Page 57 of Altius (The Scent of Victory #2)

Thirty-Six

Morgan

“ T ake the fight to them!” the head coach shouted.

Standing in the middle of the locker room, he pushed his already fried vocal cords to the max.

“Play after play—hit harder, run faster, fight like hell! For yourself, your brothers, for our legacy. We’re two quarters away from the championship game.

Do you want that trophy? Make me believe it! ”

Leaning forward, he placed his hand in the middle of the raucous huddle.

“Fight on three. One, two, three—”

“Fight,” the team chanted, “fight, fight!”

Covering my ears, I stood in the far corner of the room, overwhelmed by the sound of a hundred men shouting in unison.

“Now go,” the coach yelled. “Make them pay!”

As the team rushed back to the field, I spotted Alijah filming at the far end of the entrance tunnel. He turned, panning across the players as they ran down the sideline, jumping up to bump chests, spurring each other on by slapping helmets and backsides.

Tame behavior compared to the brutality of the game thus far. Each play was more aggressive than the last. Every hit brimmed with deliberate violence. The penalty calls were non-stop.

Even the roar of the crowd was bloodthirsty.

My phone buzzed with constant alerts from the new PheroPass warning system. Our players were under siege by pheromone bombs. No one was safe tonight. Offense, defense, special teams. It was relentless.

And it would only get worse the longer the Narwhals failed to score. They were behind six to seventeen, and their only points were thanks to two field goals by Landon.

I held my breath as the Narwhals’ defensive line took to the field. Maybe the coach’s pep talk had helped them refocus and settle down. They could still turn the game around if they made smart plays and avoided accruing any more penalties…

A hope dashed in less than two minutes.

Tyler rammed his shoulder into the windpipe of an approaching offensive lineman and spun around. He grabbed the neck of the quarterback’s jersey, hurling him backward onto the ground. The force of the impact sent the quarterback’s helmet flying.

Frantic whistles and flags followed. Our head coach got in the referee’s face, trying to fight the penalty for unsportsmanlike conduct.

A text from Cal arrived. He and Owen were monitoring the game remotely.

Keep an eye on Knox. Think he’s trying to bait the other team at the line of scrimmage. He might be our guy.

I showed the message to Dr. McEwen. His disapproving perma-scowl somehow managed to become even more severe.

“Look sharp,” he said, eyes fixed on the field. “If this goes south, there’s nothing Carling or his team can do about it.”

“Yes, sir,” I said, “I’ll—”

Dr. McEwen’s brows snapped together. “Move!”

A group of players thundered down the field. Knox and Amir were chasing down a wide receiver, and all three were heading straight for us.

My quick reflexes and years of strength training got me to safety in a flash.

Knox lunged, barely missing the tackle. He skidded, but his momentum was too great. A cleat clipped the ankle of a chain crew member, sending him staggering—right into Dr. McEwen. Knox careened wildly as he tried to avoid slamming into anyone else.

They all fell to the ground in a chaotic, groaning heap.

With a desperate dive, Amir got his arms around the receiver, catapulting through the air. He landed helmet-first on the turf, crushed by the receiver’s weight.

Whistles and yellow flags littered the field.

One of the coaches hauled Knox back to his feet. After yanking off his helmet, Knox gripped his face in pain. He spat out a mouthful of blood and one of his front teeth.

Dr. McEwen was still on the ground, winded from the impact. I tried to help him, but he shook his head and pointed at the field.

“Amir. Go.”

Darting through the assembled crowd, I saw that Amir was struggling to get to his knees. Not good.

Adrenaline propelled me forward.

Before I could reach Amir, Garvey hauled him up. Amir couldn’t find his balance, stumbling forward like a marionette whose strings had been cut loose.

I suspected he had a head injury. A concussion, most likely, but I had to assess him first—and get him away from Garvey.

I ran faster, wondering where the other medical personnel were. A glance over my shoulder confirmed they were tending to multiple injuries.

Amir’s ankles seemed made of gelatin as he wobbled toward me. I grabbed his arm to help support his weight. Thankfully, Garvey still had a hand on his elbow, or I might have dropped him.

“D-doc,” Amir slurred, “don’t feel good.”

“Where—head, neck, back?”

“Head. Real bad.”

“What about your neck?”

Amir swayed to the left, prompting me to redouble my grip on his arm. “No, it’s okay.”

Reyhan arrived, panting hard, and elbowed Garvey out of the way, fueled by professional focus, taking hold of Amir’s other side.

“I think Knox’s jaw is dislocated,” Reyhan said, words coming out in a jumble. “Blood everywhere. We’re on our own.”

