Page 48 of In Too Deep

Spencer says Pack Mystic.

And we think it should be you, Oli, as Prime Alpha.

I’m stunned and unable to move as I keep reading the simple lines over and over. Eli shifts to remove his phone from his pocket, grinning to himself and then giving me a nudge. I look up into the crystal blue eyes of my lover and best friend, and he’s smiling, nodding in agreement.

“Is everything okay?” Rita asks.

I clear my throat and sit forward, shoulders dropping and rolling back. “Yeah. We’ve got our picks for you.”

An unexpected part ofmanaging the Public Engagement department that Dee has pushed off to me recently has been replying to reporters looking for comments about certain rumors. It gives me a direct finger on the pulse of coverage for the Mystic, locally, nationally, and internationally, but it is tedious. Half the stuff I’m asked to comment on is completely unsubstantiated gossip, and the other half are attempts to get an official response to wild speculation. Occasionally, we’ll get a puff piece request for a player comment about something happening in their hometown, or for statements from any of the charities the players work with. That stuff I can handle.

The bullshit Mark Henderson emails me about multiple times a day, on the other hand, is the bane of my existence.

Tori — what happened to the defense? did they not even dress for the last game?

Tori — can you explain why Coach McQueen would put such lackluster talent on the ice for special teams?

Tori — Get me an interview with Hakala. He’s the only one keeping any hope of getting to the playoffs alive.

And those are just the ones I’ve received since I woke up today.

I’m almost positive Dee never had to deal with Henderson’s blatant disrespect when he was doing this part of the job, because the tone of the inquiry emails changed almost instantly when I started using my own email address rather than drafting the emails for Dee to approve and send out.

This morning’s attempt at baiting me into losing my cool has ruined my entire day. It’s been over a week and a half since Spencer and I returned from Vegas, and I’ve been splitting time between my house and theirs, though I might actually move in if they keep spoiling me. This morning, I woke up to snuggles and the fluffiest chocolate chip pancakes I’ve ever had, and all the laundry I’d inadvertently left there was done and folded. We’ve been commuting separately to avoid suspicion, but it’s starting to feel like a chore. Today is a practice day before the team takes off on a four-game road trip, the last big trip before we kick off our Mardi Gras homestand—two and a half weeks of home games leading up to Mardi Gras Day and the charity gala.

I’m working from the executive box again, watching over the ice as Logan puts his players through their paces. I set my laptop aside to cool off a little before I type out my reply to Henderson, smiling to myself as I track Spencer through the drill. I’m still surprised by how much more comfortable I am with the dark-haired alpha now. We’d spent most of our free time in Vegas in bed, not always fucking, but just talking, getting to know each other really for the first time. And since we’ve gotten back, I find myself choosing to snuggle next to him on the couch when we watch TV or sitting next to him at meals.

If you’d told me six months ago that I’d be sad that the alpha who scarred me physically and mentally would be gone for almost a week, and that I’d already miss him, I would have laughed directly in your face.

There’s still a part of me that’s worried about what the future will hold. We’re forming a pack, but that’s not the unbreakable tie that a lot of people think it is. Pack members aren’t bound to their pack mates eternally, and leaving a pack isn’t that much more difficult than getting a traditional divorce. We’re not mixing assets right away, and without bonds or children, any of the guys could decide that it’s too much hassle, or that their careers are more important than everything we have, and then I’d be back to broken-hearted square one. Only three times worse.

With a sigh, I try to shove the dark thoughts away, but a slight cramp in my lower belly refuses to let me escape. I haven’t started nesting or having night sweats or any of the early heat signs I’d been warned about at my last doctor’s appointment. Cramping, she’d said, was normal, but I’m not convinced. My body has been so out of whack, and I’m so used to not having cramps or a libido that the recent appearance of both has my fight-or-flight instincts on high alert.

Taking a deep breath, I pick up my laptop again, determined to distract myself away from an anxiety spiral. I close out of Mark’s email, scanning through the rest of my unread messages in search of something less infuriating. Most of them require simple answers that I’m happy to give. But then I reach one from a national sports talk show, a pretty popular one that pridesitself on providing the inside scoops and breaking news first in the industry. I’ve responded to a couple of their emails, and I’m still adjusting to seeing my words being posted word-for-word within hours of hitting send.

But this email makes my blood run cold.

Dear Ms. Strauss— One of our sources has brought to our attention that the Mystic are shopping around for trades ahead of the deadline. Names being floated include LeBlanc, Hughes, and Astrauckas. Does the Mystic wish to comment on these rumors at this time?

I swallow hard, staring at the screen as all noise fades around me. All I can hear is my heartbeat and the echoes of Gideon St. Clair’s words:

That’s quite the carrot to dangle to lure the right people to the table.

My hands shake as I pull my phone out from my work bag, already dreading this call. I want to deny everything, which would be the simple way out of this. But I know better. If I make a blanket statement like that, when it inevitably gets published or reported, it could do serious harm to the team’s trade prospects. There are a lot of behind-the-scenes negotiations, but I’d be stupid to think that other teams aren’t watching the press coverage for hints at what might be on offer.

After pulling up Gideon’s number, I stare at the screen, thumb hovering over the call button. The boys and I agreed to do our jobs as directed until we’re ready to approach the team as a united front to declare ourselves a pack, and if I don’t answerthis news outlet, it doesn’t mean they’ll drop it. Reporters are like dogs with cars; they’ll keep chasing their story until they finally get what they want. They’ll end up citing less reliable sources, but they’ll still get their headline.

There’s a lump in my throat as I close my eyes and press that ominous green circle, my heart pounding as I bring the phone up to my ear. It rings once, and I let out a steadying breath.

Honestly, it might be for the best that no one answers. I can just say we decline to comment at this time.

Ring.

Gideon can’t say I didn’t try to get in touch, especially if I leave a voicemail letting him know it’s not a big deal.

Ring.

He’s such a busy guy. I’m sure he doesn’t have time for something as silly as this.

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