Page 2 of An Alpha’s Guide to Finding the One

Something tickles my cheeks, and I groan when I find a few rogue tears have escaped. I refuse to sit around and mope about losing another thing I love, and when I spot the sparkly orange fabric hanging off the back of my closet door, an idea hits me.

Screw being sad, and screw staying in with the woman who loves that she’s hurting me.

If I can’t stop my life from falling into chaos, maybe I should make a little chaos of my own instead.

“Congratulations on the win tonight, boys! Practice resumes on Tuesday, so enjoy your break. And whatever you do?” Coach asks, holding a tanned hand to his ear. His post game speech is always the same, but significantly less pissy with another win under our belts.

“Don’t break any bones or get anyone pregnant!” A chorus of masculine voices rings out around the locker room, immediately followed by raucous cheers and laughter.

Coach Deacon’s mantra hasn’t changed once in the four years I’ve been playing football at Harbor University, and thus far it’s worked out well for me. Aside from a couple of broken noses from an errant helmet or jealous boyfriend, I haven’t broken any bones that would prevent me from playing. And I sure as hell haven’t gotten anyone pregnant.

I’d have to hook up with an omega to end up with a baby, and I refuse to do that until I meet my scent match. Sure, as an alpha I could theoretically get a beta pregnant, but it’s incredibly rare and I’m always extremely diligent about using protection. It’s been drilled into my head to wrap it since I was still playing in juniors so I didn’t end up trapped by a cleat chaser, and I’m not about to fuck it up now. Not when I’m so close to the draft I can practically taste it.

“Hey man, you going to Crash tonight?” Wyatt slaps a hand on my shoulder pad, smirking down at me as the scent of warm hot chocolate wafts around us. He hasn’t showered yet, so his natural scent even stronger than usual.

I punch him lightly in the gut, smirking back at how well he knows me. There’s exactly one night club in Sunday Harbor, and even that’s too much for the town council. Most of the team goes after a home game, win or lose, including the disgustingly sweaty man in front of me. Wyatt Hanna is my best friend, pack mate, and the center to my quarterback for the Harbor U football team. “You know it. Think we can convince Law or Rhys to come out with us?”

Wyatt rolls his eyes at the mention of our other pack mates. My brother Lawson and his best friend Rhys are a few years older than us and both extremely responsible adults, definitely not ones to go out and party on a Saturday night. Even if their favorite pack mates did just clinch our team’s spot in the playoffs. “It’ll be a cold day in hell before either of those two grumpy old bastards join you at a night club.”

My heart drops, and I know my peppermint scent has sharpened with distress. “Join me? Are you not going out?”

His smile drops, replaced with a look of guilt. “I’m sorry, Luck. My bio grade is shit and I really need to stay home and study or I won’t be able to play next week.”

Now I feel like an asshole. My bio grade is also shit, but I have a sneaking suspicion it’s at least partly because our professor doesn’t like my friendship with the omega he has the hots for. Befriending Posey Hale was sort of an accident, but I don’t regret it. That omega is funny as fuck and the first true female friend I’ve ever had.

Her almost-pack isn’t half bad either.

I have had a front row seat to their love story the last few weeks, and I’ll admit it’s been cute as hell watching those four grown ass men follow her around like lost puppies. I can’t imagine ever feeling that way about someone.

Fuck and duck is my motto, and as long as I stay away from omegas and anyone that has crazy eyes, it works great. Unfortunately I’m not great at spotting the crazy eyes before a hookup, much to the chagrin of my older brother Lawson, who just so happens to be the Sunday Harbor sheriff. He’s had to remove more than one stalker from my room at the football house, which was affectionately dubbed the ball box by our last captain.

It’s probably good none of them have found the pack house, or Law would’ve thrown my ass in jail by now for disturbing the peace or some shit.

Turning back to Wyatt, I offer a sympathetic grimace. “No, I’m sorry. I knew that and shouldn’t have assumed you were coming out. Are you staying at the pack house then?”

He nods, relief evident in the drop of his shoulders. Wy and I have been friends since freshman year when we were randomly placed together as roommates in the worst athletic dorm on campus, and even I can admit the torture we endured while climbing the ranks on the team turned us into a pair of codependent assholes. Not an hour goes by when we aren’t updating each other by text. I don’t even talk to Lawson this much, and we share DNA. “Yeah, it’s too hard to study at the box.”

I finish tying my shoes and stand, clamping a hand down on his shoulder. “Don’t wait up and don’t work too hard, yeah?”

He snorts, shoving me into the bench hard enough that my knees buckle, and flicks my nose. “Don’t get arrested or knock anyone up, yeah?”

I roll my eyes and throw on my best Cher Horowitz expression. “As if.”

The club, which looks half-torn apart by a supposed meteor and is aptly named Crash, is just on the edge of town. And with Sunday Harbor being approximately the size of a postage stamp, walking only takes about ten minutes. The music inside is so loud it vibrates the sidewalk out front, just the way I like it. Don’t have to play the ‘get to know you’ game if you can barely hear your own thoughts, let alone someone else’s voice.

Donny, the bouncer, nods at me in greeting and waves me through. I’m here often enough to be friendly with the massive beta, and he comes to quite a few of our games each season.

Unlike any other time I’ve been to Crash, there’s a strange buzz in my veins the second I step through the club doors. An uncomfortable awareness skitters along my skin, like an itch I can’t scratch, or a persistent sense of deja vu.

Maybe I just need a drink.

The truth is, I’ve been feeling restless since before the first day of term. Lawson thinks it has something to do with the fact that I’m graduating this year and still haven’t decided if I’m entering the draft, but that’s not it. It’s more like I’m missing something. Like misplacing your keys that you swear you just had in your hand, or leaving for a trip and wondering if you left the stove on. There’s a tug in my center that comes and goes at random, but it’s only when I’m on campus. Or it was, until tonight. Tonight, that tug is back and more insistent than ever, leading me deeper into the neon recesses of the club.

The bartender spots me right away and tilts his head. I nod in response, and he grabs a beer, sliding it down the counter towards me. There’s an exasperated huff to my right, and then I’m hit with a gust of huckleberries and something rich, like pie crust. There’s also an odd chemical tang to it that makes it smell not quite right, but my body doesn’t care. Honest to God, my knees wobble when the scent hits. I’ve never smelled anything like it, and when I turn to find the source, my entire body turns to jelly.

Glaring back at me with the heat of a thousand suns is the most stunning woman I have ever seen in my life. She stands maybe five-and-a-half feet tall, with a body worth salivating over. It’s so dark in here I can’t tell the exact color of her eyes or hair, but I’m awestruck all the same. She waves a hand in front of my face, sending another waft of that delicious scent my way, and this time my cock thickens in my jeans.

I want to eat her.