Page 95 of Written in Scent

The shift hits me as I continue down the aisle. Only weeks ago I would have been trying to disappear in the back row. Tonight I am walking straight toward the front with my head up, moving from hiding to being seen.

It feels both terrifying and strangely freeing.

The cold air fills my lungs as I make my way forward. Stadium lights bathe the green pitch in a harsh glow, and the roar of the crowd builds like a living wave. Before I even reach my seat, the blended scent of the pack drifts toward me on the breeze — dark cedar and pepper, rain on stone, pine forest, and golden amber. It settles over my skin like a claim I’m finally starting to welcome.

Adrian and Chase have saved me the middle seat in the front row. I slide in between them, and the moment I sit, Chase drapes one heavy arm casually across the back of my chair. Adrian turns to me with a smile, his glasses catching the lights.

Jamie stands down on the sidelines with his camera, already filming warm-up drills. The second he spots me he lifts one hand and waves enthusiastically, a bright grin splitting his face.

On the field, Alex is warming up in his burgundy and white uniform. Even from here I can see the captain’s C patch on his chest. He glances toward our section, and when his gray blue eyes find mine, he gives me a smile that feels meant only for me.

I feel the eyes of the crowd on us now, curious glances and whispered conversations. The attention doesn’t feel suffocating, not with the pack around me. Instead it feels like something I’m choosing.

The referee’s whistle cuts through the stadium sharply, and the game begins. Alex takes the field, the uniform stretches across his large frame. Even from the stands I can see the confident set of his shoulders and the neat line of stubble along his jaw through the grate on his helmet.

The players gather for the first face-off. Alex crouches low, stick ready, and that’s when I notice it. The tape wrapped around the shaft of his stick is no longer plain white like it was at the last scrimmage I watched. It’s now a deep teal, exactly the color I told him was my favorite.

The vibrant shade stands out sharply against the burgundy and white of his uniform and the green of the pitch. Heat blooms in my chest as I realize that this is for me.

Chase keeps one solid arm around my shoulders protectively, but it doesn’t feel suffocating. When the action intensifies, the three of us leap to our feet together.

Adrian leans close, patiently explaining each play in real time. “Watch Alex on this face-off. He’s going to try to draw the ball back to our midfielders instead of fighting for it himself. That’s how he controls the tempo without wasting energy.”

The whistle blows again. Alex wins the face-off cleanly, and the ball snaps back to our side. Chase and I both shout, arms in the air, while Adrian claps and calls out, “Perfect execution. Now watch them transition to offense. See how the attack lines up behind the crease? That’s textbook positioning.”

The first goal comes fast, a crisp shot from one of our attackers that sails past the opposing goalie. The three of us jump up again, shouting and cheering as the crowd erupts.

Adrian keeps narrating with the same practiced clarity. “That was a perfect pick and roll. The defender got screened, and Alex read the play before it even happened. He’s always two steps ahead.”

I lose myself in the rhythm of the game, fully invested in a way I never expected.

Chase’s arm stays around me through every big defensive stop and every hard earned face-off win. Adrian’s explanations make every moment feel alive and understandable. By the time the final whistle blows and our team secures the victory, my voice is hoarse from cheering and my heart feels full.

The players celebrate briefly on the field, sticks raised and helmets lifted. Then Alex jogs straight toward our section, helmet tucked under one arm, dark hair slightly damp and mussed from the game.

Without thinking I stand and jump down the small set of steps to meet him. He catches me easily, strong arms wrapping around my waist as he spins me once. The team behind him lets out a loud cheer, and I laugh against his mouth as I kiss him right there in front of everyone.

The kiss is quick but full of warmth, his lips tasting faintly of salt from the game. When he sets me down, his eyes meet mine with that same gorgeous smile, and the roar of the crowd fades into something that feels like it belongs only to us.

We arrive freshly showered and cleaned up, the cool night air carrying the first hints of woodsmoke and grilled meat.

Coach Hudson’s house sits at the edge of campus, its wide backyard lit by lights strung between tall oaks. Fall leaves drift down in lazy spirals, catching on the picnic tables and the grass still damp from earlier rain.

Laughter rises and falls in easy waves, bottles clink, and the wafting scent of burgers and roasted vegetables drifts from the grills.

Alex stands near one of the tables in a simple burgundy team hoodie, hair still slightly damp at the ends and curling softly against his forehead. He looks relaxed in a way I rarely see, sleeves pushed up to show the strong lines of his forearms.

The team welcomes me as if I’ve always belonged here. There’s no awkward questions or sidelong glances that make me feel like an outsider. Just easy nods and quick hellos as plates get passed around.

Big Mike, one of the loud offensive players, spots me carrying a stack of paper plates and grins wide enough to show every tooth. “There she is! The girl who finally got our captain to change his stick tape. Careful with those plates, Elodie, or I might have to challenge you to a burger eating contest later. I take no prisoners.”

His teasing is good natured nonsense, all booming voice and playful elbow nudges, and I find myself laughing before I can stop.

Beside him stands Reyes, a quiet but intense defender whose dark eyes miss nothing. He gives me a respectful nod, the kind that carries real weight. “Good to finally meet you properly,” he says. “Alex has been different since you showed up. In a good way. The whole team can tell.”

I chat easily about my entomology classes when someone asks, describing the night moth trapping I did last month. The words flow with zero effort on my part, and the guys listen with genuine interest, asking questions that make me feel seen rather than studied.

Across the yard Jamie films silly behind the scenes clips, catching Big Mike mid-bite and Reyes rolling his eyes in perfect deadpan. Chase stays close, his presence a solid anchor every time I glance his way. Adrian refills my water glass without being asked, his green eyes soft behind his glasses.