Chapter Eleven
Trick
“Yeah, Doug,” Brad says beside me and points to a guy in glasses center mass of the crowd.
Flashes pop at his outstretched hand, and the Sports Monthly reporter shouts his question. I’m not paying attention when I desperately need to be.
Instead, my thoughts drift to Izzy wrapped up in my arms last night. That spicy-sweet scent is the purest aphrodisiac. I can’t even imagine what it’s like when she’s not on the suppressants. Scent matches are uncommon, but I’d bet my left arm we have one.
She’s going to break all of our hearts when she leaves.
Vin hasn’t expressed an interest in a woman in years, but with Izzy, he’s powerless to resist.
Their scents blending got me half-hard all on its own.
Fuck, walking in on them . . .
The flimsy table shutters when Brad drops a fist onto it and it shocks me out of the daydream.
“Stiff competition going into the start of the season. First game is against the Oak Leafs,” a reporter says. “You’ve got the Airmen two games after that. Any words for your closest rivals to open the season?”
Brad grins that thousand-watt smile that charms his audience every time and looks straight into the camera.
“I think I’ll be a good sportsman and simply kiss last year’s championship ring.”
The crowd laughs while he smacks his lips on the gold-and-diamond band on his pinky finger. We’re all wearing them—me, Brad, Vin on his other side, and Adelard to Vin’s right—and the rest of us knock them on the table to egg him on.
Two questions go to Coach Adelard. Brad motions to Vin to hand him Vin’s water bottle—which both has Vin’s name on it and is also within his reach on the table in front of them. He likes to do this to Vin whenever they’re seated together. The asshole has a real power complex.
“Yeah,” Coach says to another reporter while Brad’s lifting the spout to his lips.
“You’ve got some old and some new this year. Captain, are there any secrets you’re willing to share about the lineups?”
That’s a direct question about Mason, and I’m glad he’s watching in the locker room instead of out here.
Brad tosses his head back and laughs a big, boisterous guffaw. The bottle rests on the table.
“Trying to recruit my guys already? The season hasn’t even started.”
“My job is to pressure you into telling us something newsworthy.”
“Fair enough. I’ll just say that we’ve meshed really well in the preseason. No one’s pulling punches.”
Vin smirks at that but doesn’t interject. He takes a discreet sip of water from a bottle on the floor beside him.
“Does the Cannon’s star goalie have something to add?” the reporter shouts. “We heard you let a fly puck hit a panel.”
Under the table, my hands ball into fists. It’s good for Vin to be in front of the cameras. He’s the best goalie in the league. When the team gives him press attention, it shows they treat him as a full member regardless of his beta status.
But that had to have been a tip Brad planted. The entire arena knows who shot that puck and why.
Vin keeps his cool, though.
“How many players do you know that can shatter the glass? There’s maybe ten, fifteen in the whole league with the power. The Oak Leafs can catch that. I like my hands.”
The crowd laughs but the questioner persists.
“So no credence to the rumors of a rivalry in the ranks?”
“Absolutely none,” Adelard says and claps a hand on Vin’s shoulder. It raises my hackles more, but then Brad lifts the bottle to his lips again.
As the bottle passes horizontal, the unscrewed cap falls free and drenches him in icy water.
Brad sucks in a shocked breath and coughs, the strangled inhale garbled as water sticks in his throat. He rocks backward in the chair to escape and nearly topples over.
Lights pop and people hoot and holler at the hilarious expression on Brad’s face. He pitches the bottle to the side.
Fuck, Vin. At a presser?
I throw my arm around Brad and shake some sense into him with a lighthearted smile plastered on my face.
“Smile,” I say through gritted teeth in his ear.
To his credit, Brad recovers quickly. He shakes his head and the charming visage returns.
“Your beta’s dead,” he says through too-bright teeth.
“Got ya, cap!” I exclaim loudly.
“You son of a bitch!” he announces with a chuckle.
“Not the preseason without a few practical jokes,” Adelard quickly adds.
But Vin’s sitting there with a smug-as-fuck look on his face. He absolutely planned this shit. This better not become a problem.
“That should answer your question about the kind of rivalry happening on the Cannons,” Vin says. “We’re family here, and we don’t let anyone threaten that. The Oak Leafs don’t stand a chance.”
