35. Tori
“We’re doing a lot of back-office work and player assessments. And with so many players out of town, it’s hard to know who’s going to be in or out at this point in time,” Shelly, the event coordinator for the Saints, says hesitantly, her boredom clear even through the headset I’m wearing to take this call.
I resist the urge to scream into one of the many throw pillows that line the outside of my nest, head aching from the pointlessness of this call. Instead, I pull up my intrusive thoughts doc.
YOUR QUARTERBACK HAS BEEN POSTING SELFIES IN HIS PAJAMAS FOR A MONTH! YOU ARE JUST LAZY AND DON’T WANT TO DO YOUR JOB, YOU ABSOLUTE CUNTAPUS!
“Well, we need a finalized list of players by Friday, or else we’re not going to be able to fit them on the floats. And we’ll just have to fill their slots with guys and girls from other teams. I’ll send out some feelers, just in case you can’t get that locked down,” Dee says. He sounds so casual that I can’t help but smirk.
“No!” Shelly shouts, making me wince. “I mean, no. That won’t be necessary. I’m sure we’ll be able to fill all the spots you need and then some.”
That’s fucking right, you will. Because riding on a Mardi Gras float is the highlight of the year for these guys, and especially their kids and families that get to join the festivities. Thankfully, the conversation shifts to the ball, and I’m able to relax. I’m not required to speak on this call, which is why I’m taking it from the comfort of my nest. Dee is still acting like he’s in charge as he presents my graphics for the upcoming edition of Mardi Gras magazine, reading off the points I wrote for him. We still have to pretend that he’s running the department for the time being, even though he’s doing less and less work every day, allowing me to pick up the slack.
There’s no set plan in place for when he’s going to announce his retirement, but it’s definitely not going to happen before Mardi Gras. We’ve talked about doing a press conference after the trade deadline, but that’s not even remotely set in stone. And I haven’t been pushing, because the trade deadline is already stressing me out enough.
I glance at the clock I installed this morning in the rafters of my nest, my favorite shells from the Christmas trip glued to its plastic frame, the gentle ticking easy to tune out. Oli left to pick up the others from the arena a while ago, and they should be almost ready to head home, if there weren’t any delays in landing. I check my phone for any new messages, and Logan’s text letting me know that they landed is still the latest news. But there’s always a chance they got caught in traffic heading back to the arena.
Tuning back into the call, I push my anxieties to the back of my mind. Even if they walked through the door right now, I won’t be able to do anything until this call is over. It’s my last one of the day, but I’m already mentally clocked out. I have to force myself to focus and not jump at every creak of the house or loud engine that passes by.
Finally, we all sign off, and I shut my laptop with a snap before falling backward into the mound of blankets and pillows. I close my eyes and breathe, letting the scents of my alphas surround me and soothe my nerves. I had another appointment with my omega doctor earlier today to review the results from my most recent blood work. My hormone levels are high, which I could have called even before the lab tested them. I’ve been out of my mind, the only things able to calm me down being my alphas. I miss them constantly, and going this long without their touch has my skin crawling. My doctor is over the moon, excited to treat something she’d only ever read about. Apparently, all of this is due to an unusually high level of compatibility, my instincts recognizing the guys as uniquely suited mates, which in turn makes my body pump out bonding hormones like they’re going out of style. I call it more whack-ass omega shit, hating and loving it at the same time. I was perfectly fine for years, and then four Adonis-shaped hockey doofuses crash into my life. And suddenly I’m a puppy, whining for my masters like I’ll never see them again.
But more than that, the level of hormones in my system is an early warning sign for an impending heat. And now that I’m well and truly off my blockers, the next one is going to be a doozy. Even without my doctor’s warning against trying to delay or deny my cycle, I know I won’t be able to go through this alone. And I owe it to my alphas to warn them of the impending sex fest that could consume us within the next month or two.
I roll out of my nest, shuffling down the stairs and heading toward the kitchen to start on dinner. I’m not the best cook in the group by any stretch of the imagination, but it doesn’t take a Michelin star chef to boil pasta and bake chicken breasts. And I need to do something with my hands while my mind tries to formulate a plan.
