Page 52 of Altius (The Scent of Victory #2)

Thirty-Three

Morgan

“ L et’s go, let’s go, let’s go!” Coaches spurred on the defensive linemen Thursday afternoon, as they pushed tackle sleds behind the end zone.

The starting and backup quarterbacks lobbed easy passes to a steady stream of receivers while hype music pumped through the stadium speakers. Players joked and danced between running plays.

After a successful fifty-yard kick, Landon jumped into the air and clicked his heels together.

The team’s energy was good. Spirits were high. Too bad they weren’t favored to win on Saturday.

“Yeah, that’s how you do it!” Tyler beat his chest, not hesitating to get in the face of the backup nose tackle. “Watch and learn, son. Watch and learn!”

Pulling up his pheromone tracking report, I sighed. Tyler had been spiked. Again.

“Hartsen?” Dr. McEwen asked, arms crossed, tendons flexed, mouth tense.

I nodded.

Staring at the domed ceiling, he exhaled and walked away, muttering obscenities under his breath. He hated being forced to play possum like this. But our hands were tied.

The university and Redwing were still squabbling over the potential scope of the investigation. It didn’t help that the university president had put off Tabitha’s request for a personal meeting until next week.

Meanwhile, these kids were running around, feeling fantastic about their performance, without any idea they’d been spiked.

The university was playing a dangerous game.

One that I trusted Tabitha and Owen would end on their terms. Eventually.

“Smells funny in here.” Alijah sidled up to me, nose wrinkled, fussing with his camera settings. “It’s like grass, except that it’s too grassy. Almost fake. Plasticky.”

“Might be a turf treatment,” I said.

Raising his camera, Alijah took a few photographs of the defensive line. “Well, whatever it is, it stinks.”

Figuring any lead was worth pursuing, no matter how illogical, I asked, “Would you classify it as oppressive or unusually strong, or more—”

“For fuck’s sake.” A few feet away, Coach Garvey turned around, beady eyes locking onto me, drawing the attention of a dozen players nearby. “Stop being so paranoid, sweetie. There’s no fucking pheromone bomber. I mean, it’s cute and all, watching you sniff around like a well-trained bitch—”

“Hey—” Alijah started, taking a step forward, intending to defend me.

I held him back.

“What’s the matter, beta?” Garvey jeered. “Can’t take a joke?”

Clutching at Alijah’s arm, I whispered, “Let it go. He’s not worth it.”

“What’s a pheromone bomb?” one of the players asked. “Is it a new play or something?”

“Coach,” Amir interjected, “Tyler’s starting shit.”

Garvey hurried toward the stand-off near the practice sleds, where Tyler was getting in Knox’s face.

Knox grabbed Tyler’s jersey in retaliation and punched him square in the face. A black eye was all but guaranteed.

“You fucker!” Tyler went nuts, pummeling Knox’s torso with his fists.

Coaches and other players rushed over, trying to separate them, as they hurled vicious jabs and kicks at each other.

A knot formed in my stomach when I spotted a local reporter hovering nearby, taking a photo of the fight between Knox and Tyler.

Was it possible they overheard what Garvey said? What if they started asking the university and Redwing questions about the pheromone bombings?

I pulled up my phone, hurriedly typing out the contents of Garvey’s conversation and the names of every player and staff member in the immediate vicinity before I forgot.

“What the hell did he mean?” Alijah covertly gripped the hem of my shirt. “Is something going on? Is Garvey threatening you?”

“I can’t tell you the details.”

“But that asshole knows?”

“Alijah.” I wrapped my fingers around his wrist and gave it a reassuring squeeze. “I would tell you everything if I could. But I’m under an NDA with Redwing. So’s Garvey, and I think he just violated it.”

“But he said—”

“Stop.” I tugged on his wrist. “Pretend you didn’t hear anything. At least until I have Owen’s permission to tell you.”

“He’ll say no. Or he won’t reply.” Alijah pulled away, choking on a disparaging laugh. “You’d think Redwing ran the damn pack instead of him.”

“Let me ask, just to be on the safe side. But I promise you’re not in danger.”

“Me?” His black eyes were bottomless pools of anguish. “Forget about me! It’s you. That’s what I’m worried about. You .”

Stepping closer, he almost pulled me into his arms. But he couldn’t. There were too many eyes turned in our direction.

Alijah rubbed his forehead in frustration. “I cannot wait for them to lose this game, so you never have to deal with this bullshit again.”

Dr. McEwen approached. “Everything all right?”

