Page 99 of Citius

“Cal never pulls his punches when it comes to omega safety,” he said, trying to school his expression into something more businesslike.

“Came in swinging,” Dr. McEwen said with an amused rumble that almost passed for a laugh, “citing all sorts of legislative code, threatening to pull investments and take Redwing with him. Never seen the head of athletics move so fast.”

A stuttering buzz invaded my thoughts, drowning out almost everything except the image of Cal—the unfamiliar, too-serious, suit-wearing version—and his hit list. He’d followed through, within reason, even though I hadn’t asked him to.

But why? I wasn’t worth the effort.

Maybe Cal was just being true to his principles. A protective act tied to my designation, something he’d do for any omega in need.

No. That was an excuse—and a weak one at that. I knew how Cal felt about me.

But how didIfeel?

We only met because of my fellowship, and yet it was the biggest obstacle standing in our way. If I were to ignore my job—no, if it were July…

I banished the thought and redirected my focus, voicing a lingering concern. “Did they figure out how Garvey got into a restricted area?”

“Tailgated.” Dr. McEwen grunted more than said the word. “Accompanied a player to the clinic for an x-ray, then camped out by a staff entrance. Caught the door when someone left for lunch.”

“Which is incredibly disappointing,” Dr. Flemming added, “given how much time and effort we’ve put into reminding staff to be aware of their surroundings.”

I felt for him. The sports medicine clinic staff took safety seriously and were usually hypervigilant around access points.

“Sounds like even more supplemental training is on the horizon.”

“Yes,” he sighed. “And plenty of it.”

After answering a few questions about my contact with HR, I reassured them I’d report any further incidents. Dr. McEwen departed for a budget meeting. I volunteered to escort Dr. Flemming to the exit, but he was in no hurry.

“I must admit, I’m a little jealous,” he said, peeking into the largest conference room, with its interactive whiteboard display and remote-controlled everything. “The sports medicine clinic isn’t much older than this place, yet…” He sighed and strolled down the hallway, hands clasped behind his back like a grandfather on a Sunday stroll. “Oh well, the gods of budgetary fortune may smile upon us next time.”

It wasn’t like Dr. Flemming to wax poetic about funding issues. A glance at my phone confirmed I still had ten minutes until my next appointment, enough time to figure out what he was trying to get at.

“Throw in the option to rename the clinic, and you might just get your wish.”

“The Belcrests are more selective than you think.” He paused, fussing with his bowtie between furtive glances. “I thought Cal might have explained their charitable philosophy.”

“Why’s that?” I asked, pulse picking up a notch.

Did Dr. Flemming know something about my tangled relationship with Cal, or had my choice of outfit betrayed me? The Captain Tusker embroidered on my preppy blue-and-white varsity sweater seemed to mock me—little snitch.

“Because you two… Haven’t you known each other for some time?”

I shook my head. “No. We only met after the start of my fellowship.”

Dr. Flemming blinked at me. The confusion was mutual. “But you’re a major donor for Brizo House. I volunteer there regularly, and your name’s near the top of the donor tree.”

“Yes, I’m a donor. Have been for years. Long before I met Cal.”

“So, you know it’s his mother’s. Her legacy?” The sadness in his eyes was overwhelming. Cal’s mom must have been an incredible woman.

“Were you friends?”

“Went to high school and college together.” His voice wavered. “Laurel was a skilled designation counselor. Empathetic, insightful. Poured everything into Brizo House after she got mated. It was a different time. Omega rights reform was still in its infancy, so omegas could still legally be sold to the highest bidder. Not that it’s ever fully stopped in certain circles. They call it a merger now or claim sparks flew during acquisition talks. Anything to make it sound palatable. But if you read between the lines…”

He stared out across the practice fields, knocking his hands together in quiet irritation. “Chaz insisted on filing courting paperwork, letting Laurel call the shots during dates. Made her think he was enlightened—a modern alpha. But when their mating announcement hit the papers, it only included her name, age, and designation. Don’t know why she went through with it.”

The shock was too big to suppress. “The Carlings didn’t approve?”

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