Page 29 of Citius

So, I gave in to temptation and ate my intellectual dessert first. Comforting myself with the brilliance of Cal’s white paper, reading and rereading passages, highlighting anything that might come in useful for PheroPass, until I passed out in the library nest—with Tenny spread out along my back and Kip in the crook of my arm.

Ten

Morgan

Tyler was downright sulking on a taping station in the training room as I prepped his sprained finger for another home game. It was in better condition than last week—but he’d been pushing his limits.

“Stupid thing still hurts,” he grumbled, striking his heel against the side of the table.

A few stragglers lingered to get their ankles taped and knees braced, while most of the team was putting on their pads in the adjoining locker room. The relative quiet allowed us to converse at a humane volume, dulling the iron spikes that had been stabbing the right side of my head for the past hour. I’d never get used to the cacophony of game day.

“You’re in pretty good shape, all things considered,” I said, offering a flexible support glove made of nylon and spandex.

It had two finger sleeves, one that would brace his pointer and middle fingers, the other his ring and pinky fingers. An almost elegant alternative to the wads of tape he’d been sporting.

“Just one more week, and you’ll be good as new.”

Tyler gave the glove an experimental poke before taking it from me, turning it over in his hand a few times, regarding it with utmost suspicion.

“That doesn’t look very strong.”

“It serves the same purpose as buddy-taping—plus, it can’t get ripped. Your finger will be safe for the entire game.”

“It’s really better than tape?”

Tyler was sweet but dense. His finger only needed a bit of stability.Not enough infrastructure to rival the Roman aqueducts.

“The glove provides more support and coverage than you—”

“Just give him the tape, sweetie.” Coach Garvey sidled up, reaching over my shoulder. His elbow almost grazed the top of my breast as he took the glove from Tyler. “My boy knows what it takes to win, and it’s your job to give it to him—right?”

“N-no, it’s okay,” Tyler stammered, reaching for the support glove. His hand closed on empty air, a half-hearted attempt to save face. Players weren’t supposed to question my medical decisions.

“Relax, Hartsen. She’s going to fix you right up.” Garvey leaned against the side of the taping station, slapping the glove against his palm. His beady eyes lingered on the unmarked skin of my neck as he flashed his canines. “Aren’t you, sweetie?”

I ignored Garvey and pulled a roll of tape from the drawer beside my thigh. Catering to entitled alphas wasn’t in my job description—but here I was, keeping the peace for the sake of Tyler’s recovery.

“Don’t get upset,” Garvey drawled, inching closer as I taped Tyler’s fingers. He kept slapping the glove against his palm. “Just trying to help you out. I know you don’t have much experience meeting the needs of high-performance athletes.”

The dig at my qualifications was genuine, not innuendo. Garvey was under the impression that I spent the past three years at the children’s hospital kissing booboos better and nothing more. If only he were stupid enough to insult my designation outright or try to cop a feel. Then, I’d have a justifiable reason to lose my temper for once.

Alas.

Garvey wouldn’t do anything that blatantly violated my rights as an omega inside the stadium, with its top-of-the-line security and cameras in every corner—including the one directly behind Tyler’s head. No, he was perfectly content to channel the worst of the alphas-will-be-alphas mindset, where it’s not workplace harassment if they’re trying to be helpful.

“You’re going to take care of all my boys like this. Aren’t you, sweetie?” said Garvey, leaning even closer, tipping his tone from condescension into sleaze.

I wanted to knee him right in the knot.

Aside from Tyler, no one was close enough to hear Garvey’s words. Still, his body language was questionable enough to draw over Amir Okorie, our six-two omega linebacker with a mane of black locs and deep brown skin.

Landon joined him a moment later, the two forming a protectivesemicircle behind me.

“Have a second, doc?” Landon asked, his sharp gaze locking on Garvey.

Noticing that he’d drawn a critical audience, Garvey pushed off the taping station. He paused to smirk at my profile, tossed the glove into the trash with casual indifference, then clapped his hands and strode toward the locker room.

“Come on, boys! Time to warm up.”

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