* * *
Izzy
The video of Brad splashed with ice water plays for the umpteenth time on my phone. The heels pinch my feet as I pace around the fourteenth-floor entrance to Superstition, one of Addevale’s hottest new restaurants, but the thrill of Brad the Cad’s fall from grace injects too much energy into my veins.
Humbling Brad has become my favorite pastime.
Subdued lighting and artsy, creative wall treatments create intriguing, if a little ominous, ambiance. It’s actually the unnamed thirteenth floor, and the theme leans into the mystique.
I chuckle at the screen in my hand, but I am absolutely certain the guys got shit for this.
Proud of you, Vin.
The fan site message boards have been on fire all evening.
Wet T-shirt contests at all press conferences!
I’d pay good money to see Brad Cameron take off his shirt.
Bobby Vinson can put whatever he wants in my mouth.
It’s unprofessional to prank each other on national television.
Betas don’t belong in pro sports. Can’t the alphas keep that guy in check?
The last one is the only thread that really bothers me. I don’t mind the online ogling and the lusting. Hell, I’ve been the online ogling and lusting.
But Bobby Vinson has the lightning strike of being a truly good player and person at once. He isn’t weak or simpering.
My jaw clenches so hard it aches, but I keep scrolling anyway. I need to know what the reaction is so I can plan around it.
For Brad, of course.
Flipping between my phone and the burner, I swap between accounts to chastise the comments targeting Vin for his status. I add additional comments, noting how superior he is on the ice and that every alpha on the team is lucky to have him—especially Captain Cameron.
Someone engages with me to argue the fairness and safety of allowing a beta on the ice and it pricks at earlier irritation.
We lob blows at each other, with the other guy—who isn’t even one of Brad’s accounts so why does he care so damn much?—escalating each time.
The guys will be here any second. I need to get my head on straight. Instead of arguing further, I add a comment calling the guy a chauvinist asshole from one of my lesser used accounts and block him on the one he was arguing with.
And then I do something truly stupid.
I go to my personal social media pages and upload a picture of Vin in the kitchen with crumbs on his face while he eats a fresh cookie. The caption reads, A belated ‘after’ of amaretto chocolate chip. Strong and sweet like this guy.
I just need people to know that Vin is a real person and not his “place.”
We’re “dating,” right? It’s fine.
Once it’s up, I panic that I’ve shared too much and without his permission.
Too late now. The internet is forever.
“There you are,” Mason says. He and Vin walk up to me side by side near the entrance of the restaurant.
When Mase texted me and told me to bunny it up and meet here for dinner, I had to drop everything to be ready in time.
“You weren’t waiting long, were you?” Vin asks.
“Only a few minutes,” I reply.
Both of the boys are in the pressed gray suits I set out for them for the press conference. They all had similar cuts and shades in their closets, and I’d hoped it might help them feel like a team even if they weren’t feeling like pack.
It also made it easy to coordinate my own outfit.
The shimmering dress in an ombre of purple shades fits tightly to my curves until it flares out in a drop waist falling in waves to just above my knees. The demure boatneck is betrayed by how tightly it’s fitted to my chest. Add in the drop pendant I can toy with and my hair in long, luscious waves, and I’m every bit the bombshell bunny I need to be on a public outing.
Mason’s the first to reach me. I expect him to grab and grope, but instead he holds his hand out. When I place my hand in his, he lifts our joined fingers and gives me a spin. The skirt unfurls around my thighs.
Vin whistles his appreciation.
“Very nice, my sexy bunny,” Mason says and twirls me into his arms for a seductive kiss. My decision to opt for a wine-colored lip tint means we can lean into it without fucking with my makeup.
I debated over the choice entirely too long.
On the one hand, having his face stained with my lipstick is immensely satisfying. For Brad, of course. Superstition is a trendy restaurant, and someone is bound to post a photo of the guys.
The pictures are never of me, though. The bunnies rarely make it into those pap shots. If they are, they’re ignored.
Still, the night is young. We aren’t here for that. Mason was very clear in the group chat that he thought we needed to spend time out together before the advertiser’s fundraiser next week. Vin agreed and separately messaged me, too, to encourage it.
