Chapter Seventeen
Vin
Twelve days, nineteen hours, and thirty-six minutes have passed.
Nearly two weeks without Izzy. Without even knowing if she’s okay.
The thought roils in my brain and stirs the acid in my gut.
As I sit here on the locker room bench, with half my pads still on, I flap my shirt to cool my chest.
She’s shut off her number. That was a smart move, all things considered. We’re being bombarded with press inquiries. I’m sure she’s getting it worse.
The videos didn’t just go viral. They’ve gone superviral. Last time I’d checked, the second video had 95 million views.
Pro hockey players slugging it out over a secret omega? That’s a story to create urban legends.
Regular people have less protection from the paparazzi, the fans, and overzealous reporters. They lack the resources to buy security, and they’ve never had to guard their information from prying eyes.
But it also means we can’t get ahold of our girl.
The strap of the leg pad rips off as I tear the thing from my body and throw it at my locker. I lean forward, staring at the floor, and sink my hands into my hair to support my head.
I’m going to throw up.
I haven’t lost my stomach since my freshman year.
Right now, the anxiety is so much worse than my first pro game.
Where are you, Iz?
Pretty sure she’s ditched her phone entirely. She privated her accounts at first, but I was already following her. She hasn’t posted since the day of the last game.
At least she hasn’t blocked me yet.
I’ve written and deleted so many DMs I’ve lost count.
Her parents won’t tell us where she is, only that she’s taken care of.
All week, I’ve been this close to driving out to their house to see if she’s there. Bennett slipped me his card and their info when they came to visit.
The thing is, though, I don’t think she’s there.
She’s with Jolie. She has to be. If it’d been one of my sisters, they’d have immediately gone into hiding with their best friends.
In my mind, she’s sipping a fruity drink at a beach resort out of the country and that’s why she’s indisposed.
Jolie’s got to be involved in whatever Izzy is doing because three days after Bradageddon, all of Izzy’s belongings disappeared from our house.
We came home from practice to an empty omega room and all the baggage that left behind.
A hand waves in front of my face and Mason whistles at me.
“Yo,” he says. “You good?”
“What do you think?”
Mason drops onto the bench beside me and throws his helmet against my pads.
“This fucking sucks,” he says.
“Understatement.”
“I need to hit someone.”
I grunt my agreement.
We were scratched for three games with a threat of more if we can’t get our shit together. We’ve already gotten through one of the three by pacing around in the box in our suits.
We’re still required to go to practice, but the Cannons will be taking the ice tonight down a cap, an AC, a winger, and our starting goalie.
What a fucking nightmare.
“So what are we doing tonight?” Mason asks.
“Watching from the box.”
“Fuck Trick. He can shove his decrees up his ass.”
“He’s trying to get us back to normal.”
“He’s scrabbling for anything that makes him feel in control.”
“He thinks you’re going to leave.”
“Are you leaving?”
His question takes me aback. I’d never even considered that kind of thing.
“Exactly,” Mason says in response to my reaction. “Don’t insult me.”
The two of us stew while we remove our gear and pack it away in our bags.
“Do you think she’s thinking about us?” he asks softly.
Thoughts grind in my mind as I chew over a reply.
“I think it’s impossible she’s not thinking about us.”
“That’s a bullshit answer.”
“What? No it’s not.”
“You know what I was asking,” he says. “I’m not asking whether she’s thinking about what happened. I’m asking if she misses us.”
With quick fingers, I unravel the French braid she taught me and tie my hair low on my neck. I should shower and change into my walk-out clothes, but I don’t have the stomach for it right now.
“I think... I think she has to miss us. You can’t fake what it was like. Do you remember lying in bed after the heat? It’s never been like that for me. She has to feel the same.”
He bobs his head in agreement. “Yeah, me too.”
Mason jumps to his feet. He cracks his neck and stomps toward the back offices, and I chase after him.
I don’t know what he’s about to do, but I need to be there to keep him from following through on it.
My alpha storms into the PT treatment room where Trick’s icing his back. Our lead alpha’s aged ten years in the last two weeks, and a lack of sleep means he’s adopted the back pain to go with it.
