14. Kallis
Kallis
My friends back home say how jealous they are that I get to examine shirtless hockey players while on my sabbatical, but they don’t know about the three in particular that vex me the most.
Even just thinking about them has me shuffling my hips in my desk chair.
I didn’t come here for them. I think to myself as my eyes scan the documents before me.
On top of treating players and learning from the other members of the Bears’ staff, the management training means an extra hour of work every night. It will pay off in the end, especially since I can stay late at The Woods to complete it.
The Bears were overexcited about beating the Riders three days ago, which caused more injuries during today’s practice than I’d seen before, so I have concerns. But their version of ‘injury’ is much different from mine.
I could have studied in my home office, but after the moment with Mathan, the house had become alien, so I came to The Woods instead.
That feeling of otherness was why I’ve begun to bring parts of my nest into my office, and it’s made a huge difference to my anxiety when I’m treating the players.
The pillow I sit on, the blanket draped over the back of my chair, six potted succulents I’ve had since my internship, and small trinkets I’ve collected throughout my life.
My gaze dances over the keyring hanging from the hook over my desktop of the sigil that Mathan has tattooed on his chest, and another sigh of frustration drops from me as my heart squeezes.
That’s been happening too often, and it’s gotten worse since I was surrounded by Orso, Mathan, and Artie.
If I go up to Mathan and say, ‘I want to talk to you,’ he’ll probably think I’m angry about something.
But saying ‘I really enjoyed your company’ could work.
Or if I just bluntly told him I want to hear more stories about Socair, would that be enough to get him to sit down and inspire that feeling of home in me again?
With my heat due in five weeks, everything has become more difficult, to the point that I’m managing my physical discomfort by pleasuring myself every other hour during the night.
I’ve never been so sensitive before, so weak to the sway of my omega side, and my suppressants are doing nothing to quell my libido.
I’ve had two heats between meeting the team and joining them for their pre-season training, and I’m still embarrassed about how much I pined for the three of them. I took care of it myself rather than meeting up with rutting alphas, but it was a struggle, to say the least.
I’ve told myself I can get through my next heat, as well. All I need to do is endure the season, and then I won’t have to be bound by these alphas. I’ve already requested time off for it, specifically when they are at away games, so I don’t give in to temptation and ask them to join me.
It doesn’t matter how delightful they smell or look; they are off-limits as long as I want to succeed on my own.
But my omega side has other ideas.
The words blur and merge as I try to focus on the importance of cohesive management systems. But the problem with the medical office is that it is at the far end of the corridor that also contains the locker rooms.
And I know what kinds of scents are in there.
Curling my toes, clenching my jaw, rolling my shoulders; they aren’t enough to distract me from the main appeal that’s summoning me.
The lights in the building are still on, and, even though the security guards say they never check the internal CCTV unless there’s an incident, I know it’s the most stupid thing I can do.
But it’s been weeks of not being able to sleep because the scents of clover, wildflowers, and freshly cut grass chase me wherever I go. And I missed out by choosing to run from them the moment I had a chance.
Just one scent.
That’s what I tell myself as I abandon my work and sneak down the corridor. I can be fast. In and out. Just one scent to fill me up, and then I’ll leave it alone until my heat.
They have a full examination with brain scans next week, so I can get another whiff of them then. Then that will be it.
Nerves flutter in my stomach as I leave my office, stride down the corridor, and open the door to the locker rooms, and the scent of sweaty alphas instantly slams into me.
Freezing, I nearly choke, gripping the handle as I force myself to breathe through my mouth. Strands and strands of scents twist around me, lashing out, demanding attention in the sweat-laden room. It’s so chaotic that my mind spins and I almost bolt. How do they deal with it when it’s so potent?
I’ve treated enough of them as they step off the ice to know how they reek, but this is insane.
I assumed they laundered their clothes, but as I step inside, I see the padding, skates, and helmets line up in rows along the benches, and the smell makes perfect sense.
Among the thick musk are three scents that stand out stronger than anything, and I lick my lips. I’d already decided on this path, so I’ll persevere.
I single out the strands I want, as if they are lines in the air leading me to them. Orso is on my left, and at the farthest wall float Mathan and Artie’s.
My ponytail sweeps the back of my neck as I side-step to the cubby where Orso’s kit sits. I appreciate the open booths, because it means I don’t need to wrestle with locks or doors.
A single inhale is all I need for a whimper to tear from me as I almost lose my balance. Clover floods me as I lean forward, closer to his kit.
I grasp my wrist and quickly stop myself from stealing an abandoned shirt that Orso has balled up and thrown into the back underneath his skates. His clover is thick, and I’m so hungry that I want to bend over, curl up in the cubby, and just bury myself in his clothes.
My gaze jumps over his uniform, the feeling of intimacy blooming within me at the sight of this unfiltered part of him.
I’ve made it this far in life without alphas, and I can’t let it change now. So I have no excuse as I push myself up and sneak toward Mathan and Artie’s cubbies.
As I move nearer, I’m already shaking, because their scents are so rich that it’s like they are there with me, coating the back of my throat.
It’s not simply the potent scent that stems from their hours of practice. They are laced with deep desire that pounds in my body, curling through my core, and my pussy aches despite not even touching their clothes.
I’m standing in front of their cubbies, and the blend of grass and wildflowers is so powerful that my legs give way, and I grab the divider to stop myself from falling. A whine pours from me as I tremble, gasping for another breath.
Why are theirs so much stronger? Why are they beating into me like I have my face pressed against their necks as moans ring from them?
How do I manage to treat them when they come off the ice when I’m affected by them like this? My response can’t just be because I feel an even stronger connection to Mathan now after we’ve talked.
It’s so addictive that I’m sure I’m going to slick. It doesn’t matter how many suppressants I take when the match is this intense and their scents are layered on so thickly.
I can’t stop the bolts of need that burn through me, but I mustn’t perfume. If anyone finds out that an omega has perfumed in the men’s locker room, they’ll check the cameras instantly.
I shouldn’t even have taken this kind of risk, but this scent is exactly what I’ve been searching for for my nest.
At the sides of their booths sits a small stack of Goldie bars that they have to eat every week. The players complain about how much they carry the oat bars around, and there are large boxes in the center of the room that used to hold a thousand Goldies, though it is still mostly untouched.
There are at least ten in each pile, and I haven’t heard anyone say they enjoy more than one flavor. I’m obligated to keep a bar in my breast pocket during matches since I appear on camera, but I have yet to partake.
Since there are so many, Orso, Mathan, and Artie shouldn’t notice if I take a Goldie from each of them.
I swipe the top bar from Mathan and Artie’s cubbies, bringing them to my chest like treasures.
Another whimper drops from me as I rush back to the door, stealing a bar from Orso’s pile before fleeing.
I’ll just take them to my nest and leave them beside my succulents, and the scent-blocking mister I have in my office should clear out my slick by the time work starts tomorrow.
I’m certain my plan is infallible. But what I don’t expect as I dart through the door with a triumphant smile is to slam into a wall of hard, masculine muscle.