Page 69 of Altius (The Scent of Victory #2)

“Looked pretty good to me,” Cal mused, sitting beside me in the press box allotted for PheroPass monitoring—and my refuge for the evening. I was as far from Wyatt as possible without risking dereliction of duty.

Owen shot a sly glance in my direction. “You don’t look that impressed.”

“It’ll be a high score, but it won’t be perfect.” I winced as the crowd noise went up a notch, aggravating the band of pressure that had ensnared my head last night and refused to budge. “She didn’t get enough height on the dismount.”

Thankfully, Dr. Flemming hadn’t asked too many questions when Cal and Owen decided to monitor tonight’s competition in person, or why my presence was necessary to help interpret PheroPass data, so long as I paid attention and hightailed it to the floor in the event of an injury.

Wyatt stood beside the uneven bars, trying to get his squad to move off the pads since they still had two gymnasts to compete. His behavior clued some girls in that a perfect score wasn’t coming, and they moved back to the waiting area.

A few boos erupted from the crowd as the scoreboard flashed a 9.950 next to Nika’s name.

“She’s the one who had the weird spike the other week, right?” Cal asked, searching for her name in the system.

“Yes.”

When he pulled up her pheromone exposure panel, there was an almost identical spike at the start of her routine. Cal tabbed to her emissions record, which hadn’t exceeded her baseline reading.

“It’s not from Wyatt,” Owen said, turning his laptop towards us.

Wyatt’s readings were a series of peaks and valleys, but nowhere near the amount of pheromones Nika had supposedly been exposed to.

“Check the rest of the team’s emissions,” Cal told Owen. “I’ll look at their exposure readings.”

Ten minutes later, they reached the same conclusion I had during the team’s first home meet: either there was a problem with the sensors that could trigger false pheromone spikes, or a seemingly innocent bystander was dropping a pheromone bomb every time Nika mounted the bars during a competition.

Rubbing his chin, Cal watched the next gymnast swing from bar to bar. “We missed something.”

Owen leaned back in his chair, restless fingers tapping his thigh. “Obviously.”

Cal gave him an apologetic look. “What happens if you run another round of quality assurance tests?”

“Finance will pull the plug,” Owen replied grimly. “They’d understand a few targeted tests, but nothing major.”

Crossing my arms, I watched Nika as she pulled on her warm-up gear and prepared to move to the balance beam. Leotards were featherlight compared to pounds of football pads. No one was going to tackle her or hurl a speeding ball into her chest.

Were the sensors more prone to damage than we thought, or had she accidentally done something to impact the readings?

“Any progress on getting a copy of the football team’s security footage?” I asked.

Owen shook his head. “Not yet.”

“Then let’s start by collecting Nika’s sensor,” Cal said. “Maybe your team can take it apart and see what’s causing the issue. We need to figure out which pheromone reading is wrong.”

Groaning, I planted my elbows on the table and buried my face in my hands.

“I hadn’t thought of that,” I muttered. “We spent the whole football season looking for bombs, not the absence of activity. Our culprit could have the cleanest emission record out of all the players.”

After ensuring no one was looking in our direction, Cal placed his hand on the small of my back, rubbing comforting circles along my spine.

“At least we have a lead,” Owen said, his long fingers straying toward my thigh, hovering midair between our legs for a few seconds before withdrawing.

I glanced at Owen out of the corner of my eye, unsurprised to find that he was watching me intently. Who knew a few morning workouts would result in such a noticeable thaw between us?

“How quickly can you review the football data, finding all the readings that match Nika’s?” Owen asked, straightening his glasses.

Nope. I was wrong. Owen still didn’t have a flirty neuron in that big brain of his.

“That depends.” I leaned back, enjoying the continued weight of Cal’s hand as it slid lower. “Are you asking me as a medical fellow or a paid consultant?”

“Paid consultant,” Cal interjected, giving my hip a fond pat before pulling his hand away as a group of spectators carrying concession stand food settled into the seats in front of our box.

Owen’s eyelids flickered in annoyance. “Fine. But don’t go overboard.”

“I’m looking for distractions this week,” I said, my gaze flickering toward Wyatt. “Not more suffering.”

Focusing on PheroPass data would help make the next seven days pass more quickly.

Cal leaned forward, eyeing the array of snacks in the seats below. “Would nachos make you feel better?”

“Or maybe you could wait an hour, you human garbage can,” Owen sneered. “You can afford to feed her real food.”

Cal flashed a mischievous grin over his shoulder. “How about it, milady? May we treat you to authentic Mexican cuisine once your medical services are no longer required?”

Owen let out a single, strangled laugh, which he tried to mask with a fake cough, then went back to tackling his inbox—oldest messages first. One of his more annoying habits.

“I already have plans,” I said, biting back a smile.

“With who?” Cal turned to face me. “Did Alijah sneak in another date night?”

I gave the extra padding around his waist an affectionate poke. “You, Dr. Carling.”

“Oh, yeah.” Slumping back in his chair, Cal knocked his leg against my knee. “Forgot I’d already asked you out, since we kind of rushed things to get set up here.”

To say I was touched by what he and Owen had done was an understatement.

They’d dropped everything to concoct a legitimate reason for their presence tonight, using PheroPass to keep me safely isolated from Wyatt without sacrificing productivity—a vast improvement over my plan to isolate myself by sticking close to the visiting team.

“Does it have to be Mexican?” Owen asked, eyes locked on his computer screen as he typed. “Arlotti’s is—”

“Mexican,” Cal and I said at the same time.

Exchanging amused glances with Cal, I stifled a laugh and refocused my attention on the beam.

But my eyes couldn’t help but stray to Wyatt.

He was staring right back at me, blue eyes ablaze with desperate yearning.

My breath hitched.

The comforting expanse of Cal’s hand settled on my lower back once more, while the very tip of Owen’s polished shoe pressed against my sneaker.

It was okay. The pounding of my heart wasn’t half as bad as the friction in my head.

Temporary. This was temporary. I just had to maintain focus.

And eat copious amounts of salsa.