Page 9 of Citius

Four

Morgan

“Doc, doc!” Landon Choi burst into my exam room.

He was the team’s omega placekicker, who had a solid shot at being drafted by a professional team in the spring. His dark hair was wild and his usual composure shattered by a grin so wide I almost couldn’t look directly at him.

Seated at the physician’s computer, I asked, “What’s up?”

Landon held out a pheromone measurement report. “You were right!”

An affable bear of an alpha followed at a more measured pace, one thumb hooked in his pants pocket, a few folders tucked under his arm.

Cal Carling’s signature round glasses sat on his crooked nose—a souvenir from multiple bad breaks during his football days. His short, sandy hair had a slightly tousled charm, and the stubble lining his square jaw was a few days shy of crossing into beard territory.

All broad shoulders and thick thighs, he carried his bulk with easy confidence. Time had softened his midsection, giving him the beginnings of a belly and an approachable presence.

He also had a thing for sweaters—luxurious, irresistibly tactile sweaters. Today’s selection was a navy cardigan worn over a Narwhals tee. Even I wasn’t immune to the impulse the cable-knit inspired to reach out and touch.

Cal eased into a visitor’s chair. “Nice catch. My team followed up and confirmed he was going into pre-heat. We adjusted his suppressant dosage—”

“And now I’m cleared for the game!” Landon tapped his sternum, where his PheroPass sensor rested beneath his shirt. “Thought this thing was just a fancy fitness tracker. Didn’t realize it could predict hormone emergencies.”

Cal and I exchanged a knowing glance.

PheroPass promised to revolutionize health monitoring—a simple chest patch tracking everything from heart rate to blood sugar levels to reproductive cycles.

But right now?

The data piled up on servers with no actionable insights. No alerts. No pattern recognition. Not even basic health reports. Case in point: I didn’t even have access to a calendar of Landon’s regular heat cycle.

A goldmine of wasted potential. Something I’d been politely harping on about for weeks, ever since joining the PheroPass team. The lack of clinician tools was maddening. My research project relied on PheroPass’ promised early detection and disease prevention capabilities.

But Redwing BioTech, the developer, wasn’t listening. They were the undisputed leader in designation technology and treatments—and a major research partner with the university. Convinced PheroPass wouldn’t recoup its development costs, they weren’t testing it properly, just going through the motions.

Thankfully, I caught Landon’s odd pheromone spike while manually reviewing his data feeds.

But it shouldn’t come down to luck. This was the perfect example of how Redwing was failing its own product. Without real-time monitoring capabilities, the system couldn’t flag Landon’s early heat symptoms, and he would’ve been forced to miss the game tomorrow.

Loud voices echoed down the hallway, heading toward the locker room. The players were assembling for practice.

“Gotta go. The guys won’t believe it when I tell them,” Landon said, waving his pheromone printout as he rushed out. “Thanks again!”

Cal watched him go, then turned toward me. He met and held my gaze. “Feeling vindicated?”

“A little.” I broke eye contact first and took a sip of water. Rubbing my finger against my straw, I said, “But it won’t matter in the long run.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure about that.”

He pulled out a printed copy of my most recent clinical observation report from his stack of folders, chock full of his handwritten notes, and held it out.

“Why not?” I asked as I took it, resisting the urge to dive straight into his feedback. Cal’s data interpretations were broad strokes of insight thatperfectly complemented my meticulous nitpicking.

“Because…” He leaned back in his chair, a lazy smile spreading across his face, pride flickering at the edges. “Sometimes, the squeaky wheel gets to take a victory lap.” Anticipation gleamed in his hazel eyes. “Want to have some fun?”

I arched a brow. “Please elaborate, Dr. Carling. Being vague is neither mysterious nor persuasive.”

“Your wish is my command, Dr. Van Daal,” he said. It wasn’t the first time we’d teased each other with our titles. “How would you like to make a formal pitch at our quarterly meeting with Redwing next month?”

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