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The first time I perfumed, I thought I was hallucinating. If Remi—who was a brand-new omega herself—wasn’t there to talk me down, I might have hurt myself.
Poor Rems had to teach me everything. I was totally clueless about how to be an omega. Sometimes, I still am.
Okay; most of the time.
I hate feeling helpless. Weak. I want to be like Mom—independent and badass. Before The Incident cost me my job, I thought I might have a shot.
I still do, I tell myself now. I will. I just have to suck it up and move forward. Pulling in a deep breath, I wrap myself deeper into my favorite blanket and click refresh again.
It’s okay.
It’s fine.
I have two months.
Well. Eight weeks.
Omegas need not apply.
Okay, it doesn’t actually say that.
But it might as well.
I’m not sure why I’m surprised. We live in a world that’s controlled by our stronger, more dominant counterparts. Our very existence reminds them of their greatest weakness—namely, us—and brings that weakness right to the surface. Of course they don’t want us in their spaces.
Problem is—all of the spaces are their spaces.
Including the Orlando Ospreys’ headquarters, apparently.
The job on my screen is perfect for me in every other way. The state’s premier national football team needs a new social media manager, which is exactly the sort of work I love.
A big, dynamic organization? An exciting field with lots of splashy competition? Cheering crowds and bright stadium lights? It’s a marketing mind’s dream.
Honestly, even the location sounds perfect. Moving a couple hours away—near the team’s facilities—would be ideal after my humiliating ordeal at my last job. Hopefully, two-hundred miles is far enough for no one to recognize me. Plus, Remi and I could see each other more if I lived in Orlando; she works just outside the downtown area.
A quick perusal of the Ospreys’ Instagram account tells me exactly why they have a position available. Their marketing is trite and predictable. Their orange-on-black bird logo looks like something out of the eighties. And their social presence feels sporadic, at best.
It’s mostly an endless crawl of two types of pictures: the outdated logo and their obnoxiously gorgeous quarterback.
Declan Howard.
Considering I know nothing at all about football, the fact that I recognize him right away is telling. It would be hard not to remember the guy, since he’s probably the most beautiful person on the planet.
He’s also tagged in every Ospreys picture, his all-American good looks grinning up at me.
Declan in a helmet.
Declan in a suit.
Declan being interviewed post-game. Pre-game. Mid-game.
Sheesh.
He is a perfect physical specimen. Two-hundred-and-thirty pounds of lean, solid muscle, if his stats are to be believed. He also has a perfectly square jaw, a straight nose, and the naughtiest grin I’ve ever seen. His head of thick, brown hair and striking blue eyes are just the double-cherries on top of his yumminess.
As undeniably attractive as the quarterback is—especially in those tight pants they wear… damn—surely, there must be other things for the team to advertise.
Don’t they have events? Philanthropies? Other hot players? Why do they lean so heavily on the fact that this one guy was on Today Magazine’s Sexiest Men Alive List?
