19. Alphas In The Wild
Chapter nineteen
Alphas In The Wild
“See?” I wave my feet in the air and push myself off the exam table. “I told you I was fine.”
Carter looks at Mina for a response. The team doctor shrugs. “I have no concerns.”
“Great.” I eye my alpha cautiously. “Actually, Mina, I was wondering if I could have a word about Carter’s schedule? I just want to make sure I’m doing everything I need to.”
“Sure.” Mina glances down at her charts. “I’m tied up after this, though. Can I find you later?”
“What are you doing now?” Carter draws me in outside her office, his eyes resting on my egg-shaped bump. It’s glorious. I’ve never felt so attractive. “I always wondered how unicorns spend their days.”
I swat at him lightly. “I want to do some voiceovers. I’ve got an idea for a nature show. Documentary-style but with hockey players. Gonna sit in the stands for some inspiration, so give me the good stuff.”
His forehead wrinkles in confusion. “That sounds… petrifying, actually.”
It’s going to be incredible. He pecks my lips and slides his keys into the pocket of my jumpsuit. “Liam wanted to talk before we hit the ice, so I’ll see you at home. Call if you need me.”
“’kay.”
I’m watching the practice when Lauren slips into the seat beside me. “How are you feeling?”
“I’m fine.” If I close one eye, I can actually see the lump. It blocks my view of the ice. “Sorry I dipped out last night.”
“Don’t worry about it. It was a good night. They happen a lot?”
“Team dinner? Yeah.” I stare hard at the rink. Martin yells as the team moves into place for battle drills. Jonas checks Ryker with his stick, tipping him over. “It’s good to bond outside of this place, you know?”
“I get it. It was nice to meet everyone.” She sips at her coffee, and I try not to glare at it. Apparently the gift-giving stage has now passed, since my hands are very much empty. “What are you working on?”
I tip the notebook in my hands, showing her my scrawls. “I had this idea for a nature documentary-style voiceover series. Players in their natural habitats. We can drop it in between the game highlights.”
“Huh.”
I wait. That didn’t sound like a wow, Rosie, that’s a brilliant idea, you master of all things socials, let me worship at your feet compliment. “You don’t like it?”
I’m actually disappointed, because I read her strategy and it was, indeed, fucking perfect.
At the flatness in my voice, her brows fly up. “Uh, no. Sorry. I can’t think and talk. I think it’s great, actually. We could build up a real audience for it. Get a jingle made up, release it in targeted episodes. Do you need a budget?”
My eyes narrow. I never get a budget. “Can I have one?”
“Cost it up and we’ll talk.” Her smile spreads at my surprise. “What? It’s good, Rosie. I told you, I like your content.”
I suck on my cheek. “Are you saying that because—”
“No.” Color flares on her cheeks. “I told you. This is a separate thing. My work is… it’s important to me.”
I nod slowly. “Just asking.”
I reach over and yank the strategy from my bag, handing it over. “This was good. And believe me when I say I tried to find holes in it. I was ready to go to work with my special red pen.”
Her laugh is unexpectedly loud, followed by a flush of embarrassment. “At least you’re honest.”
“Yeah, well.” I turn back to the rink. “My work’s important to me, too.”
She tucks it carefully into another huge dark green bag. “I’m meeting Ness and Dick later, so that’s helpful. You’ll be at dinner?”
“Obviously,” I say drily. “If I’m invited.”
“I didn’t mean—”
“Relax.” I settle back into my chair. “I’ll be there. It’s only leftovers, though. Fridge is full of them.”
“Oh.” Her brow knots together. “Yeah. Sure.”
If she doesn’t like leftovers, she’s going to be heavily disappointed in the majority of my meal planning. Gourmet chef is probably somewhere in the middle of her impressive resume. “Something wrong?”
“It’s fine.” She’s looking out at the ice. “I’ll… see you later.”
I stare after her as she grabs her bag and takes off.
Weird.
***
I pour myself a giant glass of wine before starting dinner.
I have a feeling I might need it, if last night’s performance was any sign. Sliding into a stool at the island, I pull my glass toward me and stare into it, trying to gather some energy before everybody else comes home. To build some armor for whatever’s coming.
My finger pushes into a few stray scarlet drops scattered across the white marble.
“It could be worse,” I explain to my wine. “She could be a psychopath.”
I’m not so sure it would be worse, though. I could hate that omega. She could be a villain, and I could be a bitch, and we’d probably tear each other apart.
At least it would feel like I was doing something. I look around at the empty stools. Instead, it feels like I’m becoming a bystander in my own life. Sidelined.
And I can’t even hate her.
Frowning, I pull out my phone and search.
Rejecting a scent match.
