Page 25 of Altius (The Scent of Victory #2)

Sixteen

Morgan

C al and Wyatt hauled trash bags out of my ruined nest. The conference championship game played on the laptop on the credenza near the door, flanked by several trays of snacks, including chips and salsa, candy, and vegetables. Simpler than Kelsey’s usual party fare, but enough to keep us going.

The gift bags from Wyatt and Cal’s sweaters were safely hidden in my closet for the time being. After Kelsey finished performing her stylish witchcraft, I was tempted to create a permanent space for their offerings.

Who doesn’t want a secret reliquary of cashmere, hot sauce, and high fantasy?

“Do you want to keep the green theme?” Kelsey asked, lounging on the extra-wide mattress in a baggy retro sweater and leggings. She was browsing home decor websites on her laptop between bites of licorice.

“You know I don’t care.” I was hunkered down in the corner, struggling to remove a salvageable piece of art from its ruined frame.

“But can I get you to care long enough to approve adding a mini fridge?”

Digging a nail under the stuck backing clip, I pushed and prodded in vain. “Not going to be in the mood to eat.”

“Now I remember why I let Jacobi handle your nest in the first place. You made the process impossible.”

“What?” The frame clattered back to the floor. It was not a good day for dexterity. “How is giving you free rein making this difficult?”

“Because you’re the worst kind of client. You say anything’s fine, but your definition of anything is incredibly narrow. I can’t just go wild, like full-blown goth or beige bohemian. You’d freak.”

“Goth could be fun.” Wyatt squatted beside me, taking the problematic picture frame and promptly dismantling it.

“You mean kinky,” I whispered, earning an enthusiastic nod and salacious grin.

He’d admirably performed his temporary roles as my no-nonsense workout buddy and reliable chauffeur—when Kelsey or Cal didn’t have reason to step in—but I kept noticing his gaze lingering on my mouth.

And he’d submitted all the requisite heat-related paperwork three hours before the others.

I was worried he was reading too much into the heat invitation. Same for Joaquin and Alijah. I’d have to stick to my guns and be clear about my boundaries. My heat was just that, a heat. Not a green light for further romantic entanglements.

Maybe a yellow light, I admitted, covertly admiring the fluid motion of Wyatt’s toned forearms.

Thankfully, Owen was on board for policing the rest of his pack. Well, almost pack.

It was becoming a bad habit of mine, lumping all five of them under the same heading.

“What about Art Deco?” Cal asked, removing a broken sconce cover from the wall. “Could tie into the existing green nicely.”

“It’s…an idea,” Kelsey said diplomatically.

Shoving broken frame pieces into a garbage bag, I said, “Don’t listen to him. He painted three rooms in his condo the same shade of midnight blue, and now he thinks he’s a home decorating genius.”

“I thought you didn’t have opinions about paint colors, sweetheart,” Cal teased.

“See,” Kelsey said, piling on with glee, “the worst type of client. The half-asleep backseat driver.”

“Oh, shut up,” I grumbled, futilely tugging at another picture backing.

Wyatt’s nimble fingers came to my rescue once again.

It wasn’t my day, but things would get better. They had to.

Cheers erupted from the laptop speakers. The announcer’s voice went up three octaves.

“Narwhals at the ten… The five… Touchdown! And here comes Choi for the field goal… It’s up—and it’s good! Northport leads Wakeland State, twenty-four to fourteen, with seven minutes left in the third quarter.”

See? Already looking up.

***

“Do you smell that?” Reyhan asked, giving the air of the indoor practice field a few tentative sniffs.

My spine went rigid. Was the culprit responsible for the pheromone spikes nearby? I looked up from my tablet, as serious as a heart attack, only to find Reyhan doing his best not to laugh.

Glaring at him over the rims of my glasses, I asked, “What?”

“Your phone. It’s burning a hole in your vest pocket.”

“Ignore it.” I certainly had been. On multiple fronts.

It started Monday morning when Owen’s assistant emailed me several dozen studies and white papers related to vocalization. More than enough information to tide me over for weeks, but the emails hadn’t stopped. They kept coming, one after the other, for three entire days.

Owen also fast-tracked my access to Redwing’s internal library and added me to the distribution list for several leading industry publications.

The most verbose apology in the history of the world.

At least it was an unobtrusive avalanche, since I’d created a new filter, automatically moving anything from Owen or his assistant to a separate folder to review later.

The text messages were a different matter.

