Page 10 of Citius

“A pitch about—what, exactly?”

“Whatever you want.” He extended both hands for emphasis. “They want to hear our ideas on how to use the data better. Real-time alerts, risk monitoring, medical device tie-ins—anything you can logically support, go for it.”

Stunned by the sheer scope of possibilities, it took me a few seconds to process his words. Complete control over a PheroPass optimization proposal. It was too good to be true.

“You’d really give me free rein?”

“Yup.” Cal’s smile said he knew exactly how impossible his offer was to refuse. “They want to reevaluate PheroPass’ potential based on our recent suggestions. Since most of the ideas were yours, I figured you should take the lead—if you’re interested. No pressure. I wanted to gauge your interest before bringing it to my team.”

“Hm.” I adjusted my glasses. “By potential, you mean possible revenue streams?”

“Naturally. I’m just glad they finally listened to reason, though I can’t say I’m surprised.” Cal shot me a sly glance. “You can beveryconvincing.”

“Don’t exaggerate.” I toyed with the stapled corner of my feedback report, eyeing him with open skepticism. “They won’t listen to me. I’m not even a permanent university employee.”

“They can fuss all they want. Won’t stop you from doing what’s right for the project, or me from backing you up.” His demeanor shifted, softening from collegial to something…more. “You’ve earned this, Morgan.”

Silence followed, stretching a fraction too long, gathering weight, until the first crackle of electricity sparked between us.

It was inappropriate for our positions—a department director assigning work to a subordinate medical fellow.

We looked away at the same time. Cal rubbed a hand along hisstubbled jaw, erasing any hints of unprofessionalism. I reread his first comment on my report three times, deliberately focusing on my rapidly percolating ideas, anything but his lingering closeness.

“Think you can give me a rough draft in two weeks?” he asked.

“Absolutely.”

When Cal was right, he was right. This was going to be fun.

***

Pre-practice chaos abounded. Some athletic trainers were busy taping ankles and applying braces, while others focused on helping the guys stretch. Players milled around in their pads and practice uniforms, joking and laughing. A football flew from one taping table to another. There were more jokes, some taunting, and a spattering of hyena laughter—the usual.

“I swear you’re cursed, man.” A handful of football players circled the taping table where I was assessing a last-minute injury. “You’re getting benched.”

The head team physician, Dr. McEwen, scrutinized the scene as he passed, making a note on his clipboard. He was a tight-lipped, barrel-chested sentinel of an alpha with a crew cut and a robust tan perfected by hours spent on his boat. The pre-game injury report was due in less than an hour, and he was double-checking the injured list before submission.

Tyler Hartsen, the team’s resident ginger lumberjack and starting nose tackle, looked down at me, near to tears. He missed most of last season after he tore his right ACL. The injured list was an emotional scar for him.

“Doc?”

“The final decision rests with Dr. McEwen, but—”

“Shit,” one of the other players interjected, “you’re not gonna play tomorrow.”

Rather than crane my neck to look up at their combined bulk, I gave the players a pointed look over the tops of my glasses. All of them zipped their mouths and took a step back.

“As I was saying, Dr. McEwen will make the final determination.” I returned my attention to the jammed finger on Tyler’s meaty left hand. It was a bit swollen and stiff, but the joint was stable.

He hurt it during morning weight training and tried to ignore the painall day. The other defensive linemen ratted him out to me on the sly.

“It’s a mild sprain.” I took a roll of medical tape from a supply drawer. “I’ll buddy tape it for now, but if it gets worse during practice, stop playing and tell someone.”

As I was taping Tyler’s fingers, my phone buzzed in my back pocket—then again and again.

Text bombardments were very much Jacobi’s style, but it was probably Piper responding to my earlier request for details about Joaquin. I ignored the repeated vibrations and finished taping his fingers together.

“All set. Ice it after practice and keep it elevated as much as possible tonight. I’ll follow up with you in the morning.”

---