Garvey drove a fist into his palm and swore. His beady eyes swiveled, fixed on Amir, frustration hardening into obstinacy. “If we’re down a player, you can’t take him.”

“Concussion protocol says otherwise,” I said, angling Amir away from Garvey and heading toward the sideline.

“Grounds all wobbly.” Amir staggered to the side.

“It’s okay, we’ve got you,” Reyhan said, rubbing his shoulder. “Just hang in there a little longer.”

“He just needs to walk it off,” Garvey snarled at our departing backs.

My shoulders tensed on instinct, but I forced them down. Garvey had no power over me. Not professionally. And certainly not as an alpha.

Tyler rushed over, red hair dripping with sweat, his gaze glassy from the pheromones addling his system. The black eye Knox had given him during practice two days ago was a venomous purple beneath the stadium lighting.

If the head coach had a shred of conscience, he would have been benched ages ago—and the field would be full of third-stringers.

Tyler cut in front of us. “What are you doing? We need him.”

“Nothing for you to worry about,” I said, mustering one ounce of politeness as we sidestepped around him.

“Go line up,” Garvey snarled, sending Tyler staggering back several feet. “I’ll deal with her. Move it!”

Reyhan shot me a worried look, then scanned the sideline to see if any staff physicians were free. They were all still busy dealing with Knox and the injured chain crew member. Even Dr. McEwen was getting his arm looked at.

We had to deal with Amir—and Garvey breathing down our necks—on our own.

But not entirely alone.

Alijah stood a dozen yards downfield, his camera tracking our every move. If Garvey laid a finger on me, we’d have irrefutable, high-definition, time-stamped proof.

For a split second, I wished we were bonded. Then Alijah would know how thankful I was for the tender concern in his dark gaze. How much strength his mere presence gave me.

Amir was practically dead weight by the time we reached the sideline.

“Medical tent,” I said, ignoring how winded I sounded or the sweat coating my back.

It was the best location to assess if Amir needed to be transported to the hospital.

Garvey dogged our every step, trailing us through the hustle of panicked bodies, barging his way into the medical tent. “He can play.”

Ignoring Garvey’s menacing presence, I held Amir steady while Reyhan guided him to sit on the exam table and removed his helmet.

Then I swept Amir’s locs to the side and palpated his neck. “Does this hurt?”

“No,” Amir mumbled.

“Okay, good.”

I studied his unusually dilated pupils. Were they from a potential concussion or the lingering aftereffects of a pheromone bomb? I couldn’t be sure.

“What’s the name of the field?” I asked.

Amir was quiet for a moment, blinking absently. “Tama—something?”

“Tamarind Stadium,” Garvey interjected. “Why does the stupid fucking name matter?”

Again, I ignored him. “What quarter is it now?”

“Uh… Second?” Amir rubbed his forehead. “No. It’s after half-time.”

“See, he’s fine.” Garvey elbowed Reyhan out of the way, reaching for Amir.

I stepped between them, not caring if Garvey got physical with me. But I refused to let him throw Reyhan around. Nor would I allow him to touch Amir.

“Leave,” I said, with a hint of venom. Fists clenched. Knees locked. Chin high in defiance. Refusing to let a single nerve turn traitor. “Go do your job. Let us do ours.”

“Don’t tell me what to do, you uppity omega bitch.” His voice was a low snarl, morphing into a menacing growl as he loomed over me.

I didn’t care if he was another victim of the pheromone bomber, acting on instinct rather than logic. No alpha worth a damn would behave this way—not to a pair of qualified physicians or an injured student-athlete.

To anyone.

I took half a step forward, trying to create more space between Garvey and Amir. To remind Garvey that he had no say over medical decisions.

“I’m following protocol,” I said with absolute confidence. “You’re not authorized to be here. Now leave.”

A cruel laugh sent globs of spittle flying across my cheek. “You’re not a real doctor, sweetie. Just a fucking pity hire that’s nice to look at.”

He edged closer, his chest expanding as he unleashed his alpha, demanding submission.

Reyhan paled, leaning heavily against the table as his knees buckled.

A strangled groan escaped Amir.

Nausea twisted my innards. Risking a sharp breath through my mouth, the sulfur poison of a thousand burning matches scalded my tongue. Garvey’s pheromones were out of control.

But I stood firm.

He was nothing compared to the men in my life.

Nothing.

Everything about him was lacking, from his height to his intelligence to the quality of his character—but especially his dominance.

“Doc…” Amir slumped further to the side, grabbing onto the back of my fleece vest for support. “Gonna be… Think I’m gonna…”

Despite his trembling hands, Reyhan caught Amir before he fell off the table. “Hold on, it’ll be okay.”