The mere suggestion of going out in public with all three of them triggered another anxiety spiral. It got so bad, I even texted Jolie for hype support. My emotions are on a hair trigger lately.
Jolie never texted me back, though.
I can’t really blame her. I’m sure she’s tired of hearing about my omega problems. There’s so much for her to do. Every conversation delves into wedding planning within the first thirty seconds. Bouquets, menus, and guest lists have consumed her life.
And maybe, a little, I can’t stand to talk to her about that right now. It’s a reminder of what I’m working toward—or lack thereof—and what I lose if I don’t succeed.
Standing here, wrapped up in Mason, makes the rest fade away, though.
Kissing this man is like riding the most intense roller coaster in the park.
When we break apart, Mase steps aside to make way for Vin.
The beta eyes me up and down with that Mona Lisa smile on his face.
“What?”
“We match.”
“Of course we match. Were you expecting less?”
Vin snakes an arm around my waist to hold me close and kisses me soft and slow. After the initial press, he skims his lips over mine and his nutty, earthy deliciousness fills my thoughts with salacious ideas.
“I think you like pretending we’re together more than you admit,” he murmurs.
Danger, danger.
I’m going to have to do so much better at concealing my reactions.
“Don’t read so far into it. I grew up in a pack, remember?”
“Sure. I’ll let you pretend that’s it.”
Vin releases me without question, but his hands linger on me. I shouldn’t leave it at that, but also I don’t have the fortitude right now to argue with him over something I’m already arguing with myself about.
Mason and Vin escort me to the hostess stand and inform me Trick is parking the car.
The U-shaped corner booth they seat us at overlooks astonishing views of Addevale. Glittering lights stretch into the beyond, and the arena is visible in the distance. To the south, windows intermittently light up the office buildings in the financial district.
Extra wide banquettes with deep seats are more than easy to slide into, especially with the steel-framed table for the assist.
It’s a space clearly intended for packs with alphas.
Mason makes Vin and me shuffle into the booth, with me between them. It causes an awkward silence when Trick shows up a few minutes later.
He doesn’t seem to know where to sit.
The alpha of the Wyatt-maybe-Pack stands awkwardly in the walkway, eyeing the open spaces beside Mason and Vin.
It didn’t occur to me that this would be clunky for the guys, too. They haven’t been somewhere that wasn’t standing room or active the entire time I’ve lived with them.
Clearing my throat, I swing my legs over Vin to crawl to his other side.
“Sit with me, Mr. Big Strong Alpha?” I tease.
Trick rolls his eyes and slides into the booth.
Vin, though, has no intention of letting me get away with the maneuver. He grabs hold of my waist while I scootch past him and twists me so I’m sitting sideways in his lap.
“Better,” he says.
I open my mouth to object, but Trick swallows my objection with a heated kiss. His mouth falls on mine, and phantom hands graze along my body in the sense memory of how he kissed me on the couch while we watched the movie.
When he leans back in his place, he has this lazy, contented smile on his face. I am absolutely certain he’s thinking the same.
“I’m not sitting on your lap this entire meal,” I say low to Vin.
“Sure you are.”
“How are we supposed to eat?”
“I’ll feed you.”
“You will not!”
“Watch me.”
My fist bounces off his firm chest. “Penalty, holding.”
“That’s football. I’m a hockey player,” Vin says.
I grind my ass in his lap and whisper in his ear.
“Do you want to be teased all night, Vin? Because I can make this very uncomfortable.”
“Nothing you do to me here will remotely compare to last night. I will survive.”
Squeal and struggle as I might, it still takes Vin’s acquiescence to get to my intended destination. I flop onto the pleather seat and pout with my arms crossed.
Trick slides in close and Vin rotates me so my bent knees drape over his lap. Mason moves in closer and slips my heels off my feet. He rests them in his lap and rubs circles into my calves and ankles.
Trick traps my waist with one arm and holds a menu open for all of us with the other.
And so what if this feels good? Of course it feels good. Three of the hottest guys in the state are overtly fawning over me.
“Page,” Mason demands.
“I’m still looking at the appetizers,” Trick replies.
“There aren’t that many, old man. We need to get you glasses.”
“I already wear contacts, the lighting in here is shit, and you need to learn some patience, little league.”
