It was like a tremor coming through the ground or as if the air had shifted, and his blood had known something was coming for Ward before his brain had time to register it.
I’m a SEAL.
It’s muscle memory.
Training.
That’s all this is.
Bullshit.
He hadn’t even been facing him. His back had been to the field. There was no angle for him to have seen it coming, and nothing for it to have reflected off. There was no freaking reason he should have moved before the danger existed in the real world.
Viper exhaled through his nose, striving to keep the unease from making his mind lose what grip it still had on his sanity, and turned back to the game. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Ward watching him, not the players, and that unsettled him more than anything else.
“You good?” Ward whispered. He thankfully didn’t resist as Viper moved them toward a railing, and out of the line of fire.
“Yeah.” The lie tasted like shit on his tongue. “All good. Reflexes, you know?” He silently prayed the others didn’t call him out on his bullshit, and released a slow breath when Kaze just cocked an eyebrow but kept his mouth shut.
Ward raised a skeptical brow but didn’t push. Instead, he stepped a little closer until their arms brushed. That subtle grounding weight of him—solid, quiet, curious—worked betterthan a med patch ever could. Viper held still, letting the buzz of the moment drain off into the cold morning air.
Below, Trace moved through the game like he’d been born to it. Every swing of his hurl, every sidestep, and every launch of the sliotar through the uprights drew roars from the watching crowd. Viper didn’t think he was just playing anymore. It almost felt like the shifter was claiming something, maybe his name, or his place, or maybe even a piece of himself that missed being with these people for so many years.
“Okay, that’s… sexy as fuck,” Kaze said, coming up beside them with Reaper and Zero in tow. He whistled low as Trace vaulted over two players and fired off a goal from what had to be fifty feet away. “I don’t even like sports, but I’d join that team.”
Reaper rolled his eyes. “You like anything involving contact and blood.”
“That’s a lie,” Kaze said cheerfully. “Sometimes I also like knives.”
“Don’t let Juice hear you talking about his Grá Croí like that or he’ll rip your head off and use it as a ball.” Viper didn’t look away from the field. “Where’ve you all been?”
“Stalking breakfast,” Zero answered, leaning his forearms on the rail. “And trying to figure out if any of those guys on the field are single and into sarcastic Navy personnel.”
“You’re all idiots,” Viper muttered, but his tone had softened because, for one brief moment, they were all here. His team, his men, his brothers in arms, were somehow still managing to act like the dysfunctional, heavily armed family they’d always been.
He kept his arms folded across his chest as the others settled in around him and Ward as if they now included him in their circle without being ordered to. Over the years, they’d learned how to take space around him without making it feel like a perimeter. Each one had his back without needing to say it. He and these men shared the loyalty of a brotherhood that couldn’t be trained or ordered into place; it had to be earned in the fiery depths of hell that were war zones, missions, and spending time together in some of the shittiest places on earth. Just as he always had their backs, they always had his.
He glanced sideways at Ward, who stood at his elbow, watching the field like he was trying to figure out every rule of the game. His fingers twitched slightly against his thigh, and Viper figured Wards was probably cataloguing every move, or maybe every ancient reference.
Should I be concerned that he didn’t say anything about me catching the ball?
If he was freaked out, he hid it well. Or maybe he was trying to give him some space to explain how he did it. Either way, it made the back of Viper’s neck itch. He didn’t like mysteries he couldn’t solve, especially when they involved him, and most especially when they could compromise his men or his mission.
What mission?
Your mission ended the second you stepped through the fucking portal and landed here.
He opened his mouth to say something, but snapped it shut again when a warrior in layered leathers and a carved boar-helm approached with a short nod. “Fionn and Oisín request your presence.”
Viper straightened. “All of us?”
The warrior shook his head. “No, just you and your Grá Croí.”
He’s not my Grá Croí.
He can’t be.
Goddammit. He didn’t like the sound of that request. Separating from his team put his teeth on edge. He turned toward the others. “Stay sharp. Stay together. Keep your eyes on Trace and Juice.” He paused. “And if shit goes sideways?—”
