31. Oliver
I hang up my call with my agent, letting my hands dangle between my spread knees. It’s a call I’d been dreading, but one I’m not entirely surprised to receive.
An official trade offer is on the table, one that would send me to Carolina for the last three years of my current contract before I’d be released as a free agent. Three years away from my pack, and from my omega. The worst part is that I sort of understand why it’s so tempting. I’d be traded to a team on the cusp of a strong playoff run, and the Mystic would get a few good players who can help fill my spot and then some.
Alone in the house, the silence is almost oppressive. Tori is coming over soon to watch tonight’s game with me, and I was so excited. I’ve been working on a surprise for her, taking advantage of my time off from practice and travel to put it together. I added the finishing touches this morning, eagerly awaiting her arrival so I can show her what I’ve been up to, but now, I’m almost dreading it. My mind is still in shock, and I can’t move beyond the cracking of my heart to figure out a solution, or at the minimum, what I’m going to tell her. I’d had enough wherewithal to tell my agent that I had to think about it before I agreed to the trade, which will buy us time, but I don’t know how much.
My phone buzzes in my hand, making me jump. Rita Jones’s name flashes across the screen, making my eyebrows knit together. It’s well past business hours, and a Saturday at that. I swipe to answer, my pulse pounding in my ears. If this is more bad news, I might just throw myself in front of one of the trolleys that passes my house multiple times a day.
“Good evening, Oliver. How’re you doing?” Rita says by way of greeting.
I sigh. “Could be better. What’s going on?”
Rita lets out a hum of concern. “Is there something going on that I should know about? Something that could affect the case?” she asks, not annoyed but more sympathetic.
I run a hand through my hair and sit back against the couch, telling her about the trade news. She’s silent for most of it, letting me explain the details with only a few questions about certain shorthand slang I use. By the time I’m done, I can hear mouse clicks and key clacks in the background.
“What are we going to do?” I sound lost.
“Don’t you worry, baby. I’m gonna figure this out,” she says, not missing a beat.
My shoulders relax, her almost motherly tone soothing something inside me. Eli and I have been on our own for so long, trying to figure out how we’re going to be together and form a pack. But we’re not lawyers, and our interpretations of the different clauses have been educated guesses at best, and wild speculation at worst. Having someone with years of expertise in our corner has been a revelation, and I almost regret not finding a lawyer sooner.
“I’m just checking a few things in your contract, just so I can get us a game plan on our next steps. I was actually calling because I’ve gotten the heads up that our paperwork was reviewed late yesterday, but the findings missed the mailing deadline for the week,” Rita says, the loud rasp of a scroll wheel accompanying her words.
My lips pull up into a little smile, nodding even though she can’t see me. I let her work, not wanting to interrupt her train of thought. Eventually, my burning curiosity wins out, and I clear my throat.
“What was it that you heard?” I ask, trying to sound casual and not like my future hangs on her answer.
“That we’re going to get a court date.”
I’m unfamiliar with the actual steps it takes to form a pack, just that I’ve signed more documents in the last month than I’ve signed in my entire life. Rita was good about explaining them, though I’m not sure why she needed a permission form to look into everyone’s genealogy, or why I was the one signing the majority of the documents. The others signed simple forms and affidavits stating they were of sound mind and body, that they wanted to form this pack of their own free will and weren’t being threatened or coerced into this. But that was at the beginning of this process, and I swear I’ve had to sign something every other day.
Should I be excited about getting a court date, or is it just another formality that’s going to eat into our already limited timeline? The trade deadline is less than four weeks away, a few days after Mardi Gras. My doctors are all on board that I can ditch the no-contact jersey when the team gets back from the road trip, which means I’m probably less than a week from playing real games again. Would we be able to get in before then? Or will the Mardi Gras season mean we’re going to have to wait until after?
Rita lets out a little gasp that pulls me from my pending anxious spiral. “That’s what I thought. Good. Okay.”
She’s speaking more to herself, so I wait, not sure how to respond. Thankfully, she doesn’t keep me in suspense.
“So. Here’s the deal. We’re going to get a court date, which is amazing. It means that we filed all the right paperwork and the judge doesn’t need to see anything else to make his decision. We can talk later about what exactly we can expect when we go in, but the long and short of this is that, once we have our date, that’ll be it. Y’all will walk out of the courthouse officially as Pack Mystic,” she explains, and I can almost hear the smile in her words.