“We can have separate menus,” I note.
“A team learns to work together,” Trick replies.
Vin nuzzles my neck while the alphas argue lightly over choices. When they ask me to break the tie, I refuse to do so and tell them they need to work it out themselves. I’ll eat whatever.
While they’re arguing, Vin extracts his phone from an inside jacket pocket and holds it up. He angles it to capture our foursome, then does a close-up with the two of us.
“Actually, can you help me with this?” he asks and hands me the phone.
“You seem to know what to do fine.”
“I mean posting it, beautiful. Can you edit it like you do your recipe posts and add it to my socials? I’m supposed to tag here.”
Of course I agree, although I carefully crop myself out of the photo so that it looks more like Vin is surrounded by several people and not merely me. A filter, the right hashtags, and off it goes. The guys are still bickering over which chicken dish when I’m done.
The post immediately registers over 100 likes and then builds at an overwhelming pace.
“You’re good at this,” Vin says. “You should do this for us. The posting, I mean. I’m awful at it. My agent chastises me about it like I’m a child.”
“I don’t know if that’s a good idea. I’ve already gotten plenty of unwanted attention for being a beta with you boys.”
“Then post whatever you think is best. That one of me in the kitchen was a nice shot.”
“Hell, Vin, I’m sorry about that. I shouldn’t—”
“I’m not. It’s a great picture.”
“How’d you even find it?”
“I get notifications when you post.”
I open my mouth to roll off a response, but I have no idea what to say to that.
How does one react to learning Bobby Vinson’s not only actively following your posts, but also gets notifications about them?
Instead of elaborating on that tidbit, Vin charges forward with his idea.
“It wouldn’t have to include you if you don’t want it to. Throw up whatever content you think is best. I trust your judgment.”
“I don’t know.”
“We’ll pay you,” Trick suggests. “My accounts are dead too. The team’s social media managers charge players $10,000 a month for daily posts. Would you accept that for the Wyatt Pack?”
Ten . . . thousand . . . what?
Is it hot in here? It feels hot in here.
“I... Yes, I can do that,” I stutter out.
The guys chuckle, but I am dead serious. That’s more than triple what I make at the call center in a good month. I plan to hold him to it.
After I’ve handed Trick and Vin my phone to log in to their accounts on my device, Mason adds his too.
Things must be progressing a lot more than I realized if he’s assuming, correctly, that the Wyatt Pack includes Mason in its needs and costs.
The waiter eyes us and raises an eyebrow at me draped between the three of them but doesn’t comment. I’m clearly not an omega—to him—but no one confronts us about it.
“Our” alphas order a mezze and an entree salad to share for starters, then two chicken dishes and three different steak options for main courses. Trick doesn’t delineate between the four of us while he repeats the requests to our waiter.
This is not a family-style restaurant, but apparently it is while we’re here.
The dinner runs smoothly and the evening slips away. The food is hearty and delicious, the low lighting gives the impression of privacy even in a room full of diners, and the boys banter and never move an inch to put space between us.
Against my own damn advice, I sink into the loam of the growing roots between them.
I know better than to get caught up in their relationships but allow myself the night anyway. We do need the practice, and this has certainly helped the guys’ dynamic solidify.
Wyatt and LaMille regale us with Mason’s trials and tribulations in boxing training. All three boys go on a lengthy tear about variant training methods, and I’m lulled into a clear headspace by the easy cadence of conversation.
And, yes, I let Vin feed me a little. Only a little.
Fuck, fine, it’s half the chicken all by my lonesome and it’s delicious.
I give Vin shit for pranking Brad on national television, then show him the online adulation he’s earned for his misdeeds.
“ILuvCannonBalls says she, quote, wishes she were the water bottle if only to leave Brad soaked and then go home with Vin,” he reads into my ear.
“Only fanning the flames,” I reply.
“There were almost 2,000 comments on this thread before you added it.”
“And now there are 700 more. Mission successful.”
He rolls his eyes, but his retort is interrupted by chaos walking in the door.
Across the room, the curtains part and the ma?tres d’ escorts a gaggle of beautiful women in painfully short club outfits into the room. They look more like they were ejected from a club than that they chose to come to the city’s newest five-star restaurant.
