Like I said, I’d had time.
But first, sunscreen.
I squeezed the 50 SPF lotion into my hand, the sound resembling the intestinal issues a patient had subjected me to just yesterday.
“You forgot your ears,” came a familiar voice.
Sarcastic, but correct nonetheless. I squeezed some onto my index finger and dabbed the tips of my ears, then smeared downward over their entire length.
“I don’t take melanoma lightly.” I offered some to him.
And there he was, an almost-naked player sporting ripped shorts. They didn’t need to leave anything to the imagination;I’d seen everything already. Scratches crisscrossed a wide chest shaped not just by genetics but also years of training, a swollen eye was turning black, and a crooked nose desperately needed fixing.
Sillas waved his hand. “I don’t need it.”
Typical male attitude.They thought themselves invincible. I saw too many wives and daughters back at the hospital with stubborn men refusing to do their check-ups.
“Great game, Sillas.” I smiled up at him. “You were like a wall.”
“Thanks, Yvaine…” He trailed off, gazing at the book. His dimple popped. “Good read?”
He squatted down, a medium-sized rock swooshing right past his head, and took a seat in the empty spot behind me.
“I just can’t get enough of bubonic plague and leprosy.” I showed him the cover.
Sillas cleared his throat. “I loved them, too—the way the virus is persistent with the host. Um, I mean, not that I’m rooting for them to, you know… spread everywhere.”
I flashed him another smile, standing. “See you on Sunday?”
“Actually, there’s this new book café.” He scratched his left pec, arm bulging. “Want to check it out? Like, together?”
Sillas was a sweet guy, if you looked past the ferocious werewolf player. He had good hygiene and a promising future ahead of him as a professor in the Anesthesia and Resuscitation Department.
The only issue?
Not my fated mate. And we both knew it; we could recognize them by scent or eye contact.
In our world, it didn’t matter if you loved someone else. Working behind the scenes, Ms. Moon Goddess wouldalwaysget in your way and impose upon us a certain someone of her choice. I’d heard that meeting your mate was like consuminga spiked drink with irreversible effects and suddenly finding yourself in an arranged marriage, all braided into one.
Mates were still a big deal in our culture, but no one was in a hurry to find theirs anymore. Nowadays, werewolves didn’t stumble into their mates as teens, like used to happen for past generations, when big mate hunts and meetups between packs were seasonal events.
My own mate had better be tucked away somewhere in Europe, so I could find him when I took a vacation—after six more years of med school. Alternatively, he could be a professor or an attending surgeon in whatever hospital would hire me… A soulmate should fit my schedule, and anyone outside my field simply wouldn’t.
I only have one real rule, though. A sacred, non-negotiable rule.
For the love of Stephen, he’d better not be a wereball player.
But maybe that was too simple, because obviously, my ideal mate would never like all that violence.
“Um…” I dropped my bag onto my lifted knee, shoved my book inside, and zipped it closed. As my eyes wandered, they met those of a coffee-brown wolf below. Tiziano.
Did that animal just wink at me?
“Not sure they have oat milk. They should, right?”
I grabbed my agenda, flipping through the pages. A date would take longer than our usual Sunday meet-ups. “I’ll have to get back to you. This week’s impossible.”
After we hugged goodbye, I watched him dodge the fans and leave the field in his wolf form, a blur of sugar-brown, mid-length fur, just like his hair.
