Page 16 of Altius (The Scent of Victory #2)

I tabbed through a few more players. No one had released enough pheromones to match the culprit’s intensity or duration.

Frustrated, I locked the tablet screen and returned it to Cal. He swapped it for my glove.

“Do you think Redwing applying pressure will help?” I asked.

“I don’t know. But when Tabitha wants answers, she usually gets them.” Cal angled his back toward the tunnel entrance, obscuring the gloved hand caressing my cheek. “All we can do right now is watch and wait. Maybe they’ll calm down during halftime.”

And maybe they wouldn’t.

“Are Alijah and Wyatt safe?” I asked.

They’d hovered around me for most of the game, only separating when I needed to assess a potential injury. I was surprised they hadn’t followed us into the tunnel.

“They should be,” Cal said, “but I’d feel better if they stuck close to one of us. Reyhan and Dr. McEwen, too.”

“Same.”

I gave in to temptation, resting my forehead against the solid expanse of his chest—a momentary reprieve interrupted by Garroway Forest scoring a touchdown, filling the stadium with jeers and boos.

Knowing we only had a few seconds left together, I opted to be bold. “Are you free later?”

“How much later?” he asked with a suggestive grin.

“I was thinking somewhere in the vicinity of all night.”

“Count me in.” Cal tweaked my nose and took a step back. “Gives me plenty of time to search for the maroon cardigan that vanished in your bathroom.”

“Don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said, walking past him with a perfectly composed expression, emerging onto the sideline just in time to see our offense take the field.

Cal paused next to me. “Going to go look for Wyatt and Alijah. Meet up at the PheroPass tent after you get your people?”

“Be there as soon as I can,” I said with a nod, but my eyes were fixed on the video screens, watching our guys take their positions.

What if our offensive line was as off-kilter as the defense?

We parted, heading in opposite directions.

Hoping Dr. McEwen was still near the medical supply cabinet, I cut through the crowd, but Reyhan snagged me before I made much progress. The panic in his eyes said everything. I nodded.

“Shit.” He pulled off his hat, exposing his mussed hair to the bitter wind. “Just—shit.”

Reyhan roughly pulled his hat down over his ears, then sighed. “Is there a plan?”

“Coaches won’t pull the affected players, so Cal wants us to gather at the PheroPass tent. That way, we’ll know immediately if anything changes.”

The stadium erupted as our quarterback found an open receiver twenty-six yards down the field. As the line of scrimmage moved forward, so did the crowd of players and coaches, carrying us along with the current.

One second, Reyhan was in front of me. The next, he was gone, swallowed by the crowd.

“Reyhan,” I called, straining to look for him.

A blunt force slammed into my back.

I staggered forward, bumping into random arms and hips, fighting to regain my balance, terrified of what would happen if I hit the ground.

Everyone was too riled up. I wouldn’t just get stepped on—I’d be trampled.

A powerful arm wrapped around my waist, pulling me against a solid chest.

“Watch it,” Wyatt half-snarled, holding me close as he stared down a much taller assistant coach.

The glacial pallor of his eyes caught me off guard.

Our minimal height difference left me defenseless against his unleashed dominance, stealing my breath and weakening my knees. I had no choice but to grip the front of his coat to steady myself.

“Sorry, man. Didn’t see her,” the coach apologized and hurried off.

But Wyatt’s protective edge refused to recede, cold gaze still fixed on the coach’s retreating back.

“I’m okay,” I said, fighting to regain my balance. “He didn’t mean it.”

“Bullshit.”

Strong hands gripped the sides of my hips, a possessive touch that felt like a brand despite the layers of insulated clothing between his gloved hand and my skin.

“I’m okay. Probably just put on too much scent-canceling spray. Alphas can’t see what they can’t scent, right?”

Wyatt’s jaw ticked, unwilling to take his eyes off the perceived threats surrounding us. They moved from the coach who bumped into me to anyone else who got too close—a referee, a cameraman, Coach Garvey.

He even sneered at Amir Okorie, the omega linebacker and one of my staunchest allies among the players.

Discreetly slipping my hand inside his unzipped jacket, I rubbed his side. The longer I touched him, the less tense he became.

Swallowing hard, Wyatt seemed to return to his senses. His hands shifted from my hips to grip me firmly by the pockets of my coat, anchoring me against the muscled mass of his torso.

“Is it always like this?” he asked in a hoarse whisper.

“No. Today’s—not good.” Angling my head, I met his gaze. “So, stay with me. You can add bodyguard to your resume along with chauffeur.”

He nodded, redoubling his grip on my coat. “But I want something in return.”

Erratic tingles scraped against the inside of my ribcage.

It should be a straightforward request—Wyatt wasn’t like Joaquin, after all. He’d ask for something normal, like another pie or an audiobook download.

But the covetous haze ringing his irises unnerved me. His hold was too unyielding, his demeanor too forward.

Confident to the point of being formidable.

Like I had only ever seen him in competition. When he was determined to win.

Another round of whistles and flags resulted in a five-yard penalty against Garroway Forest—an automatic first down.

Wyatt took advantage of the momentary distraction to snake a hand up my side and around the back of my neck, removing my scarf with a swift tug.

“What are you—”

“Alpha repellent,” Wyatt said gruffly, yanking off his scarf.

He wrapped the overheated green wool around my neck. It was drenched with sweat, clinging to my bare skin, no doubt drenching me with his boxwood pheromones.

Scent marking me .

Wyatt Redmond scent marked me.

In front of eighty-five thousand people. On the sideline of a crucial football game, while I was on the clock. After we signed a legally binding fraternization addendum, attesting that he was nothing but a helpful driver for the next few weeks.