“We aren’t going to the game tonight,” Mason demands.
Trick lets out a long-suffering sigh. “We need to support the team.”
“Not tonight we don’t.”
“If we tuck tail and go home, the press will assume we’re hiding and we have nothing to hide from. The sooner we resume life as normal, the faster it will all blow over.”
“That’s it though—there is no life without Izzy.”
Paper crinkles as Trick drops his head against the padded examination table. He stares at the ceiling, the thoughts warring in his mind playing across his face.
When he finally speaks, it’s this dejected, flat tone that I’ve never heard from him.
“I’m protecting her as much as us. The circus right now... knowing we caused it is killing me.”
“Then we make it up to her.”
“She’s made her choice, Mase.”
“Has she? Or is she panicked and scared, hiding away from the world? I wouldn’t blame her. We told her she’d be safe with us, and now she’s running for her life, alone.”
“There’s nothing we can do about that.”
“Yes, there is,” I say. “We get her back.”
“Exactly,” Mason adds with the snap of his fingers.
“You assume she wants that.”
“Only one way to find out.”
“We don’t know where she is.”
“Which is why we’re missing the game. We have other priorities.”
“The team is our priority.”
“The pack is our priority,” I insist. “Mason and I both want this. We outvote you.”
Trick eyes us. The calculating gaze narrows.
“You really think she’ll come back?”
Mason crosses his arms and grins. He knows as well as I do what that question really means.
“I’ll bring knee pads to make it easier on you to beg, old man,” I say.
The realization that we’re serious flows over him like a tidal wave.
His face relaxes for the first time in two weeks, his jaundiced skin flushing a healthy, dusty pink.
“Alright,” he says. “You both know what we have to do.”
“We do,” Mason says.
“Good. Let’s go get our girl.”
* * *
Izzy
The Admin’s therapist chews on the end of her pen as she reads through my survey answers. Maybe it’s the perfectly coiffed helmet hair or the starched black button-down, but I am absolutely certain this woman would pass the fuck out if I told her how I truly felt.
“Your score is within the acceptable range, but I’m still worried about you, Isabelle.”
“Izzy,”I correct then smile apologetically.
The scores are in range because I made them that way. There’s no circumstance where I’ll allow them to label me as defective.
The stiff pleather couch creaks as I shift my position. For a therapist’s office, the place is fucking uncomfortable.
“There’s nothing to be worried about,” I say brightly. “I’ve passed all of the med checks.”
The invasive testing they’ve required confirmed what I already knew.
I’m perfectly fine.
I might be a “geriatric” omega—their phrase, not mine—who spent my entire adult life on suppressants, but all my oh-so-valuable omega parts and their auxiliaries work fine.
Honestly, the detox from the suppressants has been low-key the worst of it. My thoughts still occasionally slide into the erratic, and being surrounded by so many bright lights and strong scents frequently overwhelms.
That first night after the game, I woke up screaming several times. Nothing felt safe, and the sheets were so harsh I broke out in hives.
Jolie created a mini-nest for me in their guest room. Every night, I sleep on a twin blow-up mattress in a little pup tent that’s been filled to the literal brim with soft blankets, stuffies, old clothes, and pillows. It’s like sleeping in the middle of a cloud and is the only way I can survive the night.
A big piece of that survival is that I have several of the guys’ shirts tucked in with me. The scents have faded, but they’re still there.
Jolie might’ve retrieved them, but I’m 100% certain she’s talking to my parents because that has Bennett written all over it.
Now, almost three weeks post-outing, I’m finally able to numb myself to the world. Mostly.
“But tell me how you are, Izzy,” the therapist goes on. She leans forward when she says “you” to emphasize she’s empathetic and concerned.
“I’m contending with the changes in my life fine. I wouldn’t choose things to be this way, but I recognize there is no point fighting the Admin.”
Not yet, anyway.
“All I want is to move on with my life,” I continue. “I’ve been wandering for a while and I really need a goal. I can’t think of a better purpose than submitting to my omega instincts.”
Gag.
