldn’t have to look over my shoulder every time Oli and I share a meal in public, hyper-alert for anyone with a smartphone recognizing us and snapping a picture. I wouldn’t have to park three blocks away from their house any time I drive myself over, on the off chance someone might recognize my car in their driveway. I could wear their jerseys and cheer as loud as I’m always dying to when they score goals.
But I’ve worked so hard to get to where I am in this field. Very few women, and even fewer omegas, have positions like mine within sports organizations. They’re usually corralled into shallow, relatively unserious positions, like being a pretty face on the jumbotron during breaks in the game or something else behind the scenes, where they may interact with the team, but never with the public. And I’ve had to fight against all the assumptions people have made about me for most of my life, because of where I’ve come from and who my dad is. Would agreeing to form a pack undermine the work I’ve done to prove I’m more than a nepo baby omega with a chip on her shoulder?
It seems like an eternity before another athletic trainer slips out of the room, my irritation flaring hot in my chest when he doesn’t open the door wide enough for me to see inside. Catching my eye, he sighs.
“You can post that he’s not going to rejoin the game. We’ve already told Coach,” the beta says, more than a little dismissive.
I narrow my eyes, about to chew him out for assuming I’m here just for content. But I stop myself, a chill coming over my body as I realize that can be the only reason he thinks I’m here. I’m just the social media manager for the New Orleans Mystic. I’m not Oliver’s partner, or pack mate, or bond mate.
“What are we saying is the reason? Upper body?” I rasp, head swimming.
The beta nods, thankfully walking off without saying anything else. As I make the post to the team’s accounts, my fingers seem disconnected from me. My stomach’s like a hollow void, pulling all the warmth from my limbs until I’m trembling. I hug my torso, rubbing my arms. Something in me writhes, my omega nature at war with reality and losing. But this is how it has to be, isn’t it?
No! It doesn’t have to be this way! my instincts wail once more, and it’s hard to argue with them. I have another option. I just have to be brave enough to take the chance.
The door to Oli’s room opens, interrupting my thoughts. Derrick, the head athletic trainer, steps out, not quite closing the door behind him. He sighs, but then jumps as he realizes that I’m standing there.
“Oh, hey, Tori. What’s going on?” he asks, slipping on an affable grin.
“Just wondering how Ace is doing,” I say, glad my voice isn’t as shaking as much as the rest of me.
Derrick sucks his teeth and lets out a heavy exhale. “I won’t lie. It’s not great. He’s out on concussion protocol, for sure, as we found him knocked out on the ice. With everything else, we won’t know more until we get him in for an MRI, but he’s tweaked something in his shoulder, maybe his back, too.”
Setting my face into something I hope looks like professional concern, I swallow my whine. I’ve been around hockey players my whole life, and I’ve seen or heard of more injuries than I care to count. Shoulder injuries aren’t terrible, usually only calling for eight or so weeks off to rehab it, but that’s if there aren’t any torn muscles or ligaments. Back injuries are the dark horse. He could be on the ice in a month, or he could be out for the rest of the season if he needs surgery.
Derrick takes my silence as permission to head back, leaving me with increasingly panicked thoughts. I need to see him, and it’s getting harder and harder to stay still. I’m weighing the risk versus reward of it all, but then the scent of overly sweet raspberries and harsh spices hits my nose and my instincts go nuts. The door is still slightly open, and after a quick glance around the hall, I move.
I find Oli still on the stretcher, his shoulder pads completely unlaced and scattered across the floor. His jersey is cut up the front and across the shoulders, leaving his bare chest exposed and making room for the neck brace. There’s a strap across his hips, the others dangling to either side of the stretcher.
“Tori?”
Oli’s voice is soft, a barely-there whisper, but it sends an electric shock up my spine. I scurry over to the head of the stretcher, leaning over him so he can see my face without moving. His cheeks are squished by the brace, and there’s a rapidly swelling lump on his forehead. But his amber eyes are open and scanning my face.
“You came,” he mutters, his words slightly distorted.
Brow furrowed, I reach up as he opens his mouth as wide as he can. As I suspected, he’s still got his mouth guard in. Without an ounce of hesitation, I remove the rubber piece and set it on the counter behind us. He lets out a breath of relief.
“ Merci, ma reine ,” he says, and I shiver at the nickname.
I nod, not trusting my voice right now. Tears burn the backs of my eyes again, and I’m doing everything I can to prevent them from falling.
“Don’t worry about me, princess,” he says gently.
I roll my eyes and shoot him a half-glare. Like I could stop worrying if I tried. He chuckles, then tries to shift, but stops with a gasp. My hands hover over his bare chest, trying to find what’s hurting.
“I’m okay. Backboards aren’t exactly built for comfort, though,” Oli says with another laugh.
“I can’t believe you’re cracking jokes at a time like this,” I grumble, my lower lip trembling.
“Hey…” His hand closes around mine at his side.
I look up at his face again, softening as I see the lines of concern on his forehead. Reaching up with my free hand, I brush a fingertip across them, smoothing them away with light caresses. He purrs softly, squeezing our joined hands. I smile and brush a damp strand of hair away from his eyes. But when he looks back at me, there’s a serious glint to his gaze that has me swallowing hard again.
“I’m sorry about the other day. I shouldn’t — What I said was out of line and not at all how I feel about you. I want this”—he squeezes my hand for emphasis— “but only when you’re ready. I don’t care how long it takes, but I won’t be going anywhere. You have this for however long you want it.”
He brings our joined hands up to rest over his heart, and I have to blink tears away as I try to sort through the thicket of emotions in my chest. Seeing him like this hurts more than I expected, but I realize that not being able to by his side was true agony.
But what happens next time? my instincts demand. What happens when it’s something more serious, and you have to watch as other people make decisions about the health of your alphas without you?
I grit my teeth as the thoughts occur to me, a flare of something hot and painful filling my chest. A flame that incinerates the last of my hesitations.
“I accept your offer, Oliver Astrauckas,” I say, voice strong for the first time since he came off the ice.
He gives me a quizzical look, and I smile, leaning down to kiss his forehead. “We’re going to be a pack,” I whisper as my lips brush over his skin.
I pull back just enough to see his delighted eyes, a smile pulling up my cheeks. He opens his mouth to speak, but then the door slams open, making me jump about a foot high before I whip around to face the sound. All the warmth that’d returned to my limbs disappears in a nanosecond as I find Logan glaring daggers at us. I look down, my stomach dropping as I become aware that my fingers are still intertwined with Oli’s.
For a moment, the world shatters around me. He knows. There’s no denying what he’s seen. It’s over. I’m done. My career is over. I’ll be lucky if I ever see the boys ever again. But then, as Spencer and Eli come barreling through the door, and I step out of the way to let them get a good look at their linemate, Logan approaches my side. His apple cider scent, usually so delicious and thrilling, tastes like poison on my tongue. I brace myself for the worst, closing my eyes as he leans down to whisper in my ear.
“Can you come to my office tomorrow morning, two hours before practice? We’ve got a lot to talk about.”
I nod, my body reacting to his sheer dominance almost against my will.
“Good girl. Now go back to your box before someone less understanding finds you here,” he practically purrs.
My heart clenches in fear as my stomach rolls. I’m halfway to the elevator before I realize how soaked my panties are.