I would know; I’ve been one of them.
Following in the rear, Brad emerges with Livvy swaying on her heels and steadied by his arm.
Fucking hell.
The ma?tre’s d’ shows them to a table, but Brad refuses it. Words we can’t hear are exchanged, and then the cloud of cheap body glitter and mojito fumes is sat a mere ten feet away from us.
The staff rearrange several tables to accommodate the request.
“Ignore him,” Trick murmurs low enough only we hear. “He’s at least half drunk. He probably saw Vin’s tag, recognized you in part of the photo, and decided to crash. It looks like he’s trying your own tactics against you.”
“If he so much as looks at you wrong, I’m getting the fire ax from the kitchen,” Mason grumbles.
The girls are all over Brad. They paw at him and shake their tits in his direction. Livvy’s tucked up under his arm but only laughs at their overt flirtation.
It’s annoying.
That annoyance flares that he brought her here to flash their relationship in front of me. I wasn’t even in the fucking photo I posted.
And I’m a skosh offended that he thought flaunting a barista’s dozen of unmemorable women would pique my ire.
Instead of jealousy, I have overwhelming sadness for him.
“Let’s turn it against him,” Vin suggests. He uses a finger to turn my chin to him and delivers several slow, sensual, too-brief kisses.
Mason uses those long limbs to slide his hand up my thigh under the skirt. It’s obvious that he does it. He isn’t even trying to conceal the movement under the table.
And Trick leans into my back to nuzzle my neck.
Brad watches it all. His skin explodes in ruddy patches and he forces a kiss on Livvy.
It all feels . . . dirty.
Not good dirty. Gross.
On the one hand, kudos to them for so resoundingly pegging Brad’s motivations and leaping headfirst into antagonism.
But there’s no rush of satisfaction that goes with it.
I watch him manhandle Livvy and can hear his words slurring even if I don’t know what he’s saying, and all I feel is pity for the whole table.
“Take me home, newbie?” I ask.
“Whatever my sexy bunny wants, my sexy bunny gets,” Mason replies a little too loudly.
As we pass by Brad’s table, he hollers for Trick. It was a pipe dream to think we’d avoid a confrontation anyway.
When we stop in front of the party group, Brad shoves Chloe, or whatever her name is, into another chair and drags the newly emptied place closer to him.
“Come sit with me, Izzy.”
“No thanks. We’ve just finished the most amazing meal and are headed home.”
“Sounds boring. Join the party.”
“You seem to have plenty of entertainment.”
The girls cheer, and he leers at me like he knows he struck a nerve, but I’m suddenly so very tired.
When I pivot to leave, Mason threads his fingers with mine and Brad explodes. He tosses his phone onto the center of the table, and it clanks against several water glasses.
“Still touching my girl, little league,” he spits.
“Done way more than touching, my man,” Mason says over his shoulder.
Brad jumps to his feet and the table shifts several inches. Silverware crashes and a glass topples over.
Mason whirls around, but Trick is there to catch him with a hand on the chest.
“Take Izzy to the car,” he demands. “Now.”
“How is your car?” Livvy calls out.
When I don’t respond, she gets to her feet as well. She always has to get in her parting shot.
“Not surprised you aren’t bothered by a slutmobile. You were spreading your legs for anyone who wanted it the whole year you were with Brad.”
Oh hell fucking no!
It’s one thing to be a bitch to me, but to openly trash my reputation like that?
“What the actual fuck are you yapping about? You’re like a chihuahua, always squeaking at anything bigger and better than you.”
“It bothers you because you know it’s true. I’m sure it’s easier for you to keep track of your partners now that you’re trying to limit it to three.”
Rage flares in my mind.
This bitch...This bitch really insinuated I’d not only been unfaithful to Brad but to my guys too.
Oxygen barely registers in my system while all blood flow is redirected to my fists and aching toes.
By my third step in her direction, with my ire ready to slap the sober into her, I’m yanked off my feet.
Trick wraps his arms around me and lifts me into the air. He marches toward the door while I wriggle and curse her in his hold.
Livvy’s and the other girls’ cackles haunt me until we get to the elevator.
And the deafening silence once we’re inside fuels my anxiety all the more.