Page after page of results pop up. At the top is the NOC official site, decked out in pretty soft colors. It’s irritating as fuck. As if any of us would fall for that when the NOC is a cesspit for ruined omegas and broken dreams.
Cute color palette, though. I flick through the rose-pink front page and click on one of the help articles, taking a large gulp of wine.
Rejection of a scent-match once acknowledged is rare.
More’s the pity. I keep reading.
Side effects include muscle wasting, bone fragility, scent acridity, sickness and nausea and severe migraines.
In severe cases, match rejection can act as a gateway for more serious illnesses to develop due to a heavily compromised immune system.
Both alphas and omegas are affected, though omegas are disproportionately affected due to biological imbalances.
Match rejection is considered a chronic illness under NOC and federal law. Help is available.
Anyone considering a rejection should reach out to us. We have resources available to help.
I slam the phone down on the table and run my hands over my face. “Jesus.”
It only serves to confirm what I already knew. Lauren isn’t going anywhere.
I’m not an option for Jonas and Liam anymore. Not on my own. Leaning forward, I read the next few lines.
It is possible for an alpha to temporarily delay acceptance of a scent-match.
My lips part. Maybe—
This is not recommended and can cause long-term health issues if not carefully managed.
“Fucks’ sake,” I mutter, grabbing for my wine. “Give me a little hope, you assholes.”
There’s nothing, though. Nothing except dire warnings. I lose myself in a study on long-term health in rejected omegas that leaves my stomach churning and my wine bottle emptied. Anxiety claws at my chest, and I don’t have a fucking scent match.
I hope I never do, if that’s what I have to look forward to. The NOC must have a whack of a budget, because all I ever see is fairytale stories of happy endings.
I found my scent match on a deserted island after a plane crash where I was the only survivor!
I fell over—and into the arms of my scent-match!
My scent-match was my sister’s new boyfriend—and mine was hers!
I hiccup, remembering reading that last one. Absolutely wild, but they seemed happy. If slightly bewildered.
I need more wine. I look at the clock as I reach into the fridge, but my hand stops a few inches from the fresh bottle.
I definitely lost track of time.
I stare exaggeratedly—a little intoxicated-ly—around my kitchen. No sign of any alphas, scent-matched or otherwise. Slamming the door, I tap my nails against the counter.
They could be at the rink. Completely possible.
But it’s nearly eight.
And there’s no sign of Lauren either.
My fingers creep toward my phone.
***
“Alphas, where art thou?”
I fling my arm toward the ceiling. Which appears to be moving. My drawn in breath is interrupted by a painful hiccup. I close one eye, but the movement only gets worse. I slap a hand over my eyes.
“Methinks—hic—thou art a general offense.” I scowl up at it. “And every alpha should beat thee.”
My arms flop out on either side of me. This is surprisingly comfortable. My hand floats around, searching for my phone, before I remember I dropped it after the phone call.
The third, or the eighth. I squint. I don’t seem to recall.
Where’s my wine?
“Ro?” A face appears over mine. “What are you doing?”
I glare at it. "Quit my sight! Thy bones are marrowless, thy blood is cold.”
Silence follows my declaration.
“Is she alright?”
The whisper makes me try to sit up, but the whole room turns upside down. I decide it’s safer to stay where I am.
“She went through a Shakespeare phase,” someone says dryly. It sounds a lot like one of my feckless, abandoning, deserting alphas. My eyes start to prickle. “She likes to quote it sometimes.”
“After too much wine.” Another face appears with eyes like a storm-filled sky. Liam looks annoyed. “What the hell, Rosie?”
I poke him in the eye. “Thou hast no speculation in those eyes, which thou dost glare at your omega with. Asshole."
Lauren clears her throat. “I mean… that’s a pretty impressive skill.”
“Thank you.” I swing my finger in her general direction. “I’m glad someone in this pack appreciates my talents.”
“Come on, Romeo.” Carter grabs my arms and tugs me upright. He tries to look in my eyes, but I hiccup at him. “I don’t think the wine was the best idea with a head injury. Why are you lying on top of our kitchen island?”
I vaguely recall a dramatic thought about sacrifice and empty tables, but I can’t quite define it now. “Where were you?”
I should have stuck with Shakespeare. That sounded pitiful. “I tried to call you.”
Even smaller. And now there are tears. I try to swallow them back.
“We took Lauren out for dinner,” Liam says shortly.
Swiping my eyes, I try to focus on them. Carter pushes a glass of water into my hands. “Drink this for me.”
I down it in one. It helps a little. I take in Liam’s gunmetal gray shirt collar. The dark overcoat I bought him for Christmas last year. The watch he only wears on special occasions. Jonas shifts closer to Lauren, tugging on the lapel of his camel jacket.