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Do Not Disturb.
Whoever invented that feature should be given a Nobel Peace Prize.
Truly. Name one thing that’s brought more actual peace to the modern era.
With my phone silenced and Damon already crashed in his room, sleeping off Coach’s shouty ass-kicking , it’s a perfectly quiet Thursday night in our pack house.
Smith is out, somewhere. At the office? Working, probably.
God forbid he stop and look up for half a second. I wonder what he’s so afraid of finding if he does.
With a sigh, I step out of my nightly shower, leaving my spent cum and mild disgust to slither down the drain. If it were up to me, the daily stroke-off session wouldn’t be a part of my routine.
Doctor’s orders, though.
Professional athletes aren’t allowed to take rut-blockers. Apparently, for those who also aren’t sexually active, unchecked alpha hormones can build up and increase the odds that a random omega would throw us into rut.
Which sounds like a nightmare. For them. And me.
Instead, I spend every night standing under the steamy spray of my shower, roughly gripping my dick and knot while I imagine a set of much softer, gentler hands.
At least it’s over. For now.
The whole house is half-finished—maybe more like one-fourth-finished—but I finally have a towel rack and a bathroom mirror, at least. Grumbling under my breath, I swipe my hand through the condensation fogging it.
Appearances are more Damon’s thing. Still, I glance at my reflection, feeling obligated to at least check it, occasionally. Just in case I’ve actually become the beast I feel like on the inside, sometimes.
But no. I still have a straight, human nose. A scar sliced over my left eye. A clean-shaven chin with a cleft in it.
No forked tongue or fangs.
My hair is probably too long, though. Smith always mutters about it, saying it’s no wonder everyone on my team calls me “Beastly.”
I got the nickname halfway through high school. When I think about the way I acted on and off the ice, it was probably deserved.
I keep most of my frustration to myself these days. Beating the punching bag in our home gym to a pulp. Running for an hour every morning. Doing sit-ups until I can’t breathe. Doing my lonely jack-off session every night because I literally have to.
Jesus.
If any of my opponents spent half a minute in my head, our defenders wouldn’t even have to block them. They’d just run away, screaming.
Not that I really care. It’s been years since I felt attracted to anyone, including omegas. Even then, every one of them somehow left me more agitated and unsatisfied than I was before we met.
They all chafed. Too stiff in the collar. Too tight over my shoulders. A pinch at my inseam.
Eventually, my Alpha sort of gave up, grunting in annoyed distaste anytime someone brought the subject up. It’s hard to get an exact read on the instincts, but the impulses feel a lot like, “Really? This mediocre shit?”
As if he just can’t be fucked to pay even a speck of attention to, you know, an alpha’s biological imperative.
I’ve read every book on the subject, but none of them offer any answers. I didn’t reject my mate or get rejected; those are the only documented reasons for “Alpha Apathy.”
So, I decided to keep my issues to myself and let the guys have their “scientifically matched” omega. Because I might not be the most charming guy, but I’m nothing if not a team player.
Every alert on my phone agrees. The screen lights up the second I switch Airplane Mode off, filling with a string of notifications. Half of the alerts are texts from teammates. They’re all nice enough, congratulating me on another shut-out. A few have links in them.
They all lead to similar articles, videos, and social media posts. Raised by Wolves? one jokes, along with a picture of D pummeling the shit out of the opposing team’s defender.
It’s a play on words, since whatever idiot named our team chose the Timberwolves as our title. And, now, according to this Sports Network article:
