ONE
LARKIN
If I checked the competition schedule one more time, the ink would wear off the page.
But I pulled the folded paper from my back pocket anyway and studied the events, while the smell of charcoal and burgers drifted over the park. The Lennox Cup kickoff barbecue was supposed to be casual, with burgers, beers, and a bit of pre-competition banter between the stations before the real stuff began. But there was nothing casual about this for me. Station 12 hadn't won the cup in three years, and my crew expected their lieutenant to fix that.
“You're doing it again.” Arnold, my captain, appeared with two beers and handed me one.
“Doing what?”
“That thing where you memorize a piece of paper you've already memorized.” He sipped his drink. “Take it easy. It's a barbecue, not a briefing.”
Easy for him to say. He got to stand on the sidelines looking authoritative while I ran drills and made sure my crew didn't embarrass us. Not that they would. I'd had them doing hosedrills and ladder work for weeks, until Colin threatened to file a complaint—with his mother, not HR—saying I was a tyrant.
I shoved the schedule back in my pocket and scanned the park. Both stations were here, milling around the picnic tables and the grills, wearing their station shirts like team jerseys. Station 12 was in red while the Station 9 people were wearing blue. A coin toss between the captains would determine the event order later, but right now, it was all about the food and the posturing.
Station 9 had set up on the far side, and I caught snippets of their conversation. Something about their hose drag time and how they'd been practicing. Good for them. We'd been practicing too.
Are you nervous?my dragon asked.
Nope.
My dragon didn't continue talking. He was quiet and economical with words. When he spoke, I listened, because he didn't waste breath on nonsense. Unlike me, apparently, standing in the middle of a park clutching a beer and a schedule like security blankets.
I grabbed a burger from the grill and found a spot at one of the tables. Colin and Dustin from my crew were arguing about whether Station 9's engine could outperform ours, which was ridiculous because our rig was three years newer. But I let them debate because it kept the competitive energy up.
“Their pump operator is solid, though,” Colin admitted. “I ran into him at that training conference last year.”
“Doesn't matter how good his pump work is if his crew can't drag hose.” I bit into my burger and ketchup dripped on the schedule in my pocket. Damn.
“There he is.” Dustin grinned. “The Lieutenant Larkin we know who’s always thinking strategy.”
I wiped the ketchup with a napkin and made it worse. Now there was a red smear bleeding through the paper. The hose drag relay was first, in two weeks. My crew was ready, but I wanted one more practice session. Maybe two. But I shouldn't drill my crew at a barbecue. Arnold would have my head, and Colin really would call his mother.
The afternoon sun was warm on my back as I finished the burger and grabbed a second beer. Across the field, Station 9's captain was chatting with Arnold. They were being polite but with the stiff smiles of two people who very much wanted to beat each other. The crews mingled at the edges, and there were a few handshakes and nods, but mostly they stuck to their own side. It was like a high school dance where nobody wanted to cross the gym floor first.
I tossed my plate in the trash and headed toward the drinks table for water. The beer was fine, but I had a twelve-hour shift starting at six tomorrow morning and showing up dehydrated was a rookie move.
But I was hit by a scent.
It cut through the charcoal smoke and the grass and someone's overpowering cologne. It was wild and reminded me of a stormy night after the sky cracked open and rain hit the dry, dusty earth. It wrapped around my chest and squeezed hard, and my lungs forgot how to work.
My dragon, who had been dozing somewhere in the back of my consciousness, snapped to attention.
Mate.
I froze with my hand on a water bottle. The word echoed in my head and reverberated off the inside of my ribs. My dragon didn't elaborate. He didn't need to. That one word had my world tilting.
I tracked the scent across the crowd, walking past the grill and Arnold and the other captain. I strode past a group of guys from Station 9 laughing about something.
An omega leaned against a picnic table, waving a hot dog around as he told a story to his crew. He had sandy-colored hair, with lighter streaks from the sun, and gray eyes. His grin was so wide I suspected astronauts could see it from space. He was wearing a faded Trenton Fire t-shirt, and he was so animated, moving his hands to talk and cocking his head. The people around him were cracking up.
But he was Station 9.
My stomach dropped so fast I looked down as if expecting it to land on the grass near my feet. No. I dragged my gaze away. This wasn't happening. Not now and not with him. The universe had a cruel sense of humor, and I was the punchline.
He's ours. My dragon didn’t need to say anything else. It was obvious, and I was being so slow on the uptake, I almost laughed.
