Page 66 of Altius (The Scent of Victory #2)

Forty-Two

Morgan

I slept like shit. Even Cal’s arms weren’t strong enough to ward off the ache of Wyatt’s absence. How could I miss someone so much after sleeping beside them for just a few weeks? A mere handful of days in the grand scheme of our entire relationship.

A relationship of strained love and forbearance.

Love.

Wyatt Redmond loved me.

And I believed it wholeheartedly, despite our short time together. There was no such thing as too soon between Wyatt and me.

Only too late.

I went through my morning routine on autopilot.

Midway through my customary stretches, the gym door opened. I whipped around, afraid Wyatt had either forgotten about our socialization ban or had chosen to ignore it.

A different man with wavy black hair stood in the doorway, wearing sleek gunmetal gray workout gear and carrying a water bottle instead of his customary coffee.

Leaning back on my elbows, I let my eyes trail along his toned calves and thighs, across the solid rectangle of his torso, to those knife-like features—which were beginning to inspire trust instead of trepidation.

“Who put you up to this?” I asked.

“I take it you haven’t looked outside,” Owen said, closing the door behind him and crossing to the treadmill. He placed his water bottle in the cupholder and started stretching.

“I’ve seen you running along the river path in sleet, Owen. I don’t need to be chaperoned while I’m working out. Come up with a better excuse next time.”

Owen studied me as he bent his right knee, raised his ankle backward to grab it with his hand, and stretched out his quad.

“I don’t make excuses.” After holding the stretch for a few seconds, he dropped his right foot and repeated the process with his left. “My presence itself should be self-explanatory.”

“Being apart from Wyatt for a few days won’t make me—”

“It’s an opening.” Owen dropped his ankle and stood, both feet firmly on the ground, his mercurial gaze almost glowing in the dim light. “Or do you need me to elucidate in writing why I’d like to spend more time with you?”

Coming from Owen Redmond, such words were bold. Sincere. And disorienting.

I didn’t know how to take them…or handle him so early in the morning.

So, I opted to ignore him in favor of getting on the elliptical, determined to sweat out some of my frustration—with Owen keeping pace by my side on the treadmill, in perfectly companionable silence, for a full forty-five minutes.

Leaving me even more off-kilter than before.

***

The Lady Narwhals were on fire, passing the basketball from player to player with precision, easily outpacing their opponent, extending their lead to twenty-three points.

I sat courtside on a metal folding chair. Crossing my legs, I shifted my weight to the left to avoid aggravating my still-healing bruises.

Dr. Flemming eased down beside me, wearing a jaunty new navy bowtie with gray owls on it. Their feathers were a shade lighter than Owen’s eyes.

Ugh. Why did I have Redmonds on the brain?

It was Wednesday, my standing date night with Alijah. That’s who I should be thinking about, not to mention the shrimp scampi he was planning for dinner.

My phone buzzed. It was a text from Joaquin.

Help a guy out, doc. Alijah’s having a mini meltdown. Can he feed you something cooked with wine?

I stared at the message for a moment. It was a simple question. Yes or no. But I honestly didn’t have an answer.

Kelsey would know. She’d made me shrimp scampi numerous times over the years, but I had no idea whether she included wine.

The kitchen had a liquor cabinet, mainly for the sake of our parents, when Kelsey had friends over for dinner, or when she was trying to impress the occasional boyfriend.

My first impulse was to text her, but I couldn’t.

I was a thirty-two-year-old woman. A whole-ass adult, who should know if a splash of liquor would cause issues with their medications.

A quick internet search later, including looking up three variations on shrimp scampi and the warnings for all my meds, I replied.

Yes. A quarter cup or so shouldn’t be a problem.

You sure? I like my head attached to my body.

I won’t let you take the fall if anything goes sideways.

That’ll only work with Cal and Wyatt. Alijah holds grudges.

I stifled a laugh but still managed to draw Dr. Flemming’s attention. Shifting further to the side, hoping he hadn’t read any of our conversation, I bit back a smile as I typed a reply.

How interesting. Shall I use my newfound knowledge for good or evil?

That depends on who’s going to punish me. Alijah assigns chores. How do you handle naughty alphas?

A whistle drew my attention across the floor, where one of our girls struggled to get back on her feet. I was about to stand up when Dr. Flemming held out a hand.

“She’s just winded. Took an elbow to the stomach.”