I check the diet sheet attached to the front of the fridge as I prep the ingredients, sticking to their prescribed macros. I don’t want to fuck up their diets when we’re doing this well. We added two wins and a loss to our stats during this road trip, which officially puts the Mystic in the hunt for a playoff slot, and not just the wild card either. A bonified division win. It would be our first since I started working for the team, even though we prep our media packets and promotions and fan events every year, just in case. In an ideal world, my heat would come before the end of the regular season, so the guys could fully focus on the playoffs. But I shouldn’t rely on luck. We need to have a plan in place, which will be easier to do once we announce our pack publicly.
I’m pulled from my thoughts as the garage door grinds open, and I smile to myself. My boys are home, and dinner is almost done. I’m just waiting for the chicken to broil before I can plate up. But then there’s a pause, and I strain my ears for the sounds of car doors or even voices. But when silence is the only thing that answers back, my shoulders slump and I sigh, going back to cooking. I must have imagined that, a product of my wishful thinking.
But then, less than a minute later, the door leading down to the garage slams open, making me jump so suddenly that I almost drop the tray of chicken as I’m pulling it from the oven.
“Lucy, I’m home!” Eli yells in his best Desi Arnez accent.
Laughing, I turn around to see him charging through the living room toward me. I have enough time to set down the hot pan before he scoops me up in his arms and swings me around. I can only laugh harder, clinging to his broad shoulders and breathing in his cranberry and spruce scent. I didn’t realize how much I missed him until he returned to my arms, which only makes my heart flip. God, I’m turning into such a softie. But just for my boys.
“Is that chicken and pasta?” Spencer asks from nearby.
Eli sets me back down on my feet, allowing me to turn toward the Cajun-accented voice and smile with a nod. “Prepared exactly as the dietitians have instructed. I’ll measure out the red gravy once I’m able to escape barnacle boy.” When I try to pull away from Eli, it only makes him cling harder.
“That’s Mr. Barnacle Boy to you, madam,” Eli interjects, nipping playfully at my ear before finally letting me go.
I glance back toward the living room and a wide smile splits my face as I realize that Logan is here, too, standing back with Oli with his hands in his pockets. I turn back to the sauce as my face heats, and I feel their attention like touches on my skin, making me break out in goosebumps. I focus more intently on making sure I put the correct amount of sauce on each of the plates, passing them off once I’m sure I’ve done it right.
“Thank you, princess,” Oli says, suddenly right beside me as he leans down to kiss the top of my head.
I must be more distracted than I thought if I couldn’t hear him cross the floor, but it’s hard to push the anxious thoughts from my mind. I’ve got so much going on with this ball, and then all this shit with forming a pack isn’t making me any less worried about the coming weeks. I hear Logan’s steps as he approaches, his hand brushing my lower back as he watches me plate up pasta for the two of us.
“Did you eat your lunch, baby girl? And before you try it, coffee doesn’t count as a meal,” Logan says, cutting off my response before I even have a chance to fully open my mouth.
I blush hotter and deliberately turn away, my silence answer enough. I’ve been in meetings all day, and I haven’t wanted to leave my nest for anything less than a bladder on the verge of exploding. Oli did almost too good of a job making it a peaceful, comforting space for me to be in. Not that I want to change anything to make it less inviting. Maybe I shouldn’t work from my nest in the future.
Logan lifts the plates from my hands, forcing me to turn and face him. Looking up, I frown at the stern set of his eyebrows, feeling guilty and thoroughly scolded without him saying anything.
“Sorry, Daddy. I’ll try harder,” I mutter, tucking my chin to my chest.
Logan sets down the food and pulls me into his arms, letting me snuggle into them. God, my hormones are out of control.
“It’s okay, precious. I’ll make sure to remind you more from now on, how’s that?” he says, his voice taking on a gentle but caring tone.
