Cal tilts his head, one eyebrow arched with the lazy amusement of a man who is enjoying himself far more than the situation warrants.
"Obviously she is going to be wearing my jersey tonight. Though I will probably play devil's advocate and stay off the ice, since Rafe is the skilled almighty one who is going to win us our first game single-handedly." The sarcasm is thick enough to spread on toast. "No need for the rest of us, right? Rafe has it covered. The whole team can just sit in the stands and let the one-man show handle it."
"Cal," I whisper, tugging at his sleeve.
He looks down.
And he smirks. The full, unbothered, Cal Whitmore smirk that I have watched him deploy in a dozen contexts but never aimed at me from this angle, from this proximity, with this particular softness layered beneath the confidence.
Then he leans down and kisses me.
In the hallway. In front of Vanessa. In front of the students. In front of the cardboard bear with the Sharpie mustache and the BE MINE OR BE GONE banner and the paper hearts dangling from the ceiling on fishing line. A firm, deliberate pressof his lips against mine that lasts exactly long enough to make a statement and short enough to leave me wanting more.
Several people gasp.
One girl drops her binder.
"Hey, MaeBell." He pulls back with a grin, casual, like he did not just detonate a social bomb in the middle of a public corridor. "Sorry for making you wait. Traffic in the halls is insane with the dance coming up. They are putting all these Valentine's Day decorations everywhere. Barely made it through the east wing without getting clotheslined by a streamer."
My cheeks are burning. My pulse is a percussion section. My brain is attempting to reconcile the fact that Callahan Whitmore just kissed me in front of a live studio audience and is now discussing hallway decoration logistics like it was a natural transition.
I nod, because my vocal cords are temporarily out of service.
"Do not worry about it," I manage, my voice a full octave higher than its resting frequency. "I was just, um. Going to drop my stuff at the dorm."
"Perfect." He nods, his arm still around me, solid and warm and broadcasting a possessiveness through his ocean salt scent that makes my Omega instincts hum with a contentment I refuse to display on my face in front of Vanessa's imploding social circle. "I will come with. Need to drop my gear and get my hockey equipment set up for tonight. But I was thinking we could do some quick shopping before an early dinner. You need new clothes, right?"
I blink.
The mention of clothes triggers a memory from yesterday's conversation, a casual remark I made about running out of wardrobe options that I did not realize he had filed away in whatever mental catalogue he maintains for my needs. I mentioned it offhandedly. He remembered it with intention.
"Yes," I say, the surprise audible. "I do actually need some things."
"Good." He grins. "Let us go shopping. My girl needs the latest cozy fits, and I am not letting you walk around this campus in recycled outfits when I can fix that."
My girl.
Second time this week an Alpha has called me that, and the possessive still hits like a match striking flint. Sparks. Heat. The involuntary acceleration of a pulse that does not know how to be casual about being claimed.
Cal turns his gaze back to Vanessa.
She has not moved. Her entourage has not moved. They are collectively frozen in the aftermath of a scene that has rewritten their understanding of the social hierarchy in real time, and the expression on Vanessa's face is caught between fury and the particular discomfort of a woman who just lost control of a narrative she thought she owned.
Cal smirks.
"Do not be too antsy with my girl, Voss." His tone is pleasant. His eyes are not. "Or maybe I will have to entice her to join the team and take your place as captain."
He winks.
Then he steers me away, his arm guiding me through the hallway with the practiced ease of an athlete navigating a crowded space, and we leave Vanessa and her chorus line standing in a pool of their own silence while the students who witnessed the exchange pull out their phones to document the gossip before the details cool.
We round the corner.
The moment we are out of sight, I exhale. The breath leaves my body in a rush that empties my lungs completely, releasing tension I did not realize I had been holding since Vanessa's first syllable landed on my skin.
"Thank you," I say, glancing up at him. "For interfering. You did not have to do that."
"Obviously I did." His expression shifts from the smug public performance to genuine concern, his amber eyes scanning my face for damage the way a trainer checks a player after a hard hit. "Sorry she is targeting you. You are clearly her primary focus, and I am guessing that has been the case since you arrived."