I couldn’t breathe—could scarcely think.

And I couldn’t even be mad with him because I’d already crossed the line with Cal earlier.

Distance. That was the only solution. It was too crowded to put more than an extra step between us, but I still tried.

“We’re in public.”

“I know,” Wyatt said, tugging on my pocket, pulling me against him again. “But you finally smell the way you should—like us .”

I stared at his symmetrical features and dense brows, watching as his full lower lip morphed into a shit-eating grin and the ice in his gaze thawed.

How I wished we were alone so that I could tear into him without restraint.

Make him admit to his faults and apologize. Maybe kiss him into submission. Until he swore never to do anything so brainless in the future.

To never leave me again.

“Morgan!” Reyhan’s voice dispelled my irrational thoughts.

Suddenly remembering the urgency of our current situation, I reached down, forcing Wyatt to let me go.

We needed to get to the PheroPass tent. Now.

Taking a shuddering breath, which only seemed to knock me more off-balance, I shuffled backward. Wyatt didn’t hesitate to follow, invading my personal space.

This new, foreign persistence overwhelmed me—it almost felt like blatant pursuit.

When did Wyatt learn how to make the first move?

“Stop it,” I demanded.

“What’s got you rattled? And I don’t mean this,” he said, gesturing between us. “Let me help. Bodyguard, remember?”

I glanced over his shoulder at the approaching Reyhan, then said in a hissing whisper, “Stay close and let me know if you see—or smell—anything weird. And no touching.”

“Got it.”

Weaving between crowded bodies, we reunited with Reyhan.

“There you are! What happened—”

Reyhan’s attention abruptly locked onto the scarf around my neck, which radiated alpha possessiveness. More questions poured out of his expressive eyes.

But this time, I didn’t know how to answer him.

“It’s just a safety precaution,” Wyatt said casually, as if the scarf meant nothing, despite his chest swelling with self-satisfaction. “To keep people from running into Morgan.”

Reyhan reached for my arm, hand freezing a few inches short, deterred by the protective shield of Wyatt’s pheromones.

“Did you get hurt?”

“No. Don’t worry about it.”

More whistles drew my attention to the field.

Garroway Forest stopped the Narwhal’s drive at the eighteen-yard line. Landon took to the field and sent the ball through the uprights with ease.

A split second after his kicking foot returned to the ground, a Garroway Forest player fell backward against Landon’s side, knocking him to the turf.

“Oh no,” Reyhan said, pressing his hands to his mouth.

Coaches and other players pushed forward. Wyatt moved closer, shielding my back from the agitated crowd.

I unconsciously grabbed his arm, eyes locked on the video boards, searching for any sign of injury, ready to spring into action—and waiting for the penalty flag.

But it didn’t come.

“What the hell?” Reyhan looked at me in confusion.

Tyler Hartsen pressed closer, wearing his jersey and warm-up clothes, his fractured hand resting against his chest in a sling. “It’s not a penalty. Landon already kicked the ball, and both feet were down before the other guy fell into him. It was accidental contact.”

Few players shared Tyler’s pragmatism, even after Landon walked off the field, reassuring everyone that he was all right.

Reyhan and I still herded him into the medical exam tent for a quick but thorough once-over, anyhow. Wyatt stood guard at the entrance.

The Narwhals’ defensive line was almost foaming at the mouth as they assembled at the line of scrimmage, hurling themselves at Garroway Forest. They drove the offensive line back seven yards, then twelve.

I rejoined Wyatt as the refs called third down. A big play from our team could end the drive and return possession of the ball to the Narwhals.

“Hut, hut—hike!” The Garroway Forest quarterback ran backward, eyes tracking a receiver darting downfield.

With a few violent shoves, a Northport player—Knox, the penalty magnet—broke through the writhing mass of bodies at the line of scrimmage. Even two Garroway Forest players holding onto his arm and leg couldn’t stop him as he charged forward.

The quarterback tried to scramble away, but he wasn’t fast enough. A merciless war cry drowned out the crowd noise. Knox barreled into the quarterback’s legs with unchecked alpha ferocity.

The violent crash of pads meeting flesh. A sickening squelch. The gut-churning snap of bone. One surprised, bleating cry—and the quarterback collapsed.

Silence blanketed the stadium.

Writhing on the ground, screaming in agony, the quarterback clutched his lower leg, which was bent at a grotesque angle.

Reyhan gasped in horror.

One of our players doubled over, dry heaving. More than a few of his teammates looked tempted to do the same.

The referees carried on about their business, engaging in a farcical display of blowing their whistles and throwing their symbolically shallow flags.

“Fuck,” Garvey spat, hurling his clipboard against the ground.

Direct hits to the knees were illegal. Knox might have cost the Narwhals the game.

Tyler stared at the quarterback with a peculiar, almost pleased gleam in his eyes. Yet another victim of the surging pheromones on the Northport sideline.

My first instinct was to rush onto the field, but Wyatt held me tight. His touch grounded me.

I needed to wait for Dr. McEwen’s orders before offering to assist the opposing team, no matter how badly I wanted to help the poor kid.

Knox ripped off his helmet with a feral snarl, eyes bulging, neck veins throbbing, holding his arms aloft with perverse pride—taunting the stricken Garroway Forest players as they stood in a protective circle around their fallen teammate.

The other Northport players surrounded Knox, crowing at the tops of their lungs, delivering congratulatory punches and slaps.

A bloodthirsty cabal rejoicing in their pheromone-fueled oblivion.