Page 152 of Altius
If the head coach had a shred of conscience, he would have been benched ages ago—and the field would be full of third-stringers.
Tyler cut in front of us. “What are you doing? We need him.”
“Nothing for you to worry about,” I said, mustering one ounce of politeness as we sidestepped around him.
“Go line up,” Garvey snarled, sending Tyler staggering back several feet. “I’ll deal with her. Move it!”
Reyhan shot me a worried look, then scanned the sideline to see if any staff physicians were free. They were all still busy dealing with Knox and the injured chain crew member. Even Dr. McEwen was getting his arm looked at.
We had to deal with Amir—and Garvey breathing down our necks—on our own.
But not entirely alone.
Alijah stood a dozen yards downfield, his camera tracking our every move. If Garvey laid a finger on me, we’d have irrefutable, high-definition, time-stamped proof.
For a split second, I wished we were bonded. Then Alijah would know how thankful I was for the tender concern in his dark gaze. How much strength his mere presence gave me.
Amir was practically dead weight by the time we reached the sideline.
“Medical tent,” I said, ignoring how winded I sounded or the sweat coating my back.
It was the best location to assess if Amir needed to be transported to the hospital.
Garvey dogged our every step, trailing us through the hustle of panicked bodies, barging his way into the medical tent. “He can play.”
Ignoring Garvey’s menacing presence, I held Amir steady while Reyhan guided him to sit on the exam table and removed his helmet.
Then I swept Amir’s locs to the side and palpated his neck. “Does this hurt?”
“No,” Amir mumbled.
“Okay, good.”
I studied his unusually dilated pupils. Were they from a potential concussion or the lingering aftereffects of a pheromone bomb? I couldn’t be sure.
“What’s the name of the field?” I asked.
Amir was quiet for a moment, blinking absently. “Tama—something?”
“Tamarind Stadium,” Garvey interjected. “Why does the stupid fucking name matter?”
Again, I ignored him. “What quarter is it now?”
“Uh… Second?” Amir rubbed his forehead. “No. It’s after half-time.”
“See, he’s fine.” Garvey elbowed Reyhan out of the way, reaching for Amir.
I stepped between them, not caring if Garvey got physical with me. But I refused to let him throw Reyhan around. Nor would I allow him to touch Amir.
“Leave,” I said, with a hint of venom. Fists clenched. Knees locked. Chin high in defiance. Refusing to let a single nerve turn traitor. “Go do your job. Let us do ours.”
“Don’t tell me what to do, you uppity omega bitch.” His voice was a low snarl, morphing into a menacing growl as he loomed over me.
I didn’t care if he was another victim of the pheromone bomber, acting on instinct rather than logic. No alpha worth a damn would behave this way—not to a pair of qualified physicians or an injured student-athlete.
To anyone.
I took half a step forward, trying to create more space between Garvey and Amir. To remind Garvey that he had no say over medical decisions.
