But our generation? Too busy and independent for all that mythology.
I never speculated how I would meet my other half—I was already doing just fine with all my halves intact. In fact, the idea of fated mates seemed like cosmic gaslighting at its finest. That werewolves needed someone else to function? The Moon Goddess was toxic.
And all those classic scenarios out there felt too…scripted.
Him saving me in the dark woods? Too medieval. And I loved the dark woods at night.
In a political meeting between our packs? Already taken by my parents.
Us colliding in a school hallway, him catching me in slow motion, our eyes locking before he kissed me and marked me? Straight out of the werewolf romance novels that Makena adored.
Growing up together, then only later realizing it’d been him all along? That one belonged to my friend Aurora.
The most likely option, I figured, would be meeting at my workplace, or maybe in Europe.
Not for me, though.
Nope.
The way I met my mate was unique, to say the least—special in a twisted, sparkly kind of way. Whenever someone asked me how orwhenI met the love of my life, I never knew how to respond. There wasn’t a single answer.
What indelibly stuck in my prefrontal cortex was the moment our eyes collided for the very first time. The moment my lungs filled up with that scent.
I’d never forget it.
Neither would my eyes or lungs.
I was having lunch with Lachlan, listening to his new, even-more-absurd training schedule as he inhaled two plates of lasagna.
“A spy told me the Dark Diamonds train twice as hard as we do,” he huffed, pulling at his hair. “The Masturbator is a fraud, but apparently his team is happy with his ridiculous training!”
“So now you’re going to copy him?”
“I am not! But I’m not losing to some cheater whose only strategy is breaking bones.”
Translation: My brother felt threatened by the Terminator, so he’d started training like an unhinged gym bro, meaning I rarely saw him during the week.
“You’re going to get wrinkles early.” I massaged the spot between his eyebrows.
Trying to keep him grounded, I’d agreed to tag along to a wereball event that afternoon. I assumed it would be about as much fun as a clown funeral. Or a clown at any social gathering, really.
Amaia joined too, surprisingly. I didn’t say anything; we had to hand in our paperwork for the Wereball Medical Assistance Program anyway. As we neared the main hall, there was a sudden, unexpected swoop low in my stomach. I palmed my belly, hoping that the miso ramen from lunch would stay where it was and let my gastric juices do their job. Smells of overpriced cologne and synthetic rubbery things wafted about in the humid air. It was crowded with fans, sponsors, pack members, and obviously glory-starved players. Vendors waved shiny gadgets at everyone who walked by, and players signed autographs and snapped photos with their fans.
There were demonstrations and friendly matches planned—or as friendly as they could be with wereball. Luckily, the conference hall was a neutral zone. No brawling, no mauling, no touching at all. Any violence meant automatic penalties for the whole team. Even sharp or heavy objects were banned.
Instead of throwing punches, wereball players either ignored their enemies altogether or just threw death glares that said,I’ll beat you into a coma in the next game, and I’ll smile while doing it.
As we queued to get in, Amaia bickering with Lachlan about the superficiality of this event, a high-pitched giggle from a group ahead of us pulled my attention.
Three girls were deep in a heated analysis of acertainwereball player. Apparently, there was some legend who rarely showed up to these events, even though it was mandatory for all team members.
They called him busy. I called him lazy.
“He’s just too hot for my mental health!” One sighed like she’d just seen a deity descend.
“He’s too tall for you,” another teased.
“So? Height doesn’t matter when you’re lying down.” The first smirked.
