“Eleven.”
“At least you know.”
He tilts his head, then inhales again; his nostrils flaring slightly.
“You smell… different,” he comments.
Here we go.
My shoulders tighten for half a heartbeat, but I keep my tone even as I respond.
“Differenthow?”
“I don’t know how to explain it. It’s just… clean. Calm. Like someone who actually folds their laundry.”
I raise an eyebrow.
“And here I was, hoping my scent blocker was doing something.”
“Yeah: good luck with that in a building full of alphas,” he says, his tone completely unapologetic. “Half the team probably clocked you before you hit the parking lot. Not a bad thing.” His grin softens just a fraction. “Most of us can act civilized.”
“Most?” I echo.
He scratches the back of his neck, curls bouncing.
“You met Benny yet?”
“I’ve heard about the raw eggs,” I say dryly.
“Yeah. Him and Gordo barely count as civilized,” Connor admits. “But the rest of us? We’re not gonna go full rut on you in the hallway or anything. Coach would give us to Bev, who'd feed us to unsuspecting regulars in the Rusty Spoon.”
“Good to know.” I smirk as I shift my hand, pressing along the intercostal spaces and mapping the pain. “Deep breath again.”
He complies, his breath a little more controlled this time.
Omega instincts or not, I stay clinical.
This is just tissue. Bruised, not broken.
“Any pain when you rotate?” I ask. “Twisting, reaching, shooting?”
“Shooting hurts if I really torque into it,” he says. “But if I don’t, I feel slow. And if I feel slow, I start overthinking. And if I start overthinking, I play like trash, and then Dylan chirps me, and then I punch him, and then Coach makes us both bag skate, and... I'm sure you see where this is going.”
“Straight into my nightmares,” I nod. “Wonderful.”
He chuckles again, then sobers a little.
“Seriously, though: I don’t wanna be benched. I’ve worked my ass off this season. I can play through a bruise.”
“And I’m not here to bench you for fun,” I reply. “Breathe.”
He inhales again.
“You’re lucky,” I say finally, stepping back a half-step. “No fracture signs, and no crepitus. Just soft tissue trauma. Well: that, and your ego.”
“So I can play?”
“If youlisten,” I say. “I’m giving you clearance with conditions.”
