Page 8 of Altius (The Scent of Victory #2)

Five

Morgan

A s Wyatt predicted, Kelsey and Cal couldn’t find fault with him accompanying me during my morning workouts and driving me to campus.

My hormones also stabilized enough to satisfy Cal, although a hint of my rusted scent occasionally leaked out. Nothing that a little scent-canceling spray couldn’t fix. He begrudgingly agreed that I could return to work on Tuesday. It helped that it was a short week due to the Thanksgiving holiday.

Wyatt pulled up to the staff entrance of the medical complex and gave me an uncertain glance. “I’m only saying this because I promised Alijah I would, but text me if you need to leave early. One of us can take you home at any point.”

“Thanks for the offer,” I said, flashing him a brief but genuinely thankful smile as I stepped onto the curb, pausing with my hand on the door. “But I’m powering through today, no matter what.”

He uppercut the air in encouragement. “You got this.”

I returned the gesture, shut the door, squared my shoulders, and marched into what would assuredly be a miserable meeting.

Dr. Flemming thankfully did most of the talking, but Dr. Sethi tried to get the last word.

“While I echo Gilbert’s sentiment,” she said, admiring her pearlescent peach manicure, which even I had to admit was a lovely contrast to her pale lilac blouse, “and appreciate how forthcoming you’ve been about this setback in your health, I disagree that your relationship with Mr. Redmond is adequately impersonal.

While none of your actions have directly violated the university’s fraternization guidelines, I believe it’s only a matter of time, given your housing situation—and evidence of prior socialization. ”

A harsh frown settled on Dr. Flemming’s face. It was the moose bowtie today. He meant business. “What are you implying, Anya?”

“I have it on good authority that Morgan attended the Belcrest Ballet’s annual fall gala with Mr. Redmond, his pack, and my—” She winced and bit off the near-acknowledgment of her maternally-adjacent relationship with my boyfriend. “With Cal.”

“Yes, I did,” I said, voice even and demeanor unbothered.

This conversation had been a long time coming, and it wasn’t my style to be caught unprepared.

“It’s no secret that my younger sister is a principal dancer for the ballet or that I’m a regular donor there.”

I pulled the gala table registration form out of my bag and handed it to Dr. Flemming. His eyebrows twitched every time he scanned yet another problematic name, then maxed out when he saw the cost of the table.

“While we’ve known each other for years, Wyatt and I haven’t kept in regular contact, so I only learned he accepted a job here from a press release after the fact.

And I had no idea I’d developed professional ties with several members of his brother’s pack or that they were my neighbors until after Wyatt moved in with them. ”

“None of which explains the ballet,” Dr. Sethi countered.

“It was simply an evening spent patronizing the arts with friends and a few family members.” I pointed to Alijah’s name on the attendee list. “His mate works at the ballet and is friends with my sister. Alijah and I happened to click during football games—just like Cal and I became friends through our mutual interests. But nothing unprofessional has ever occurred during working hours. All my meetings are thoroughly documented. I’ve met every research deadline.

And even though I’m not providing medical coverage to the gymnastics team until next semester, Wyatt and I still approached this situation with an overabundance of caution because we knew how our relationship might appear out of context. ”

Dr. Sethi’s eyes narrowed. “That still doesn’t—”

“I fail to see what you find so objectionable, Anya.” There was a rare edge to Dr. Flemming’s voice.

I’d only heard it once before, when a volleyball coach tried to override his medical opinion.

“The university doesn’t prohibit inter-dynamic friendships, and nothing about Morgan’s behavior—or anyone else you’re trying to get involved—has violated the ethics clauses in their employment paperwork.

Something, I might add, you just said yourself. ”

He returned the registration form to me.

“Besides, they’ve offered to sign a temporary fraternization addendum until she’s cleared to drive again—or do you object to carpooling as a principle?”

“There are pictures ,” she insisted.

I set my phone on the conference table, displaying a photo I’d taken at the gala with Wyatt and a pair of starstruck teenage girls.

“I pose for a lot of pictures.” Flicking through an album of fan photos specially prepared for this conversation, I continued at a sedate pace. “Wyatt and Cal do, too. The same goes for my best friends.”

I paused on a photo of Jacobi, Grace, and me, surrounded by two dozen kids outside the art museum downtown.

We’d bumped into a field trip on our way to lunch during Grace’s visit in the spring.

Even if they didn’t recognize Jacobi, it was impossible not to recognize the one and only Grace Arata—the most decorated female omega gymnast of all time.

“Being low-key doesn’t mean we’re not still famous, to some degree.

A picture is a token of appreciation for a fan.

Not an indication of my private life in any way.

” Now, all that remained was to twist the proverbial knife.

“Or will you only be satisfied if I withdraw from the gymnastics medical team?”

She may have near-absolute power over my fellowship, but that didn’t mean Dr. Sethi could disregard my qualifications—or my background.