I glanced at him. “How can you tell?”

“Experience—and the look in her eyes.” He watched as the player slowly made her way to the free-throw line, still trying to catch her breath. “She’ll make both shots. Just wait and see.”

My phone buzzed again. The devil wanted to be given his flirtatious due.

Come on, doc. The suspense is killing me.

Guess you’ll never know.

Wrong. It’s even more of an incentive to stop playing by the rules.

The first penalty throw went through the net with a satisfying swish, earning cheers and whistles from the crowd. Reminding me I was at work.

This conversation needed to end.

Whatever. Let Alijah know about the wine. I’m busy.

Is that how Owen slithered into being your new workout buddy—by keeping you busy?

I wanted to tell him off, but the silence that fell over the arena drew my attention back to the top of the key. Our player carefully raised the basketball, visualizing its course through the air, where it would rebound off the backboard into the net.

Except it didn’t.

The ball clipped the rim, rolling outward.

As I looked down at my phone, still unsure how to respond to Joaquin, a new message notification from my personal email account popped up. The sender was a prestigious hospital in Maryland.

My heart sank.

“Bad news?” Dr. Flemming asked gently.

Opening my email, I confirmed what I already knew. They appreciated my impressive background but had chosen to pursue other candidates with more experience.

I slipped my phone into the front pocket of my work bag. “Another rejection.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” he said with genuine commiseration.

Dr. Flemming was too honest to bother with empty platitudes. It’s one of the things I liked most about working for him.

“Have you received any job offers yet?”

“No. And ironically, the longer I’ve been in this fellowship, the less interest my applications get.”

Stroking his mustache, Dr. Flemming studied my profile for a long moment.

I turned and raised a brow at him. “Just say it. You know how this all works better than I do, and if there’s something I’m doing wrong…”

“It’s not you, Morgan,” he said. “But there’s only so many fish that can fit in the collegiate sports medicine pond…and people talk. With or without knowing all the facts.”

She’s hysterical.

I tried to recall the faces of the people standing in the medical tent when Garvey blamed me for everything, saying I’d attacked him without cause. Had one of them spread rumors about the incident?

Hell, I didn’t even know if the terms of Garvey’s dismissal included a confidentiality agreement. He could be out there right now, badmouthing me to every coach on the East Coast.

I took a centering breath. “Are you suggesting I give up on applying to schools?”

“Not necessarily, but… You might want to consider thinking outside the box.” He fussed with his bowtie. “Brizo House has a spot on their board of directors opening up soon.”

Blood pounded in my ears.

Dropping both feet back to the ground, I turned to face him, wondering if the man who Cal considered a surrogate uncle, and I’d begun to view as a trusted mentor, was telling me to abandon medicine because of my designation.

“I’m a physician,” I said firmly through a thin veil of anger.

“Yes. An excellent one.” His hands flexed, coming to rest on his knees, fingers digging into the fabric of his slacks. “Just like Laurel was an outstanding designation counselor. But the system…”

“I don’t care if I have to apply to every sports medicine opening in the country, I am going to get a good job.

” Gripping the underside of my chair, I leaned closer.

“I don’t care about the system’s rules—because it’s broken.

It should be razed and rebuilt from the ground up, allowing everyone to succeed based on merit. ”

Dr. Flemming offered a small, nostalgic smile as he raised his eyes to meet mine.

“So do it. Take that fire—and all your resources—and do it , Morgan. Don’t settle.

” He nodded toward the player who’d missed her second free throw.

“They fouled her, and she fought back. She might have only scored one point today. But next time? I guarantee it’ll be two. ”

I stared at the player as she ran down the court, her determined gait reminding me of my younger self for a split second.

Dr. Flemming leaned closer and said softly, “Do you know what Laurel did when Chaz said a Carling omega couldn’t work at a non-profit for pennies? She beat him at his own game—and founded her own.”

The scope of what he was suggesting, the mere possibility, caused my entire body to break out in goosebumps.

“But I don’t have managerial experience. And I hate hassle.”

His congenial chuckle landed heavily on the scales of fate.

“Then you have to decide what you dislike more: taking orders or giving them.”

***

Alijah made an outstanding body pillow.

Settled between his legs in the library nest, resting my head against his shoulder, I reviewed PheroPass data from the omega men’s gymnastics team on my tablet while he watched a pottery competition show on his laptop.