My heart jumps around in my chest as I leap to my feet, my cheeks burning from how wide I’m smiling. “Oh, my God. Putain de merde, c’est incroyable . 1 Are you serious?” I ask, slipping back and forth between my native languages in my excitement.
“Very serious. But I want to warn you: there’s a good chance we won’t get to see the judge until the end of March, at the earliest, and that’s if I can cash in a few favors. We’re realistically looking at the beginning of April,” Rita says, her tone warm but cautious.
My mood deflates as if a bucket of ice water cascades over my head. End of March? That’s well past the deadline, and April is basically the end of the season, if the Mystics don’t make the playoffs.
“What... what — That’s too late. The trade deadline—” I cut myself off as I clear my throat, holding back the acidic disappointment filling my chest.
“I know, baby. It’s not ideal, but I’m just trying to be realistic with you. That’s why I was looking in your contract, to see if we had any loopholes that could keep you in NOLA and with your pack. I think I found one, but it’s sort of risky…”
I stay silent, waiting for her to go on. Meanwhile, my mind is running through every wackadoodle scheme she could possibly propose. Forcing Tori into heat and bonding with her? Two of us eloping off to Vegas and having a drive-thru wedding officiated by a C-tier Elvis impersonator? Getting Tori pregnant? Not that I could pull that off with my vasectomy, but I can’t deny there’s a part of me that wouldn’t mind if that was the plan.
“We’d have to keep things quiet until all the pieces are in place, but then, out of nowhere, we’d throw a press conference announcing your intentions while posting all over the internet about your story. Gussied up, obviously, but we’d make the public fall in love with y’all.” Rita speaks hesitantly, like she’s afraid I’m going to spook at any moment and hang up.
I exhale heavily, which morphs into breathless chuckles. “That’s all? I thought you were gonna suggest we do something actually crazy, like get caught making out in public or something.”
I can almost hear Rita’s rapid blinks across the phone line, and it takes her a minute to gather her composure again.
“This is incredibly risky, Oliver. If we don’t frame this exactly right, you might not get on board. Without the public pressure, the team—”
“Did you forget that our omega has been running the Mystic’s social media accounts for over five years? If anyone knows how to spin a story and win over fans, it’s Tori,” I interrupt, my voice fond as I praise my omega.
Rita hums in thoughtful before releasing a sharp sigh. “The press conference could be tricky. We’d have to think of a cover story if we’re going to do it through the team.”
I smirk, remembering what Tori told us about her conversation with her boss. “I think it’ll be easier than you think,” I say with an ironic chuckle.
“You’re acting pretty cavalier for someone who could very well end up being forced to abandon his pack,” Rita chides, but there’s no heat to it.
I sober at that. “I’m sorry. I think this is a good plan, and it’s got a really good chance of succeeding. I can talk to my pack when the other alphas get back from the road trip, but I’m sure they’ll be on board.”
“Still. Talk to them before making a decision. Going through with this is going to impact all y’all,” she replies, a warning in her tone.
We finish our call, and when I pull my phone away from my ear, I stare at the screen until it goes black. I consider this plan from every angle, trying to see why Rita would consider this risky. It’s honestly a solid play, taking advantage of our strengths and assets as a pack. Perhaps the risk is in keeping the secret? But we’ve done well enough so far, even better since Logan found out and has been able to give a mostly unbiased outside perspective.
I sit back as the first pangs of a headache form behind my eyes. This is not how I wanted this day to go. Even if we probably have a plan to prevent the trade from happening, the offer is still there, looming over my shoulder. I’m so close to getting back on the ice. I don’t want my first game back to be anywhere except here, in my adopted home, with the people I love with me.
Their faces flash behind my closed eyelids, and I sigh again. I have to think of my pack now, as the prime alpha. It’s my job to take on the intense stuff so my pack mates don’t have to. But Rita is right. Going through with this is going to impact all of us, and the decision needs to be unanimous.
Thankfully, several sharp knocks on the front door help to pull me out of my head, my whole body relaxing as I stand up to answer the door.
I can still salvage this day, and hopefully make my omega happy at the same time.
1. Translation (French): Holy shit! This is incredible!