Page 150 of Altius
Definitely not, I thought, exiting the elevator onto my omega-only floor. Nope. Not me.
True to his word, Alijah waited across the street until I appeared in the window of my room and texted him an orange emoji with a pair of lips.
Shaking his head, he sent me three purple hearts in return and mouthed, “Goodnight.”
Yes, what a lovely, enchanted evening we had.
It was too bad it had to end with listening to my left-hand neighbor snoring through the wall while the couple to the right kept talking over a noisy action movie.
Rather than call any of my guys—which somehow now totaled three—I opted for simple goodnight texts to Cal and Wyatt. Then I got ready for bed and curled up with the audiobook Wyatt had prepared.
I conked out sooner than I cared to admit, but not before recasting the lead dragon riders with Cal and Joaquin, the hostage prince with Wyatt, and the young genius mage with Alijah.
If only I’d stayed awake long enough for the dark wizard to emerge. He would have looked like Owen, a sinister harbinger of trying times ahead.
Thirty-Six
Morgan
“Take the fight to them!” the head coach shouted. Standing in the middle of the locker room, he pushed his already fried vocal cords to the max. “Play after play—hit harder, run faster, fight like hell! For yourself, your brothers, for our legacy. We’re two quarters away from the championship game. Do you want that trophy? Make me believe it!”
Leaning forward, he placed his hand in the middle of the raucous huddle.
“Fight on three. One, two, three—”
“Fight,” the team chanted, “fight, fight!”
Covering my ears, I stood in the far corner of the room, overwhelmed by the sound of a hundred men shouting in unison.
“Now go,” the coach yelled. “Make them pay!”
As the team rushed back to the field, I spotted Alijah filming at the far end of the entrance tunnel. He turned, panning across the players as they ran down the sideline, jumping up to bump chests, spurring each other on by slapping helmets and backsides.
Tame behavior compared to the brutality of the game thus far. Each play was more aggressive than the last. Every hitbrimmed with deliberate violence. The penalty calls were non-stop.
Even the roar of the crowd was bloodthirsty.
My phone buzzed with constant alerts from the new PheroPass warning system. Our players were under siege by pheromone bombs. No one was safe tonight. Offense, defense, special teams. It was relentless.
And it would only get worse the longer the Narwhals failed to score. They were behind six to seventeen, and their only points were thanks to two field goals by Landon.
I held my breath as the Narwhals’ defensive line took to the field. Maybe the coach’s pep talk had helped them refocus and settle down. They could still turn the game around if they made smart plays and avoided accruing any more penalties…
A hope dashed in less than two minutes.
Tyler rammed his shoulder into the windpipe of an approaching offensive lineman and spun around. He grabbed the neck of the quarterback’s jersey, hurling him backward onto the ground. The force of the impact sent the quarterback’s helmet flying.
Frantic whistles and flags followed. Our head coach got in the referee’s face, trying to fight the penalty for unsportsmanlike conduct.
A text from Cal arrived. He and Owen were monitoring the game remotely.
Keep an eye on Knox. Think he’s trying to bait the other team at the line of scrimmage. He might be our guy.
I showed the message to Dr. McEwen. His disapproving perma-scowl somehow managed to become even more severe.
“Look sharp,” he said, eyes fixed on the field. “If this goes south, there’s nothing Carling or his team can do about it.”
“Yes, sir,” I said, “I’ll—”
