Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
Lennon
It’s been three days since Holden cornered me in my office, looked me dead in the eyes, and all but promised me trouble.
I’ve been on edge ever since. The feel of his breath on my neck has me all over the place and I don’t like that he’s rattled me.
He left me with nothing but a racing heart and questions I refuse to answer for myself.
What’s worse? He’s practically ignored me ever since.
Not entirely, he still answers when spoken to on the ice.
He does drills. Calls me Coach with that same sarcastic drawl that makes me want to knock him on his ass, but the lingering smiles?
Gone.
If I weren’t witness to him being present, I’d be left to question whether I imagined the whole thing the other night.
Things have been going as smoothly as I could have hoped with the team.
There’s little to no pushback and they seem to be taking my input on board, which makes all of this so much easier.
The media have been here for most of the day, interviewing the team both individually and together while we prepare for our next game against the Jaguars.
Veronica has spent the better part of six hours herding millionaire hockey players around like an exhausted sheepdog, all while somehow looking fabulous doing it.
The woman deserves a raise. Or a medal. Possibly both.
I’m currently hiding out in my office, trying to get through the mountain of paperwork on my desk while simultaneously reviewing notes from the team’s physiotherapist, Bennett Mercer.
The man is a miracle worker. Half the report in front of me is less a list of injuries and more a collection of things the players have been trying to hide and mend themselves in their own time.
Sore shoulders. Tight hips. Bruised ribs.
An aggravated wrist that apparently ‘wasn’t worth mentioning’ because they didn’t want to miss practice.
They take this seriously. They want to play.
They want to win. They don’t want to let their teammates down.
But they need to be transparent if they want long careers.
Hockey is brutal enough without them causing permanent damage because they’re too stubborn to admit something hurts.
Not that I can tell them that. They know better, well…
at least I think they do. Still, I’m grateful Dad had the foresight to employ two rotating team doctors alongside Bennett.
It means they can work together to keep the boys healthy and make hockey careers last, rather than just patching them together long enough to survive another game.
That kind of planning is one of the reasons the Cardinals have become what they are.
Dad always believed in looking after the players first. Championships came second.
I finish reviewing the last of Bennett’s notes, placing the file back in the pile that seems to grow faster than I can get through it.
I’m done. I’ve stayed back every night this week.
I deserve one evening where I get to eat greasy food and watch trash television in my underwear.
Grabbing my keys, I kill the lights in my office and step out into the hallway.
The arena is eerily quiet, all the players are in the locker room cleaning up after the short practice they squeezed in once they were finished with their interviews.
Their voices carry faintly down the corridor, mixed with the occasional burst of laughter and the unmistakable sound of Holden’s obnoxious cackle.
I smile despite myself. Idiot. Locking my office, I tuck my bag beneath my arm and turn the corner.
Straight into a wall. A very warm, very broad wall.
Strong hands wrap around my waist before I can stumble backward, steadying me. My gasp gets caught in my throat as I find myself pressed against the equipment manager.
His brown eyes widen slightly, darkening as his grip tightens.
Not enough to hurt, but enough that I feel his touch everywhere.
His mouth parts slightly before all traces of whatever emotion I just saw vanishes.
For a second, neither of us moves or speaks.
It’s strange. Like we’re both waiting for something.
My pulse kicks, and eventually, I clear my throat.
“Sorry,” I murmur, stepping back. “I should watch where I’m going.”
My voice is the opposite of confident, and I inwardly scold myself because I don’t want to inflate his Alpha ego by proving to him I’m like every other Omega.
While there is nothing wrong with that, pretty soon I’ll be his boss, and I don’t want him to think he can walk all over me.
Dominic blinks, his thick lashes framing his confused, dark gaze as his hands slowly fall away.
“Yeah,” he says, his deep voice low and gravelly. “You really should.”
Uh… Okay.
His eyes flick over my shoulder toward the hallway before settling back on me.
“Would've hated for you to hurt yourself.” I laugh awkwardly because what the hell do I say to that? Everything he says or does feels ominous, and it only makes me nervous.
“Pretty sure my ego is the only thing bruised.”
A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “Mm.”
That’s all he says.
Man, he’s intense. His eyes roll over me, and my skin pricks in response.
“Can’t have you covered in bruises, now can we?”
The words are light. Casual. But something about the way he says them has my stomach doing backflips. Why do I get the feeling that seeing me covered in bruises does it for him? Fucking Alphas. I try my best to think of something that will replace this damn awkwardness.
“Well, unfortunately, bruises are part of the job.” His eyes darken, if that’s at all possible.
“Not your job.”
“Tell that to the puck that almost took my head off yesterday. Anyways. I’ll see you tomorrow.
” I go to step around him, but he stands in my way, preventing me from walking past. The hallway suddenly feels too narrow.
Being in his presence is a whole other experience.
Doesn’t help that he’s built like a damn linebacker.
My eyes slowly travel up his broad chest. His shoulders strain the material of his Cardinal’s t-shirt, his chest wide enough to make me feel tiny, despite my heels.
Dark hair falls messily over his forehead, like he’s been running his hands through it all day.
A neatly trimmed beard shadows his jaw, only serving to highlight cheekbones sharp enough to cut glass and a jawline that belongs on the front of a magazine.
It’s insane how attractive he is. The man is a walking work of art.
When my eyes meet his, he pulls his bottom lip in between his teeth.
He’s either wondering what I taste like or wondering what I’d look like mangled beneath a truck.
It’s hard to tell. It’s hard to tell what any of these assholes is thinking.
They’re all mixed signals and enigmas. In that order.
Still, doesn’t quell the fact that he’s an Adonis wrapped in tattoos and intensity.
His brows pull together slightly, concern replacing whatever strange look had crossed his face moments ago.
“Coach?” The word is soft. Like he’s wondering if I’m even breathing. I’m not so sure I am at this point.
“Hart?” I reply, raising a questioning brow. He searches my face for a moment and I wish I could tell what he’s thinking. The tone of his voice catches me off guard. Not because his concern is unwelcome, but because it sounds genuine.
“Go home, Lennon.”
Without another word, he steps around me.
I turn around, a little confused and watch as his tall frame disappears from view.
Shaking my head, I force myself to keep walking.
He’s an Alpha. They’re all weird and intense at the best of times, but at the worst of times, they’re overbearing.
Possessive. Convinced they know what’s best for everyone and everything around them.
Still, something about the way he looked at me unsettles me.
And I don’t know if I have it in me to figure out why.
Too many hours. Too little sleep. Too many gorgeous men saying strange things to me.
I stare at the door of my apartment like it is going to jump out and bite me.
Not once in all the years I have lived on my own have I ever been terrified of my own home. It has always been my sanctuary. A place where I feel safe. One that I know I can ride my heats out in peace. But now, it feels like I am walking into something unknown.
All because some sick fucking stalker broke into my apartment and took photos of me while I was showering.
Who knows what else they’ve done? I could go to the police, not that they’ve ever been good at supporting women in these situations before, but if it doesn’t stop, I’ll have no other option.
I hate to admit it, but I’m scared. They’ve made me terrified of my own damn home to the point I feel like a five year old afraid of the monsters hiding in the closet.
Only monsters are supposed to be imaginary.
This person isn’t. They’re real. Breathing the same air I am. Way too close to home.
Borrowing some of that earlier bravado that had given me a backbone, I put my key into the door, twisting it quickly before I do something ridiculous and hightail it back to the arena.
I can’t let them have this.
I can’t let some faceless psychopath steal my peace like this.