The university had touted my gymnastics success to high heaven, issuing multiple press releases in the weeks leading up to my start date, and making a big deal about a local Olympian caring for a new generation of gymnastics talent.

I could start a shitstorm with the click of a button. Send the altered gymnastics medical staff roster to one of the journalists still clogging up my inbox with interview requests—and boom.

The university would have some very pressing questions about designation equity to answer.

Dr. Sethi took an unsteady breath. “That won’t be necessary. My apologies. It appears that I… I misunderstood.”

On our way out, the look of muted approval I received from Dr. Flemming gave me the same sense of accomplishment as a stuck landing.

“You handled that very well,” he whispered. “Now, don’t get caught—not that you’re doing anything sneaky, per se, but if you were...”

I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. So much for secrecy.

“Someone has a big mouth.”

“Yes, yes,” he said with a wave, turning down the hallway toward his office. “But only when he’s happy.”

***

Sitting in a tent on the side of the practice field, wearing my anorak coat and a bevy of winter accessories, I studied the real-time PheroPass readings on my tablet, looking for evidence of a pheromone spike. Cal’s staff monitored more standard fare nearby, such as heart rate and respiration.

The final regular game of the season was this weekend, and it was the Narwhals’ last chance to secure a place in the conference championship.

Wakeland State had already earned a berth, which had spurred team morale to new heights.

There was nothing Northport loved more than beating my alma mater, especially when a title was involved.

“Fuck those weasels!” a player cried as he charged a tackling dummy.

I refreshed the pheromone alert dashboard and muttered, “Fisher. He’s a fisher.”

“Beat the weasels!” another player shouted.

Poor Finley the Fisher. No one at this university gave Wakeland State’s mascot any respect.

Why were they so focused on Wakeland State this week, anyhow? They had to get through Garroway Forest on Saturday first.

I spotted Reyhan Parsha, the other sports medicine fellow assigned to the football team, walking down the sideline. He was returning from his latest reconnaissance mission. While I watched the data, he put his nose to work, without any luck thus far.

Tucking my tablet under my arm, I walked over to meet him. “Anything?”

“No. Everyone’s focused and excited—but not angry. No weird scents.” He pulled up his coat collar to block out the wind, his lips twisting into a restrained smile. “Just a lot of weasel cursing.”

I sighed. “Why can’t they understand that not all mustelids are created equal?”

“You’re expecting the scions of a pirate whale to care about taxonomy?” Reyhan asked with a laugh.

“Touché.” My phone vibrated in my pocket. It was a text from Cal.

Grandfather in hospital. Possible stroke. Heading over now. You okay?

In better shape than I expected. Drive safe. Call me later.

As I tried to summon words of comfort to pad out my barebones text, Reyhan asked, “Did you notice any new spikes?”

“Still nothing.” I shook my head, feeling more disappointed with my impersonal message than our lack of progress in finding the pheromone bomber.

Sliding my phone back into my pocket, I silently vowed to make it up to Cal in person. He needed someone in his corner, especially when it came to his family. I had to do better.

“It’s almost like they know we’re onto them,” Reyhan said, turning a suspicious eye to the closest players and coaching staff.

There hadn’t been an unusual pheromone spike since last week, the day before I landed in the hospital.

“Or they caught wind of the leadership meeting on Monday,” I said with a dry laugh.

The university had finally given in to Redwing’s demands, but the meeting outcome was destined to disappoint.

Neither Cal nor Dr. McEwen thought we could convince the head of university athletics to take the possibility of deliberate pheromone intimidation any more seriously than the coaching staff did—or rather, didn’t.

“I know Dr. McEwen said not to get our hopes up,” Reyhan said, trying to keep a lid on his irritation, “but I just don’t see how they can see all the evidence and turn a blind eye.”

“More like ignore it until January. Can’t jeopardize their chances of making the playoffs.”

“Ugh,” Reyhan lamented with a shiver.

He looked down the field, watching the defensive line coaches put the newly promoted second-stringers through their paces. Tyler’s replacement at nose tackle left a lot to be desired.

“Might not have anyone healthy enough to play by then.”

“And that’s precisely why we’ll catch them in the act. It might not be today, but we will. The data’s on our side.”

Reyhan shot me a dubious look. “You ever see the buddy cop show about a nerdy, somewhat neurotic beta and the gutsy omega who doesn’t know when to quit?”

Procedural shows didn’t interest me, although it sounded like something Jacobi or Rory would watch. Maybe Alijah, too, for that matter.

“No, I haven’t,” I said and resumed monitoring the PheroPass data.

“That’s because it doesn’t exist—and for good reason.” He leaned closer and said in all seriousness, “We’re not built to withstand pheromone bombs.”

“I know,” I said without looking up, tabbing through the summary dashboards. “Why do you think I carry pepper spray?”

Dragging a gloved hand across his face, Reyhan groaned. “So much for being the meeker designation.”