With a sigh, I nod into his chest. He nuzzles my temple before releasing me, nudging me toward the kitchen table, a clear message to go sit while he takes care of me. I pause, my gut reaction being to not let a man or alpha do something for me if I’m capable of doing it myself. But the omega part of me wins, too stressed to give a shit if someone thinks I’m weak for letting someone I care about handle my care for the moment.
When I plop into the chair between Eli and Spencer, I slump backward, my shoulders sore. Without needing to say a word, Spencer scoots his chair over and drapes his arm across the back of my chair, his hand massaging away some of the tension in my muscles while he eats with the other.
“I’m going to turn into a spoiled brat if y’all keep treating me like this,” I hum, closing my eyes.
“Good.”
I look up as two voices speak in unison, Oli and Logan sharing a fist bump as the latter joins us at the table, placing my food in front of me before sitting in the last vacant seat. I roll my eyes, choosing not to comment on that.
The air is quiet and comfortable as we eat, Eli getting up at one point to fetch a pitcher of water and glasses from the fridge. It’s a simple meal, but there’s something very satisfying to my primal mind about watching my alphas clean their plates of the food I made for them. They spend so much time taking care of me, and being able to return the favor settles a bit of my anxiety.
“Don’t know if they called you, Lo. But there’s a trade offer on the table for me.” Oli breaks the silence.
Everyone freezes, except Logan, who finishes chewing before setting down his fork and wiping away a stray bit of sauce from his cheek. “I heard a rumor, but nothing specific,” he says carefully, looking up at his top line winger with a guarded expression.
“Carolina wants me, I guess. Or George is trying to ship me off for whatever fucking reason,” Oli says.
I suck in a sharp breath. Spencer turns to look at me with a furrowed brow. I set down my own fork, pushing away the half-eaten chicken breast, my stomach knotting and making it impossible to take another bite.
“George isn’t handling trades. The owner, Gideon St. Clair, is,” I say into the tense silence.
All of them turn to look at me with various expressions of confusion and surprise, waiting for me to go on. I explain everything that’s been happening behind the scenes, from the ambush after All-Star Weekend through to the most recent call I received to tell me about the Carolina trade, picking at my cuticles to avoid eye contact.
“I don’t like him,” Logan says when I’ve finished.
“Have you ever met him?” Spencer asks, genuinely curious.
“No, but he’s come on to our girl and is dicking around with our lives like we’re his personal set of action figures. I don’t need to shake the bastard’s hand to know that I don’t like him,” Logan retorts.
Despite the heavy conversation, my chest warms as he claims me as their girl , and no one makes a move to correct him.
“You’re going to tell them you don’t want to be traded, right?” Eli asks, speaking for the first time in a while.
I glance over, and my heart squeezes painfully as I take in his vulnerable expression, his silver-blue eyes shiny with moisture at the edges. Oli leans across the table and takes Eli’s hand in a firm grip over the wooden surface.
“Of course, I’m going to tell them to shove it. I’m not leaving you, any of you,” he says emphatically, not looking away from his lover even as he addresses the rest of the room.
Eli’s shoulders drop several inches as he breathes out and nods slowly. Oli looks up and his nearly yellow gaze locks with Logan’s, a silent conversation passing between them. If Logan didn’t know about Eli and Oli before, there’s no denying it now. We all wait to see how he’s going to react, but he doesn’t move from his pensive look. Not even when Spencer reaches over and takes Eli’s other hand in his. My eyes dart between them, a silent chuckle escaping my lips at the sight of the Swede's rosy cheeks. I catch Logan’s eyebrow twitch up curiously, but he doesn’t speak.
“You two?” Oli asks, looking between his linemates.
Eli nods. “On the road trip.”
Spencer flushes and sits back, looking down in an effort to hide his shy smile. I giggle and smile fondly at them. I’m not surprised, as he fully admitted that he isn’t straight, but I can’t deny the flush of heat in my core when I think of them together.
“Despite how close all of you are, that won’t stop St. Clair from being a dick and trading you anyway.” Logan speaks the truth as gently as he can.
“I know. But I think there might be a way we can stop it,” Oli says, turning to look at me for confirmation.