The therapist—I don’t even remember her name—frowns and scribbles something on her notepad.
“Not right away, of course,” I add quickly. “I only mean that I recognize the futility of running.”
“The futility.”
“Did I say futility? I meant in like a, uh, finality kind of way. Being an omega is part of who I am. I’ll never be happy if I can’t accept that about myself.”
I should stop talking.
“Of course,” the therabitch says. “I understand what you mean. Fulfillment comes from accepting all parts of ourselves and the biological urges that come with them.”
I nod my head very convincingly.
She carries on lecturing me about omega urges and how submission to an alpha will help me find “completeness.”
Throughout the speech, I maintain my innocent agreement face. Proud of me.
“Well, you don’t need me to explain it to you, I suppose,” she finally says.
No, I do not.
I am well aware of what the Admin expects of me.
The therapist leans forward with a conspiratorial air and a sly smile on her face.
“You know, I’m not supposed to tell you this, but I think it might give you something to look forward to given your, erm, history.”
What a lovely way of saying, your previous whoring ways. I don’t even flinch when she says it, and she carries on as if she hasn’t metaphorically slapped me.
“A number of packs have expressed interest in you. Many alphas are uncomfortable taking on an omega barely into their heats. You’ll have a good deal of potential matches, and you still have at least a decade left in your fertility window. Even a certain senator has asked about your progress.”
Joy, my geriatric omega parts are desirable to the olds.
Instead of saying that, I smile and nod like I’m excited at the prospect of being sold to the pack with the most money and connections.
At least it isn’t the auctions. My cage will be gilded.
I don’t even have the call center job anymore. I was never formally fired, but also I haven’t shown up in three weeks and my phone is permanently dead.
“This was a positive session, Isabelle,” she says.
It’s Izzy, you therabitch. Only Patrick Wyatt gets to call me Isabelle.
“I think so too. And thank you again. I can’t imagine what this would’ve been like without you.”
“You’re making great progress. Keep it up and we can pull back on the monitoring.”
I scratch at the one-inch square chip on my arm instinctively. The little device measures the eight primary hormones in my body and reports on any spikes in levels.
It also tracks my location. They haven’t said as much, but there’s no way it doesn’t.
The night they’d implanted it, four days after Brad outed me and triggered my unintended detox, a medical team showed up in the middle of the night because I had a night terror. It took several calls by my parents to convince them to let me stay with Jolie and not be involuntarily admitted to a facility.
“I’ve worked hard to prove I can be trusted,” I tell the therabitch.
We smile kindly at each other.
“This time tomorrow,” she says by way of answer.
“Of course. I look forward to it.”
I look forward to it about as much as a boiling coffee enema.
When I step out of the office into the frigid autumn air, I suck in a full breath of chilly oxygen and remind myself I’ve survived another session.
Each day is a strain. I never know whether the Admin will allow me to leave the building.
Fucking Brad and his fucking ego.
I dig my burner phone out of my purse and flip between my troll accounts to like and repost my also viral gif of him slapping his own bicep and blowing himself a kiss.
Should I be encouraging the virality of the videos?
No.
Is it satisfying as all hell?
Yes.
Pettiness is an essential part of my self-prescribed therapy.
As I walk, I exchange comments with one of the two accounts that have become my favorite to interact with. I’m decently sure they’re Jolie catfishing me. She doesn’t acknowledge it, but that’s part of the appeal.
PuckFunny926 and I trade barbs about what we envision Captain Brad is doing during his forced solitude. It’s like she finally has permission to rag on him, and I’m so here for it. I’m cackling by the time I arrive on the correct floor of the parking garage.
The feed flies under my thumb as I approach Jolie’s car—the gossip mongers have pictures of my actual car and license plate, albeit covered in slut shaming courtesy of Livvy and her big, conniving mouth.
Livvy tried to press charges against Jolie at first, but she also continued the fight by yanking on Jolie’s hair so the complaint died a quick death.
A picture of men I recognize catches my attention. I drop into the driver’s seat and pause so I can really examine it.
