Page 3 of Crossing the Top Line

“Don’t worry about your bags. I’ll get them upstairs later,” Eli says as I start to head back downstairs.

“You don’t have to,” I mumble, taking a step toward the stairs.

But a firm hand on my solar plexus stops me short. I look down at Eli, a little stunned at the touch, but not sure what to say. He’s warm, and I can feel his heat radiating through my thin shirt from each thick finger. His scent surrounds me, a wave of metallic ozone and tart cranberries that makes my breath catch in my throat. His icy-blue eyes twinkle with something my jet-lagged brain refuses to let me name.

With a soft smile, he tilts his head to one side. “No, but I want to. I’m sure you can figure out a way to make it up to me later,” he says with a laugh and a wink.

I must be in the delusional portion of sleep deprivation, because I could swear that he drags his eyes up and down my body once before turning on his heel and heading back downstairs. Yeah, I definitely need a nap.

I don’t even get a chance to look around my room before flopping onto the queen-sized bed face down and falling asleep before my head even hits the pillow. It feels like I’m out for a few minutes when a knock comes at my still open door, pulling me from blissful unconsciousness. But as I glance out the window, I realize the sun is low in the sky. Jesus, I didn’t move once.

“Hey, man, dinner’s served,” a new voice says, pulling my attention to the door.

I look over and blink as I take in the alpha I can only assume is Oli. He’s tall, about my height, but lacking a lot of the bulk I have. He’s all lean muscle under his t-shirt and basketball shorts, with tattoo sleeves stretching from his wrists and ankles under his clothes. Dark brown stubble dusts his square jaw, matching his long hair. His eyes are a slightly startling gold, so bright that they almost look yellow in this light. And he’s staring right at me, waiting for a response.

“Yeah, thanks. Be right down,” I grumble, clearing my throat to get rid of the sleep gravel.

“Your bathroom’s right here, in case Eli didn’t mention it. He can be…forgetful sometimes,” Oli says, his deep voice smooth and warm with fondness as he jerks his head toward the door just to the side of the one he’s leaning through.

I mutter my thanks, and Oli turns and heads back out into the hallway. As I stand to answer nature’s call, I catch the last traces of his scent. Fresh bergamot with hints of raspberry and something spicy, though there’s not enough left in the air for me to identify it further. I head back downstairs, the smell of tomatoes and garlic growing with each step. Eli and Oli sit at the island, serving themselves big bowls of pasta and red sauce.

“Good evening, sleepy. It’s our cheat day, so I hope pasta’s okay. We can figure out something else if not,” Eli says, speaking quickly.

“No, it’s cool,” I reply, making a mental note to work extra hard tomorrow in the gym. I don’t usually carb load unless there’s a game in the near future.

We move in strangely comfortable silence for a few minutes, piling spaghetti and sauce high along with massive meatballs and garlic bread. I have to keep from moaning out loud after I sit at the table and take my first bite. God, it’s been too long since I’ve had anything remotely resembling a home-cooked meal.

“I’m Oliver, for the record,” Oli says after a few minutes.

“Spencer,” I grunt out through bites.

There’s a half second of eye contact as I look up from my plate, and I blink in surprise at the intensity of Oliver’s stare. He’s not wearing an overtly unfriendly expression, but the serious wrinkle between his brows catches my attention. His golden amber eyes are practically staring a hole in my forehead, as if he could drill through my skull and into my brain to examine it closer. I take that as permission to stare back, careful to keep my face blank and neutral, revealing nothing. A technique I’ve mastered to fake out my faceoff opponents.

Oliver’s shoulders are tense, not bunched around his ears defensively, but coiled in anticipation. With his body angled ever so slightly toward Eli, his hand clenches so hard around his fork that his knuckles have turned white. His scent is harsh with leather and a spice I can now place as saffron. Every calling card of a territorial alpha, ready to pounce on the slightest hint of a challenge. A muscle in his lower jaw ticks, and I blink before turning back to my plate.

It's literally my first day living here. I don’t need to start shit this soon. If he keeps this attitude up for too long, well, we might have to have words.

We’re wordless for another few minutes, and then, almost in unison, our phones chime with incoming messages. Eli pulls his out first and smiles.

“Training camp schedule. Looks like you got here just in time, Spence,” he says with a chuckle.

I pull my phone out as I take a bite of garlic bread, only to nearly choke. I’ve only got a week to get back into form. Setting my bread down, I push the half-finished bowl of pasta away. Oliver frowns at it for a moment before looking up at me.

“We work out in the mornings and evenings, if we can manage it. There’s a concrete patio outside, and we’ve got plenty of lacrosse balls to play with.”

I look up at him, blinking a little at the hunger in his eyes that’s replaced the territorial posturing. Not for food, but for something less tangible. It’s easy to recognize the ambition that takes over his face, because I’ve seen it plenty of times when I’ve looked in the mirror. I nod in understanding and pull my pasta back toward me. I’ve got a lot of work to do, and I’m going to need every ounce of fuel I can get.

Thefirstdayoftraining camp is usually the highlight of my year. People I haven’t seen in months are back in town, and the work I’ve been putting in over the summer is starting to bear fruit. But this time, as I scan my badge at the employee entrance, the only thing I feel is dread.

It’s been a few months since the announcement of Spencer Black’s trade, and I’ve been doing everything in my power to avoid dealing with it. I’ve passed off article opportunities, delegated highlight reel editing, and even convinced Tony to conduct the phone interview in exchange for covering the boring-as-fuck charity golf tournament last week. But now, I don’t have anywhere to run and hide. It’s all hands on deck as the press will get their first look at the team and the new coach: Logan McQueen.

I straighten my royal purple blazer, smoothing out non-existent wrinkles, and adjust the strap of my laptop bag a dozen or more times as I make my way through the empty arena. The concrete floors of the wide concourses surrounding the stadium seating are lined with various concession stands, interrupted at regular intervals by the vomitoria, allowing access to the seats. All of them are gated, except for the one designated entrance for the press. Concrete gives way to carpet as I stride through it, heading for my designated workspace for the day. The facilities team outdid themselves this year, the tables and chairs lining the 200-level walkway outfitted with snack baskets, bottled water, power strips, and even a few pairs of binoculars. A handful of local reporters are already at their tables, and they give me bright smiles and polite waves as I pass by. Though my smile fades a little as I see one man setting up, I gather myself before he can catch anything amiss. I’m a lot of things, but unprofessional isn’t one of them.

“Good morning, Mark. How’re you doing?” I ask pleasantly once I’m within polite speaking distance.

Mark Henderson looks up, his beady hazel eyes narrowing suspiciously. He’s gained weight since the last time I saw him, his gut hanging over his belt and straining at the buttons of his black button down. His hair is more salt than pepper these days, but at least he shaved off that stupid goatee he had last season.

“Victoria,” he states with a solemn nod as he straightens to his full height.

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