Page 87 of Citius

As I followed the rest of the medical staff back inside, I caught a fleeting glimpse of Alijah near the student section. He was snapping photos, doing his best to capture the raucous energy of the crowd. Any minute now, he’d wrap up and make his usual post-game rounds, taking more photos of the players and filming triumphant snippets for social media.

Except nearly an hour passed, and Alijah never appeared.

Maybe he was busy in another part of the stadium. He was always running around after a game, juggling a dozen different tasks at once. I was overthinking.

But then I overheard Amir asking Landon if they should keep waiting for Alijah or head to the press conference without him.

Something was off. I could feel it in the pit of my stomach.

After checking with Reyhan—who confirmed he hadn’t seen Alijah and that the winter accessories he’d borrowed hadn’t been returned—I began a methodical search. First, I scoured the athlete areas, then thestaff offices, even ducking into the men’s bathroom. Still, no sign of Alijah.

Grabbing my umbrella, I stepped outside to scan the rain-soaked field. The sidelines were nearly empty, save for a few camera guys dismantling their equipment and ground staff picking up wet litter. The student section was empty, though the faint sound of the marching band echoed in the distance.

I pulled out my phone and called Alijah. It rang until it went to voicemail. The second call was no different.

Growing more uneasy, I retraced my steps back to the small, closet-like office assigned to the PheroPass team. Inside, Cal and Owen were huddled around a monitor, reviewing changes to the pheromone data following the interception.

I knocked on the doorframe and stuck my head inside. “Hey, have you seen Alijah?”

“Why?” Owen countered, his tone carrying an edge that could be mistaken for a challenge rather than concern.

“He didn’t show up in the locker room for photos, and he’s not answering his phone. People are starting to look for him.”

Cal sprang into action, tugging a knit hat over his rumpled hair and grabbing his coat. “Owen, you take the left side of the stadium. I’ve got the right.” He paused to give my shoulder a reassuring squeeze before striding off. “Try calling him again.”

“Don’t contact Joaquin,” Owen added, stepping closer. He plucked the umbrella from my hand with surgical precision, avoiding direct contact, though his fingers came close enough to transfer their chill to my skin. “Fifteen minutes. Then sound the mate alarm.”

He strode off, my umbrella in hand, an odd mix of dashing and menacing with his squared shoulders and long black coat.

I forced myself to wait five excruciating minutes, using the vocalization data from the disappointing first half as a distraction. When the last of my patience evaporated, I called Alijah again.

Still no answer.

Sitting around while the alphas searched for him didn’t feel right. I made another loop of the areas frequented by players and staff, scanning hallways and lonely nooks until I found myself standing at the mouth of the athlete’s entrance tunnel. Pulling on my gloves and hood, I stared at the rain-soaked field.

Just as I dialed Alijah’s number for the sixth time, a flash of green caught my eye in the student section. Squinting through the downpour, I watched the green blob dart frantically up and down, scurrying left andright. Using my phone’s camera to zoom in, I confirmed it was the soaking-wet bobble on Alijah’s hat.

I was halfway down the field when Cal answered his phone, the echo of his voice booming down a tunnel behind me. “What are you doing?”

“Alijah’s in the student section. Tell Owen.”

“You’re getting soaked!”

“Not going to melt,” I shot back before hanging up.

It took a few seconds to find an open gate into the seating area, and then I bounded up the steps two at a time.

“No, no—where is it, where is it—where?” His panicked voice spilled out, raw and unchecked, threatening to suffocate everything within ten feet. I slowed my approach, careful not to startle him.

He hunched over the first row of seats, pawing desperately at the folded chairs and scattering a bucket of soggy popcorn.

Keeping my voice calm, with a hint of warmth, I deployed my bedside manner. “Alijah?”

He whipped around, his unfocused eyes darting in my general direction. But he didn’t recognize me.

Shallow, uneven breaths failed to support his thin frame, and he crumpled to the ground, scouring the wet pavement with reddened fingertips. Where were the gloves he’d borrowed from Reyhan?

“What are you looking for?” I took a tentative step closer.

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