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“Are you hungry, little one?” His palm pets the back of my head and I shiver with pleasure, my perfume already ridiculously strong in the small space.
“Let’s feed you properly first.” He drifts around my body, moving in the sinuous, smoke-like way that is distinctly Ronan. He looks over and locks his quicksilver eyes on mine. “It irritates my Alpha when I think you’re hungry.”
Archer is on it, already filling a plate with sticky short ribs, mini mac-and-cheese bites—and of course—some stir-fried veggies. He adds a second piece of Texas toast, though, so I decide to let his obsession with my vitamin intake slide.
Ronan leads me to one of the plush, over-stuffed leather chairs lined up in front of a window overlooking the stadium. The view is incredible. We’re higher up than most of the fans, but we can see every part of the field. Between that and the close-up coverage flickering on the wide-screen television hanging above the buffet, I feel like I might actually have a prayer of following the play action.
If my alphas let me, that is.
Ronan fills the place beside me, reaching over to feed me bites of toast from his own hand. His other palm continues stroking the back of my head. His eyes spark with pride while he watches me swallow.
Lord.
The obsessive, possessive edge to his gaze is definitely stronger today. Maybe because he knotted me last night? It seems optimistic to think he could possibly look at me like this forever. Surely, my novelty will wear off soon and these incredible men will all come to their senses, right?
Maybe that’s what’s wrong with me today? I’m just… anxious about how much they’re starting to mean to me?
Convinced this can’t possibly be real life?
Archer seems determined to prove the exact opposite. He slides into the chair at my other side and instantly slips his hand into my lap. Long fingers knead at my thigh while he eats his salad wrap one-handed, watching the sidelines and flicking his focus over to me every few moments.
They both try their best to keep the atmosphere light—keeping our conversation easy, refilling my plate twice, smirking at me when I half-heartedly protest a third helping of garlic bread. But as soon as the players line up on the field for kick-off, a charge snaps through the skybox.
We all lean forward, watching while the opposing team scrambles to catch our punt. It’s a good one, apparently. Ronan quietly comments on the kicker’s rookie status, grumbling while he admits that “the kid” was a decent addition to their roster. Archer is much kinder, listing the new guy’s stats with a magnanimous air.
I find this pattern continues while we watch the first quarter unfold. Ronan is grumpy, complaining about every tiny mistake and frowning when the officials make calls against us. Archer, on the other hand, seems optimistic. He shrugs when plays go awry, smiling loosely.
It takes me a while to realize that he doesn’t actually care who wins. He only tenses when one of our players is slow to recover from a nasty tackle. I hear the way he holds his breath until the man is back on his feet, waving off the medical staff gathered along the sidelines.
I’m so focused on trying to absorb the ins and outs of the game and my alphas’ moods, it takes me a while to return to the niggling sensation that something feels… off.
By the time I realize Ronan is scowling at the field, there are just a few minutes left until halftime and we’re down by ten points. I lean closer to Archer, hoping he might explain what’s going on.
“Is something wrong?”
He pauses for half a second, cocking his head and watching the players line up for another down before he replies.
“It’s unusual for Theo to miss blocks,” he murmurs. “Usually he’s so overprotective, I have to tell him not to tear himself up guarding Declan. But today he’s just…”
The words trail off as the players below snap into action. I train my gaze on Theo, watching while he absorbs a hit to his shoulder. At first, it seems like he’s really blocking the defensive player trying to shove past him. But then he lets his body roll to the right before backing off entirely.
Allowing an enormous linebacker to hustle through the gap and plow into Declan.
I spring to my feet the second the player makes contact.
And then I sprint.
I hear noises behind me. Shouts, snarls. I don’t care. I only know I have to get down to the field immediately.
It’s funny. All the fighting I do to keep my omega instincts in check, all the times I was secretly so proud of subverting them—that all seems like a joke now.
Because this? This is a proper instinct, and I have no prayer of even slowing myself down long enough to parse it.
I don’t know why I need to streak down ten flights of stairs, knocking much bigger, scarier people out of my way. I have no idea why it doesn’t occur to me to explain myself to my other alphas. I’m not even in my own brain as I shove past a door clearly marked for staff only and race through the tunnels Theo showed me after practice that day.
My heart hammers as I force my way past a row of armed, enormous guards, ducking to slip between their legs and burst out of the team’s tunnel.
Onto the field.
