Page 57 of In Too Deep

“Theonlyreason you are even here, boy, is because a player much better and more talented than you will ever be is injured. I sent you down to the A for a fucking reason; it’s your goddamn attitude,” Logan practically roars, particles of saliva glinting in the harsh overhead lights as they fly toward Kieran’s face.

Something seems to switch inside Kieran, and he finally gets his skates under him and tries to push Logan away. But all he manages to accomplish is pushing himself backward as Logan doesn’t move an inch.

“You don’t have the right—”

“I have every right. As your head coach, I can bench your ass whenever I fucking feel like it. If you want to play games, boy, we can play.”

Kieran tries to return the growl, but as a beta, it falls extremely flat. There’s no sub-audible hum of authority, no real heat behind it. “Get your hands off me, McQueen,” he tries to bite out, acting tough despite the obvious wobble to his knees.

Logan lets out a cruel laugh right in his face before showing him what a true alpha sounds like. Even halfway across the ice, the dominance rolling off Coach is unreal. Oliver occasionally dips into his dominance when we’re in bed together, but it’s only when I’m being extra bratty and he wants me to stop messing around. This isn’t a half-playful cut-the-shit sort of display. Logan’s sharp cinnamon and sour apple scent reaches my nose, and on instinct, my shoulders roll forward, caving to his will. Half of the team moves away, escaping the pheromones, while the rest—mostly betas and a few alphas—are rooted to their spots. But he does step back, and my jaw unhinges as Kieran slumps to the ice.

“Get off my ice. You’re benched for the night. You’re getting a plane back to Louisiana, and I’ll be having a long phone call with Coach Rickerson about your behavior.”

The scrape of Kieran’s skates on the ice as he scrambles back to the locker room cuts through the silence, though none of us speak until we hear the distant slam of the door. Logan takes another deep breath, the tension falling away before he turns back to us.

“Let’s work out what we’re going to do for tonight,” he says, his voice returning to normal at last.

Spencer and I share another look as we move with the group toward the benches and Logan’s white board. He seems to be the only person not on edge after that display, his smirk a little too triumphant, like he’s congratulating himself on a job well done. I give him an incredulous look, and he just winks at me, confirming my suspicions. Spencer knows Logan better than us, having spent a year playing for him in Michigan. Not to mention, he’s almost unnaturally good at reading people. He knew exactly what he was doing and, if I’m reading his expression correctly, his plan worked to a tee.

As we kneel to listen to Logan, I can only thank the gods that the diabolical, ridiculously sexy bastard is on my side.

I hang up mycall with my agent, letting my hands dangle between my spread knees. It’s a call I’d been dreading, but one I’m not entirely surprised to receive.

An official trade offer is on the table, one that would send me to Carolina for the last three years of my current contract before I’d be released as a free agent. Three years away from my pack, and from my omega. The worst part is that I sort of understand why it’s so tempting. I’d be traded to a team on the cusp of a strong playoff run, and the Mystic would get a few good players who can help fill my spot and then some.

Alone in the house, the silence is almost oppressive. Tori is coming over soon to watch tonight’s game with me, and I was so excited. I’ve been working on a surprise for her, taking advantage of my time off from practice and travel to put it together. I added the finishing touches this morning, eagerly awaiting her arrival so I can show her what I’ve been up to, butnow, I’m almost dreading it. My mind is still in shock, and I can’t move beyond the cracking of my heart to figure out a solution, or at the minimum, what I’m going to tell her. I’d had enough wherewithal to tell my agent that I had to think about it before I agreed to the trade, which will buy us time, but I don’t know how much.

My phone buzzes in my hand, making me jump. Rita Jones’s name flashes across the screen, making my eyebrows knit together. It’s well past business hours, and a Saturday at that. I swipe to answer, my pulse pounding in my ears. If this is more bad news, I might just throw myself in front of one of the trolleys that passes my house multiple times a day.

“Good evening, Oliver. How’re you doing?” Rita says by way of greeting.

I sigh. “Could be better. What’s going on?”

Rita lets out a hum of concern. “Is there something going on that I should know about? Something that could affect the case?” she asks, not annoyed but more sympathetic.

I run a hand through my hair and sit back against the couch, telling her about the trade news. She’s silent for most of it, letting me explain the details with only a few questions about certain shorthand slang I use. By the time I’m done, I can hear mouse clicks and key clacks in the background.

“What are we going to do?” I sound lost.

“Don’t you worry, baby. I’m gonna figure this out,” she says, not missing a beat.

My shoulders relax, her almost motherly tone soothing something inside me. Eli and I have been on our own for so long, trying to figure out how we’re going to be together and form a pack. But we’re not lawyers, and our interpretations of the different clauses have been educated guesses at best, and wild speculation at worst. Having someone with years of expertise inour corner has been a revelation, and I almost regret not finding a lawyer sooner.

“I’m just checking a few things in your contract, just so I can get us a game plan on our next steps. I was actually calling because I’ve gotten the heads up that our paperwork was reviewed late yesterday, but the findings missed the mailing deadline for the week,” Rita says, the loud rasp of a scroll wheel accompanying her words.

My lips pull up into a little smile, nodding even though she can’t see me. I let her work, not wanting to interrupt her train of thought. Eventually, my burning curiosity wins out, and I clear my throat.

“What was it that you heard?” I ask, trying to sound casual and not like my future hangs on her answer.

“That we’re going to get a court date.”

I’m unfamiliar with the actual steps it takes to form a pack, just that I’ve signed more documents in the last month than I’ve signed in my entire life. Rita was good about explaining them, though I’m not sure why she needed a permission form to look into everyone’s genealogy, or why I was the one signing the majority of the documents. The others signed simple forms and affidavits stating they were of sound mind and body, that they wanted to form this pack of their own free will and weren’t being threatened or coerced into this. But that was at the beginning of this process, and I swear I’ve had to sign something every other day.

Should I be excited about getting a court date, or is it just another formality that’s going to eat into our already limited timeline? The trade deadline is less than four weeks away, a few days after Mardi Gras. My doctors are all on board that I can ditch the no-contact jersey when the team gets back from the road trip, which means I’m probably less than a week from playing real games again. Would we be able to get in beforethen? Or will the Mardi Gras season mean we’re going to have to wait until after?

Rita lets out a little gasp that pulls me from my pending anxious spiral. “That’s what I thought. Good. Okay.”

She’s speaking more to herself, so I wait, not sure how to respond. Thankfully, she doesn’t keep me in suspense.

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