Page 40 of Altius
“Count me in.” Cal tweaked my nose and took a step back. “Gives me plenty of time to search for the maroon cardigan that vanished in your bathroom.”
“Don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said, walking past him with a perfectly composed expression, emerging onto the sideline just in time to see our offense take the field.
Cal paused next to me. “Going to go look for Wyatt and Alijah. Meet up at the PheroPass tent after you get your people?”
“Be there as soon as I can,” I said with a nod, but my eyes were fixed on the video screens, watching our guys take their positions.
What if our offensive line was as off-kilter as the defense?
We parted, heading in opposite directions.
Hoping Dr. McEwen was still near the medical supply cabinet, I cut through the crowd, but Reyhan snagged me before I made much progress. The panic in his eyes said everything. I nodded.
“Shit.” He pulled off his hat, exposing his mussed hair to the bitter wind. “Just—shit.”
Reyhan roughly pulled his hat down over his ears, then sighed. “Is there a plan?”
“Coaches won’t pull the affected players, so Cal wants us to gather at the PheroPass tent. That way, we’ll know immediately if anything changes.”
The stadium erupted as our quarterback found an open receiver twenty-six yards down the field. As the line of scrimmage moved forward, so did the crowd of players and coaches, carrying us along with the current.
One second, Reyhan was in front of me. The next, he was gone, swallowed by the crowd.
“Reyhan,” I called, straining to look for him.
A blunt force slammed into my back.
I staggered forward, bumping into random arms and hips, fighting to regain my balance, terrified of what would happen if I hit the ground.
Everyone was too riled up. I wouldn’t just get stepped on—I’d be trampled.
A powerful arm wrapped around my waist, pulling me against a solid chest.
“Watch it,” Wyatt half-snarled, holding me close as he stared down a much taller assistant coach.
The glacial pallor of his eyes caught me off guard.
Our minimal height difference left me defenseless against his unleashed dominance, stealing my breath and weakening my knees. I had no choice but to grip the front of his coat to steady myself.
“Sorry, man. Didn’t see her,” the coach apologized and hurried off.
But Wyatt’s protective edge refused to recede, cold gaze still fixed on the coach’s retreating back.
“I’m okay,” I said, fighting to regain my balance. “He didn’t mean it.”
“Bullshit.”
Strong hands gripped the sides of my hips, a possessive touch that felt like a brand despite the layers of insulated clothing between his gloved hand and my skin.
“I’m okay. Probably just put on too much scent-canceling spray. Alphas can’t see what they can’t scent, right?”
Wyatt’s jaw ticked, unwilling to take his eyes off the perceived threats surrounding us. They moved from the coach who bumped into me to anyone else who got too close—a referee, a cameraman, Coach Garvey.
He even sneered at Amir Okorie, the omega linebacker and one of my staunchest allies among the players.
Discreetly slipping my hand inside his unzipped jacket, I rubbed his side. The longer I touched him, the less tense he became.
Swallowing hard, Wyatt seemed to return to his senses. His hands shifted from my hips to grip me firmly by the pockets of my coat, anchoring me against the muscled mass of his torso.