Nodding, I move closer to Spencer as Oli explains the plan he and Rita discussed. Doing a surprise announcement makes sense, especially if we can time it right. Oli will have to toe the line, dragging things out to make it seem like he’s really considering the trade, but not actually agreeing until we can make our announcement right before the trade deadline. We send out a sticky-sweet love story in a press release, making sure to craft it in such a way that the public will fall in love with the idea of Pack Mystic. At that point, designation rights kick in, and the team can’t move any of my alphas without my consent, which I obviously won’t give. And even if they try to challenge that in court, there won’t be enough time before the trade deadline expires. And then hopefully by the time the season is over, the fans will be on our side, making it that much harder for Gideon to get rid of us without a major scandal.
When Oli’s done speaking, the other three are quiet, faces pensive. Logan sighs as he rubs a hand over his face.
“There are a lot of ifs flying around in that plan,” he says, picking his words with care.
“I know Gideon as well as I think anyone can really know him professionally. I think he truly cares about this team and wants what’s best for it,” I say.
Logan bobs his head, not a yes or a no, but an acknowledgement of my point. And I’m fairly confident in my statement. I don’t know if anyone actually knows Gideon St. Clair, but I’ve seen enough of him over the years to be able to predict his response to something like this. When the Tristan King scandal broke, he was there, sweeping it under the rug and doing damage control to preserve the team’s name, as well as his family’s name. He’s got his finger on the pulse of the fans, more so than many of his subordinates.
“I’m not convinced it’s the best plan we could come up with, but considering the time crunch we’re under, it’s good enough for me,” Eli says with a note of finality.
I turn when I feel Spencer’s stare on the side of my face, assessing my reaction. I give him a small smile and a nod.
“I’m in. If anyone can get the fans on our side, it’s Tori,” he says.
We all turn to look at Logan, who’s still staring at the table and thinking hard. But after several tense heartbeats, he finally sighs.
“Yeah, I guess this is the best shot we have. And if this is what you guys want, then I’ll support it,” he says.
Everyone nods, and I tense, pulling my hands into my lap and twisting my fingers. Four pairs of eyes turn to me, and I sigh. It’s now or never.
“In the interest of being upfront about our future, I should tell y’all something,” I start, avoiding eye contact.
No one speaks, letting me stew in silence until I can’t stand it. Taking a deep breath, I brace myself for the worst.
“I’ve stopped taking my blockers, and my hormones, and I’m going to go into heat very soon,” I blurt out.
“Why did you stop taking your blockers?” Spencer asks. He sounds more concerned than angry, which is a small comfort.
“After the hurricane, something didn’t feel right, so I went to get checked out. Apparently, my body was starting to reject them anyway, and continuing would have caused more harm than good,” I explain, summarizing the last few weeks of appointments as succinctly as I can.
“Are you okay? Like, mentally?” Eli asks. Turning in his chair to face me more fully, he takes one of my hands in his.
I nod, tears burning the backs of my eyes. I feel silly for worrying about this for so long, now that it’s out in the open. And hearing them be more concerned about my well-being than anything else soothes me enough to explain everything. Logan asks plenty of questions about the whys and hows of my medical history, and I do my best to tell him about my past with Spencer without blaming him. We’ve moved on from that, and I’ve forgiven him, and Logan, thankfully, respects that. When I’m done, the room is silent as everyone takes in this news.
“Are you likely to go into heat before we go public?” Spencer asks seriously.
I shake my head. “My hormone levels aren’t that high yet. But it’s going to be before the end of the season, especially if we make the playoffs.”
“I’ll do some research, see if there are any supplements you can take to prepare for it,” Logan says, not missing a beat.
“And I’ll let Rita know when I call her. She’ll be able to get something written up so we can get the leave to be there for you. But I think we should focus on the announcement,” Oli says with an air of finality in his voice.
I let out a sigh of relief as he starts eating again, the others following suit. The knot of anxiety has loosened enough for me to pull my plate back toward me, though it doesn’t go away entirely. Not as my brain goes to work organizing the steps I have to take to pull this off. But at least we have a plan, which is good enough for now.