“Or Noa could come and hang out with you? As long as you don’t annoy the hell out of her. Or maybe one of your other million friends?”
“Everyone’s busy,” he shoots back.
“I’m sitting right here, Luke,” Noa replies dryly.
He pouts at her as he huffs. “Okay, fine, I’m sorry. Seriously, though, if my legs weren’t broken, I could totally go on the date instead of you. That would be way more interesting.”
It’s funny how fierce the possessiveness that rises in my chest is, considering I’ve only met Kane twice. I know my brother is joking, but I’m itching to growl at my brother.
I don’t want Luke anywhere near him. But that’s also because Luke holds onto secrets like a leaky pipe. There’s no way he could be around Kane or Timber for five minutes without slipping up.
He’s a freaking beta, so even if he tricks Kane with his appearance, he won’t get away with not smelling like hot pancakes. Though we could just say it’s all the suppressants and creams.
This is the same feeling I have when I’m scrolling through videos on Kane’s tag and see omegas gushing over him. It makes me want to stand in front of him with a baseball bat and scare off anyone who tries it on.
“Earth to Ollie!?” Luke shouts, his hands cupped over his mouth. “What’s going on in there?”
I jump, my chair squeaking on the floor, and guilt burns through me as I realize what I’m doing. I would pinch myself again for thinking that if Luke and Noa weren’t here. I’m only wound up because my heat is coming, that’s all.
At least I have two people in my life who will back me up when everything implodes.
I burst out with a grin as I meet Noa’s curious gaze. “I’m just thinking about what kind of dress you’ve got planned. This is the only time you get to play with me, so you’d better make it a good one.”
Timber
My foot’s tapping under the table as my manager talks. I’m staring, and I can see his mouth moving, but nothing’s going in. I’m nodding along to everything he’s saying, but my hand is burning as I clutch my phone in my jacket pocket and try to keep my shit together.
It’s been two days since we left for the away games, and I haven’t seen Luke on my home security app for eight hours. My doorbell app went off to say he got home two hours ago, but he could be doing anything in my house, and I don’t know because I’m stuck in a meeting with my manager. And by meeting, I mean he’s come to Florida mostly to eat good food at a restaurant he likes while I drink a glass of milk and people ogle me.
The problem with tapping my foot is that my leg is so big that the floor shudders under us and the forks and spoons clink, making it too obvious I don’t want to be here.
My manager pretends not to notice as he hands me a file, and now I actually have to pay attention to him and not the deep paranoia that’s swirling inside me.
“You can’t keep playing forever, Timber. You’re reaching the end of your hockey career, and we need to think about other avenues. This is a great opportunity for you.”
I nod and grunt and squeeze my hand around my phone as I take a sip of milk.
“I think it’s the perfect time to look at being a commentator. You’ve been playing for over twenty years; no one knows the sport like you. Plus you’ve got a great physique to be a commanding presence behind a desk.”
The conversation is stressing me out. I’m not the kind of person to go on talk shows. I can barely take it when someone sticks a microphone in my face after a game.
There’s no way I could be a commentator or a host.
He’s been trying to get me to talk about my ‘future’ for years, but I want to play hockey until my knees give out.
I look at the papers in my hands, and the top sheet has an offer from a small-time sports podcast that wants me to come in to interview for a permanent position, which isn’t happening.
Instead of telling my manager for the hundredth time this year that once I retire, I’m going to find a low-octane hobby like fishing, and live the rest of my life doing nothing, I just nod along.
And never think about Kane’s proposal to become a pack or Luke again.
I shoot up from the table before I start considering a future with them, thrusting the papers back to my manager.
“Where are you going?” he asks with a mystified look. I’m not exactly the fleeing type.
“Just eat dessert if it arrives before I get back,” I say, knowing that he will anyway. He’s been my manager for eight years, and he stopped the formalities once we became comfortable with each other.
He still looks concerned as I grab my jacket and nearly sprint out onto the street.
