Page 46 of Pucking Feral: Part Two

"Please don’t," I start, but she's already flagging down the server.

"Just a few photos with your new team!”

“Half the team,” I remind her in a last-ditch hope she’ll postpone the pictures until we're all together.

Too late. The server is already coming over, clearly delighted to accommodate, likely because she recognizes multiple professional athletes at the table and wants the bragging rights.

Half the town treats me like a pariah and ignores me, when I’m lucky. The other half practically worships me.

We shuffle around for the photos. My mother insists on one with all her children, then one with just the boys, then one with my father, then—god help me—one with Plague, Whiskey, and me.

I find myself sandwiched between the two alphas while my mother directs us like we're at a fucking Sears photo shoot.

"Closer! You're teammates, act like you like each other!"

Whiskey throws an arm around my shoulders.

I contemplate murder.

"Smile, Val!"

I bare my teeth in what could generously be called a grin at best.

"Beautiful!" My mother recklessly claps both her hands together, cast and all. "Absolutely perfect!"

I wouldn’t say that.

I look like a savage beast next to my perfectly pleasant, normal family, which is precisely why I loathe family photos.

The meal finally winds down. The check comes, and there's the usual polite fighting over who pays. My father wins by virtue of being the father, though I slip the server my card anyway when he's not looking and tell her to charge it and lie to my family that it’s on the house.

I’d rather not pay for Whiskey and Plague, but the fact it clearly went up both their asses when they caught the server handing me the receipt makes every penny worth it.

I flash them a knowing smirk.

We say our goodbyes in the parking lot. Hugs all around, because the Carters are huggers and I've learned to endure it over the years. My mother holds me extra long, then moves on to squeeze the life out of Whiskey and Plague like they're already part of the family instead of dangerous variables I can't quite control. Even Plague cracks a smile for my mother’s sake.

Whiskey squeezes her back until she squeaks, and she gives a delighted laugh and smacks him on the ass.

With her cast.

A fat lot of good surgery is going to do her.

The Carters disperse, and then it's just the three of us left in the darkening parking lot.

I drop the pleasant mask I've been wearing all evening as I turn to face Whiskey and Plague.

"That was entertaining," Whiskey says, still playing at casual. "Your family's great."

"They are," I agree. "Which is why I'm going to make something very clear."

Plague straightens, his hand moving subtly toward his hip. Old instinct, probably. Reaching for a weapon that isn't there.

Perhaps I’m not the only one with a past.

"You're protecting someone," I say, keeping my voice low and level. "An omega. And you think I have something to do with why she's running."

Whiskey's easy smile vanishes. "We don't know what you're talking about."