Page 22 of Altius
I paused on a photo of Jacobi, Grace, and me, surrounded by two dozen kids outside the art museum downtown. We’d bumped into a field trip on our way to lunch during Grace’s visit in the spring. Even if they didn’t recognize Jacobi, it was impossible not to recognize the one and only Grace Arata—the most decorated female omega gymnast of all time.
“Being low-key doesn’t mean we’re not still famous, to some degree. A picture is a token of appreciation for a fan. Not an indication of my private life in any way.” Now, all that remained was to twist the proverbial knife. “Or will you only be satisfied if I withdraw from the gymnastics medical team?”
She may have near-absolute power over my fellowship, but that didn’t mean Dr. Sethi could disregard my qualifications—or my background.
The university had touted my gymnastics success to high heaven, issuing multiple press releases in the weeks leading up to my start date, and making a big deal about a local Olympian caring for a new generation of gymnastics talent.
I could start a shitstorm with the click of a button. Send the altered gymnastics medical staff roster to one of the journalists still clogging up my inbox with interview requests—and boom.
The university would have some very pressing questions about designation equity to answer.
Dr. Sethi took an unsteady breath. “That won’t be necessary. My apologies. It appears that I… I misunderstood.”
On our way out, the look of muted approval I received from Dr. Flemming gave me the same sense of accomplishment as a stuck landing.
“You handled that very well,” he whispered. “Now, don’t get caught—not that you’re doing anything sneaky, per se, but if you were...”
I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. So much for secrecy.
“Someone has a big mouth.”
“Yes, yes,” he said with a wave, turning down the hallway toward his office. “But only when he’s happy.”
***
Sitting in a tent on the side of the practice field, wearing my anorak coat and a bevy of winter accessories, I studied the real-time PheroPass readings on my tablet, looking for evidence of a pheromone spike. Cal’s staff monitored more standard fare nearby, such as heart rate and respiration.
The final regular game of the season was this weekend, and it was the Narwhals’ last chance to secure a place in the conference championship. Wakeland State had already earned a berth, which had spurred team morale to new heights. There was nothing Northport loved more than beating my alma mater, especially when a title was involved.
“Fuck those weasels!” a player cried as he charged a tackling dummy.
I refreshed the pheromone alert dashboard and muttered, “Fisher. He’s a fisher.”
“Beat the weasels!” another player shouted.
Poor Finley the Fisher. No one at this university gave Wakeland State’s mascot any respect.
Why were they so focused on Wakeland State this week, anyhow? They had to get through Garroway Forest on Saturday first.
I spotted Reyhan Parsha, the other sports medicine fellow assigned to the football team, walking down the sideline. He was returning from his latest reconnaissance mission. While I watched the data, he put his nose to work, without any luck thus far.
Tucking my tablet under my arm, I walked over to meet him. “Anything?”
“No. Everyone’s focused and excited—but not angry. No weird scents.” He pulled up his coat collar to block out the wind, his lips twisting into a restrained smile. “Just a lot of weasel cursing.”
I sighed. “Why can’t they understand that not all mustelids are created equal?”
“You’re expecting the scions of a pirate whale to care about taxonomy?” Reyhan asked with a laugh.
“Touché.” My phone vibrated in my pocket. It was a text from Cal.
Grandfather in hospital. Possible stroke. Heading over now. You okay?
In better shape than I expected. Drive safe. Call me later.
As I tried to summon words of comfort to pad out my barebones text, Reyhan asked, “Did you notice any new spikes?”
“Still nothing.” I shook my head, feeling more disappointed with my impersonal message than our lack of progress in finding the pheromone bomber.