What had started as an innocent text from Kelsey, asking the guys what drinks and snacks they’d like to have on hand during my heat, had evolved into a full-blown meal-planning bonanza between her, Alijah, and Cal.

But the real culprit was my favorite menace.

Jacobi was in rare form, having recovered from his prolonged mood and irked by my vengeful radio silence. His need for attention had grown ravenous, demanding to know everything about my upcoming heat while simultaneously pretending he knew more than my actual designation counselor.

How many guys did you wind up picking?

I never settle for anything less than six. Think that was part of your problem last time. Not enough variety.

You should use my safe word: flic-flac. It’s more distinctive than red light.

Not that I’ve ever needed to use it.

Ignoring Reyhan’s amused expression, I turned off the vibration function on my phone.

The only reason it was still on was that university human resources had yet to confirm the interview date and time I’d selected from their invitation email.

They’d confirmed Reyhan’s appointment via text two hours ago.

We’d both applied for the sports medicine physician position, but neither of us held out much hope of making it to the second round.

Tucking my phone back into my coat pocket, I returned my attention to my tablet, fingers slipping as I adjusted my hold. My view accidentally switched to special teams. A bright red exclamation pulsed next to Landon’s name.

My breath caught, but I maintained my outward calm.

“Reyhan.” I showed him the screen, scanning the field for any sign of the team’s star kicker. “I don’t see him.”

“He was right there.” Reyhan pointed to the far end of the field, where the punter was practicing kicks. “Like five minutes ago.”

“Okay.” A plan of action rapidly came together in my head.

“Let’s split up. Can you tell the guys from Designation Services what’s happening, then head to the equipment room?

I’m going to check the locker room and the omega lounge.

We don’t need to catch them. Just pay attention to who’s in the area and if you pick up any weird pheromone signatures. ”

“And if I find an incensed alpha?” he asked nervously.

“Call security.” I patted him on the shoulder. “So, keep your phone handy.”

I headed toward the locker room entrance at a healthy clip, a little faster than my usual pace but not fast enough to seem suspicious. As I walked, scanning for any signs of Landon, I texted a brief update to Cal and Dr. McEwen.

I was content to pretend my boyfriend wouldn’t make me regret charging off like this. Maybe not this week or next—we had a heat to get through—but he’d collect his toll eventually.

After two passes around the locker room, I headed into the taping area, intending to cut through the hydrotherapy room to the omega athletes’ lounge.

Raised voices from the team meeting room changed my trajectory. I came to a stop just outside the door.

“It’s your own fault!” The voice had a pleasant, slightly reedy timbre, even when angry. I recognized it as Landon’s.

“Since when did borrowing your chemistry notes come with a lecture?” The second voice was deeper, with a bit of an emotional wobble—Tyler.

“Since you fucked up your hand, just like you fucked up your ACL. What happened to holding back during practice?”

“I tried, man, I tried. It’s just not my style. I like going for the kill every time. Didn’t mean to get hurt.”

“No one does. But you’ve made some other shitty decisions off the field, too, haven’t you? Starting with not listening to Morgan.”

“Yeah, I know, I know. Let the whole omega thing cloud my judgment.”

“The omega thing?” Landon’s voice went up an octave. “The fuck’s that supposed to mean?”

“I don’t mean you! You’re—you’re different, okay?”

“What, because I’m a dude?” Landon’s voice got louder, angrier—and closer. “Are you shitting me right now? You ran around with all that extra tape and padding on your hand because you don’t think an omega woman can be a doctor?”

“No, but—I mean, kind of, at first… Don’t look at me like that. I’m not the only one!”

Deciding that I’d heard more than enough, I backed away. Returning to the taping area, I set my phone and tablet on a table, taking another look at Landon’s data.

The pheromone spike had a similar intensity to the others but was much shorter. Less intentional.

I pulled up Tyler’s data. There were a few spikes, including one just now, when Landon challenged him. A completely different pattern from the pheromone bombs. It wasn’t malicious. Simply evidence of an argument between friends.

After texting a false alarm message to Cal and the others, I stared at Tyler’s real-time pheromone emissions, watching them dip and peak, over and over, like a heartbeat.

What if—

“Hey there, um, Morgan.” Coach Garvey stood a few feet away, looking flustered despite trying to project casual bravado.

The most unwelcome interruption at the worst possible moment, allowing what might have been a critical thought to leak out of my brain.

My temper flared, about to tell him off—until I realized Garvey might be our culprit. Just as Cal and I first suspected.