“Just some tension with the defensive line,” I said, clinging to my professional restraint for dear life, refusing to crack as Alijah walked away, widening the distance I’d tried so hard to maintain between us.

Staring at my phone, I decided to change tactics.

My group message was carefully worded, teetering on the edge of violating my NDA. I sent it to all the guys, Joaquin and Wyatt included.

Garvey just mentioned pheromone bombs in front of a bunch of players. They’re asking questions. There’s press hanging around. Please take appropriate action. Alijah heard everything. Can you fill him in?

Owen was a workaholic of the highest magnitude and the only other person I knew who sent more emails after midnight than I did. But he was their head alpha.

Surely, he’d put the interests and needs of his committed packmates first. No one, not even Redwing’s Vice President of Research and Development, could be that busy.

Could they?

***

My internal alarm went off at its usual time the following morning, unbothered by the three-hour time difference. When it’s time to work out, you don’t resist.

You hit the hotel’s gym, get sweaty—and glare at your inbox, while trying to drown out the echoes of Alijah’s wounded laugh.

Owen hadn’t responded to my texts or emails, any of Cal’s overtures, or Joaquin’s repeated emoji spamming of the three wise monkeys: see no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil.

I was willing to overlook the misunderstanding about my heat and shoulder most of the blame. But this was different.

His youngest pack member needed reassurance. Just one or two sentences explaining the pheromone spike situation. Nothing more. A mere five minutes, less time than it took to make a cup of his horrid black coffee.

Ignoring my request was just plain rude. Not to mention unbecoming behavior for a pack leader.

Had it been a mistake to sign the consulting agreement?

If Owen couldn’t prioritize his packmates, people he’d made lifelong commitments to, how would he treat his direct reports? Would I be stuck cleaning up after him, finessing his poorly articulated ideas for the next two years?

Frustration surged within me, stoking my temper, until it came pouring out in a series of texts to Owen as I continued walking on the treadmill—and I didn’t hold back.

It’s not like he’d bother to read them.

You’re a jerk, you know that?

I’d be willing to overlook your stunted communication skills if you gave one single shit about your packmates. But you don’t. You smother people with what you think they want until they forgive you.

I bet you only filed pack registration paperwork because Joaquin was two weeks away from leaving.

Sprung for a fancy-ass loft because you thought it’d shut Alijah up. Maybe it did.

The tactic worked on me with research papers. Once. But I’m not biting again.

I don’t trust you. Cal might. Joaquin might. But I don’t. Does Wyatt? I’ll have to ask. There must be some reason he’s resisted falling in line for so many years.

Tossing my phone into the cupholder, I increased the speed, trying to outrun my gathering rage.

I had no reason to be this upset.

Alijah and I weren’t dating, nor was I responsible for bridging the divide between Wyatt and his brother.

Pack Redmond wasn’t mine. We weren’t romantically involved. At best, they were casual flings. And that’s how I wanted it to stay.

How it needed to stay.

Cal was a reliable risk, and Wyatt an irresistible one. I trusted they wouldn’t sink my fellowship. At least, not on purpose.

To be fair, I could say the same for Alijah and Joaquin.

But Owen… Had just fucking texted me back.

Not a morning person. Noted.

Tamping down a snarl, I killed the treadmill and grabbed my phone, rapidly typing out a reply.

You got swindled.

How so?

Trading common sense for bioengineering genius. Not a smart move. It’s rendered you incapable of making anything other than incorrect assumptions outside of a sterile lab environment.

I stand corrected. You abhor mornings entirely.

A stream of mental curses powered me to the elevator at an aggressive clip. Hitting the up button with my elbow, I sent a pointed response.

Alijah—status?

Adequate smothering is an art form. It can’t be rushed.

I entered and deleted the middle finger emoji six times before the elevator arrived.

Lucky bastard.

I took a calming breath, stepped inside, scanned my card, and punched my floor.

Another infuriating text arrived from Owen.

Since you’re suddenly so opposed to my tactics, I don’t need to list you as a contributor to our follow-up study on waning syndrome, do I?

“Asshole, asshole, asshole,” I mumbled, hurrying down the hallway, desperate for the privacy of my room. My temper was about to get the better of me.

It took three shaky swipes before the access card finally worked. Diving onto the bed, I found blessed, pillowy relief—and screamed like a banshee until my voice gave out.

Precisely enough time for my alarm to go off. A piercing reminder that I had real work to do. In a minute.

“Two can play the ignore game,” I muttered as I typed out a devious text message to Joaquin. “Let’s see how you like it.”

His response made me cackle.

Fuck, doc. I can only get so hard.