Page 42 of Altius
When did Wyatt learn how to make the first move?
“Stop it,” I demanded.
“What’s got you rattled? And I don’t mean this,” he said, gesturing between us. “Let me help. Bodyguard, remember?”
I glanced over his shoulder at the approaching Reyhan, then said in a hissing whisper, “Stay close and let me know if you see—or smell—anything weird. And no touching.”
“Got it.”
Weaving between crowded bodies, we reunited with Reyhan.
“There you are! What happened—”
Reyhan’s attention abruptly locked onto the scarf around my neck, which radiated alpha possessiveness. More questions poured out of his expressive eyes.
But this time, I didn’t know how to answer him.
“It’s just a safety precaution,” Wyatt said casually, as if the scarf meant nothing, despite his chest swelling with self-satisfaction. “To keep people from running into Morgan.”
Reyhan reached for my arm, hand freezing a few inches short, deterred by the protective shield of Wyatt’s pheromones.
“Did you get hurt?”
“No. Don’t worry about it.”
More whistles drew my attention to the field.
Garroway Forest stopped the Narwhal’s drive at the eighteen-yard line. Landon took to the field and sent the ball through the uprights with ease.
A split second after his kicking foot returned to the ground, a Garroway Forest player fell backward against Landon’s side, knocking him to the turf.
“Oh no,” Reyhan said, pressing his hands to his mouth.
Coaches and other players pushed forward. Wyatt moved closer, shielding my back from the agitated crowd.
I unconsciously grabbed his arm, eyes locked on the video boards, searching for any sign of injury, ready to spring into action—and waiting for the penalty flag.
But it didn’t come.
“What the hell?” Reyhan looked at me in confusion.
Tyler Hartsen pressed closer, wearing his jersey and warm-up clothes, his fractured hand resting against his chest in a sling. “It’s not a penalty. Landon already kicked the ball, and both feet were down before the other guy fell into him. It was accidental contact.”
Few players shared Tyler’s pragmatism, even after Landon walked off the field, reassuring everyone that he was all right.
Reyhan and I still herded him into the medical exam tent for a quick but thorough once-over, anyhow. Wyatt stood guard at the entrance.
The Narwhals’ defensive line was almost foaming at the mouth as they assembled at the line of scrimmage, hurling themselves at Garroway Forest. They drove the offensive line back seven yards, then twelve.
I rejoined Wyatt as the refs called third down. A big play from our team could end the drive and return possession of the ball to the Narwhals.
“Hut, hut—hike!” The Garroway Forest quarterback ran backward, eyes tracking a receiver darting downfield.
With a few violent shoves, a Northport player—Knox, the penalty magnet—broke through the writhing mass of bodies at the line of scrimmage. Even two Garroway Forest players holding onto his arm and leg couldn’t stop him as he charged forward.
The quarterback tried to scramble away, but he wasn’t fast enough. A merciless war cry drowned out the crowd noise. Knox barreled into the quarterback’s legs with unchecked alpha ferocity.
The violent crash of pads meeting flesh. A sickening squelch. The gut-churning snap of bone. One surprised, bleating cry—and the quarterback collapsed.
