"I'm fine." I grab my jacket and slide my arms through the sleeves, adjusting the collar by feel. The navy suit fits well, tailored last spring when my shoulders filled out from the off-season training, and the white shirt underneath is unbuttoned enough to show the chain I’ve worn since my mother died and the edge of my chest tattoo. I know how I look. I've always known how to present the version of myself that gets results.
"You don't look fine. You look like someone pissed in your Gatorade." Marcus leans against the locker beside mine, crossing his arms. "Is this about that Omega again?"
My hands still on my tie. "What Omega?"
"Don't play stupid, man. The one you practically hip-checked into next week. Kit? The little mouthy one with the dark hair?"
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"You shoulder-checked him so hard his coffee exploded. I was right there, East. It wasn't subtle."
I pull the tie tight and flip my collar down, checking the knot without a mirror because I've done this enough times to get it right blind. "He was in my way."
"He's always in your way. Funny how that works, considering his locker is on the opposite side of campus from our practice facility." Marcus grins at me, the kind of grin that says he sees more than I want him to. "Almost like someone keeps taking detours."
"Drop it."
"I'm just saying, if you like the guy, there are better strategies than assault."
"I don't like him." The words come out too fast, causing Marcus to raise an eyebrow but he lets it go. He's known me long enough to recognize when pushing will get him nowhere, and I'm grateful for it even as the denial sits sour on my tongue.
I don't like Kit. I don't.
What I have is a problem, and it started six months ago during fall orientation when I passed a smaller figure in the south building stairwell and caught a scent that stopped me mid-stride. Black cherry and something electric underneath, like the air before a storm, sharp enough to make my cock twitch in my pants.
I turned around to find the source and there he was, this lean, angular Omega with messy dark hair and a pearl necklace sitting against his throat, looking up at me with an expression of absolute indifference.
He didn't flinch or lower his gaze or defer the way every other Omega on this campus does when an Alpha my size occupies their space. He looked at me like I was something to walk around rather than something to respond to, and my Alpha went absolutely fucking haywire.
I should have done anything other than panicking and pushing some dismissive comment about Omegas clogging up the stairwell, as I watched the indifference on his face curdle into contempt.
That was the first time Kit looked at me like he hated me. I've made sure he's had plenty of reasons since.
It's a cycle I don't know how to break. Every time I see him, the pull gets worse, his scent threading through the hallway until I'm adjusting my route just to cross his path. And every time I get close, the words that come out of my mouth are wrong, cruel where they should be kind, and taunting where they should be honest. It's like there's a short circuit between what I feel and what I do, and Kit pays the price for it daily.
The worst part is that he fights back and every sharp word out of his mouth makes me want him more. An Omega who bares his teeth at an Alpha twice his size, who refuses to submit, who matches me insult for insult without flinching, that's not something I've encountered before and I have no framework for wanting it this badly.
"Heads up, East." Devon calls from across the room, tucking his phone into his jacket. "Five minutes till lineup. You ready to break some hearts?"
I flash a grin that feels practiced because it is. "Always."
"Who do you think is going to bid on you?" Terrell asks, finishing his pushups and shaking out his arms. "I heard that Omega from the volleyball team has been talking about it for weeks."
"Doesn't matter who bids. It's for the team." I adjust my glasses in the small mirror mounted inside my locker, pushing them up the bridge of my nose. The team needs new training equipment and the athletic department has been dragging their feet on the budget, so the March Madness auction is our chance to close the gap. That's why I signed up. That's the only reason.
"God, you're such a captain about it. Live a little." Marcus claps me on the shoulder as he passes, his tie still crooked despite ten minutes of effort. "Maybe whoever wins you will loosen you up. You've been wound tight for weeks."
He's not wrong about that, and the reason is five-foot-something with coffee-stained fingers and a mouth I can't stop thinking about. But Marcus doesn't need to know that, and neither does anyone else on this team.
We file out of the locker room and into the corridor that leads to the gymnasium, the bass from the sound system thumping through the walls. The auction is already underway for the non-starters, the crowd noise swelling and fading with each bid. I roll my neck, crack my knuckles, and settle into the version of myself that performs.
Terrell nudges me as we wait in the wings. "Hey, weird thing. I saw that Omega, the one you keep running into? He was heading toward the gym about twenty minutes ago."
My hands stop adjusting my cuffs. "What?"
"Kit. The angry one. He was walking toward the auction with Milo and that esports couple. I figured he was just tagging along but he had a look on his face."
"What kind of look?"
