Knox claps me hard on the shoulder as he jogs past. "You good?"
"Yeah, let's go!" I shout.
I'm not great.
I’ve been avoiding Beth a little. Because ever since the night after the stag and doe, her scent has been practically nonexistent.
And now that I know she has a condition, that absence of scent is a blaring siren for my instincts. I know my scent-matched omega isn't okay, and I feel completely powerless to fix it.
Biology threw the ultimate trump card on the table—a literal, perfect scent match between the four of us—and she’s still keeping one hand on the doorknob. And I know for a fact you can't help someone whose mind is already halfway down the interstate."
So instead, I'm out here, tackling acquaintances for free beer.
The scrum sets. I lock in, drive forward. Someone's elbow finds my rib. Good.
"Okay, counteroffer!" Knox yells, hitting a ruck hard and driving his shoulders into a mass of bodies. "Cabin, firepit, board games, steaks! Ben loves steaks!"
Arthur strips the ball clean, takes a brutal hit from a flanker, and offloads it to Julio from his Tuesday shift.
"Twenty alphas crammed into a cabin playing Monopoly?" Arthur roars, stiff-arming a defender into the slick grass. "Come on, Knox, we gotta do better than that!"
"I'm pitching ideas, man! Work with me!" Knox shouts back. He catches a sketchy pass, ducks a high tackle, and sends the ball my way.
I catch the pass and lower my shoulder into a wall of green jerseys. I should be screaming my own vote for the party, but my head’s not in it. Every time they bring up Ben's bachelor party, it's just a glaring reminder of the wedding. And I know the wedding is the ticking clock on Beth staying in Lakeview.
A defender grabs my jersey, twisting the soaked fabric. Instead of just taking the tackle, I shove him back violently, sending him skidding backward through the muck.
To be honest, it feels like she's just running down the timer. The apartment, the fake-dating arrangement, this town, she’s treating all of it like a waiting room. She’s got her bags mentally packed, and we’re just the layover until her flight gets called.
I go low on a tackle. My shoulder screams and I welcome it, because at least a bruise has clear edges.
"MASON!" Arthur cups his hands around his mouth from twenty meters away. "FISHING OR CABIN?"
"Neither!" I yell back.
The game pushes on. Their fly-half tries a chip kick, and our fullback fields it badly, and suddenly we're defending our own twenty-two and I get to stop thinking again for a few glorious minutes. Just hit. Get hit. Stand up. Repeat.
There's a stoppage when someone's boot comes off. Knox jogs up, tossing me a water bottle. He’s covered in mud, breathing heavy, his eyes wild with the specific high of an alpha in his element.
"Keep that intensity!" Knox shouts over the noise, slapping my chest. "We're up by five! Seven minutes left, let's bury these guys!"
Arthur jogs over, spitting grass, looking absolutely feral and loving it. "Yeah boy, crush'em! Free beer is tasting real close!"
"LET'S GO!" I grunt, bumping shoulders with both of them.
The whistle blows.
I take my spot in the defensive line, swiping heavy rain out of my eyes, and for a brief second my brain instantly goes right back to its favorite miserable loop.
I know it's not our fault she has this stress haze. Iknowit.
But knowing doesn't fix the alpha in me that translates being unable to cure it asfailure. She's my scent match. I'm supposed to protect her. I'm supposed to make her feel secure enough that her biology can finally let go and fully express itself. I'm supposed to be her safe harbor, and instead, I can't even—
"MASON! BALL!"
Arthur's voice snaps me back. Their winger has broken the line. He's twenty meters out, fifteen, and everyone else is busy.
But I see the angle.