Mason and Trick are boxing in the gym. They’re shirtless, and this is Mason’s first post in three weeks, so it has tons of engagement.
Some things are worth fighting for.
The caption is cryptic and not good for my mental health.
He means his position on the Cannons. The boards say the guys were scratched for three games—an egregious amount of missed time on the ice.
Even in my absence, I can still fuck up their lives.
The benching means lots of time keeping in peak physical shape. Mase and Trick especially have to be able to take and deliver hits. It’s a grueling sport.
The urge to check on them again is irresistible.
Trick’s tagged in Mason’s post, so I flip over to his account.
Still no updates.
My heart sinks. He paid me for my last week at the house, which ended the Friday of the game. I missed posting half the week because of my heat, but he still transferred me the full amount.
His social media accounts have been silent since.
Vin, though, that man has taken my ideas and really run with them. He’s continued posting pictures of the banal parts of the life of a pro hockey player.
Today’s post is a candid selfie of the three of them. It’s neither a hockey pic nor an athlete’s photo. Instead, they’re crashed on the couch, watching something on the big screen. My guess is a game, based on how focused they are.
The caption simply says, The Wyatt Pack.
Does that mean Mason’s full-in now? It makes sense. They fit together so well. I know firsthand how good it is.
Mason lounges in the middle and lifts a handful of popcorn to his mouth.
Trick’s sitting at his favorite place at the short side of the L with his arms crossed.
Vin’s smirking sideways at the camera. He’s got our sex blanket over him, and it stings a little that he clearly doesn’t remember. I suppose it was only another night to them. A bit of fun.
Trick’s got bags under his eyes, but of course the idiot is an anxious mess right now.
I wish I were there to remind him to relax.
With that intrusive thought, I shut the phone off immediately and throw it into the passenger seat.
When I get home, I go right to my nest and swim my way in between the cotton.
Their scents seem so much stronger now. The shirts were fading until this emotionally charged moment. My body is a masochist. It’s this invasive reminder of everything I had.
Of course, I never actually had them.
It was all pretend.
To them.
* * *
Sometimes, the best way to get over someone is not to get under someone; it’s getting comfortable alone in the bed.
Sometimes just existing is enough.
Part of my self-imposed therapy has been convincing myself that I can be enough for me.
My phone chimes an alert in my cotton cocoon. I have to stick my hand out of my haven and feel around for the device on the charger.
Groaning, I resist the demand to leave my tent for a solid ten minutes. I flip through my accounts to keep them active.
A text message comes through from Jolie.
The pic is a close-up of Livvy out at a club. It looks to be a pap’s shot, although no one else is in the frame with her.
The head bitch of the bunnies sports a recently healed scar bisecting her cheek. She’s scowling and sloshing a half-full drink.
Cackling, I kick my feet as much as the cramped space allows. Serves her right.
That shot of vindictive energy carries me through the day’s therapy session and into the evening. Jolie’s idea for a best friend date buoys my mood, and we blast our favorite playlist while we get ready together in her cramped bathroom. We’re also half of a bottle of moscato deep and decide to take a rideshare.
We’re both braced for a team to repel through a window when the alcohol first hits my system. None come, and we decide with absolutely no rational basis that the Admin have given me the night off.
When we give our name, the petite hostess lights up. She eagerly takes our coats and motions us to the back of the restaurant.
“The chef’s table is just this way,” she informs us.
“Oooh, fancy,” I murmur to Jolie as she walks behind me, and she smiles broadly in response.
“How did you win this again?” I ask.
“Something I’d signed up for a while ago. Turns out it took them a lot of time to track me down.”
“Kudos for commitment to the giveaway, I guess.”
“Here you are,” the hostess informs us. She holds a heavy curtain aside and motions for us to go through.
As I make my way in, I stop so abruptly that Jolie bumps into me.
Ornate, hand-painted wallpaper display idyllic scenes as if we’re inside a Tuscan home looking out through windows to the countryside.
Soft violin music plays.
Candles in glass jars litter the room and are spread across a curved table facing the door.
The white table cloth contrasts sharply with the deep navy of the suits of the three men waiting for us.