Page 41 of Omega’s Forward

13. Brody

Heats lie. Everyone knows that. Heats make you feel things that you wouldn’t ordinarily feel. Make you do things you wouldn’t ordinarily do.

Like ask an alpha to claim you when you don’t want him at all.

I keep telling myself that. It gets less convincing every time I do.

The waves are coming hours apart now instead of minutes. We’re on the back side of it, and in the gaps he sleeps like he’s been shot, face down in the wrecked bed with one arm thrown over my ribs. He doesn’t ask. He just puts it there.

I lie still so I don’t wake him and let myself think about the things I’ve been avoiding. He said thank you in the dark two nights ago and meant it. He let me wash his hair. He’s called me Brody since the bathroom.

Maybe none of it survives the week. Heats end and people go back to being who they were.

His scent has gone quiet. Still orange, still the dark honey underneath, but low and warm now. It’s in the sheets and the towels and all down my chest, and I could stay in it all day.

Which is exactly why I get up.

He shifts when I slide out from under his arm, frowning at something in his dreams but stays asleep. I stand there one second longer than I need to. Then I go make coffee like a functioning adult.

The kitchen is bright and cold. I start the coffee and pick up my phone for the first time in days.

Four texts from JP. I lean on the counter and read them.

told the boys you went to your sister’s. family time after the suspension. very sad. everyone bought it

make sure you shave. you don’t want to look wrecked when you come back

also union rep was looking for you. hearing’s thursday. your agent has the file, all you have to do is show up and look sorry

linus is home and bored. he keeps sending the group chat photos of his neck brace. he looks like a puppy in one of those cones. lol.

Then, from close to midnight: you good?

Fifteen years I’ve played with the guy. He’s seen me concussed, benched, stitched up, and once, memorably, crying into a hotel pillow in Calgary over a pulled groin. In all that time I can’t think of one thing he’s ever asked me for, but he’s always been there for me.

I type: good. better than I’ve got any right to be. I owe you.

The reply comes back immediately.

you owe me nothing. also everything. tell Rourke he has terrible taste

I laugh out loud, alone in my kitchen. Then I text my sister — alive, will call this week, love to the kids — because she sent me three question marks after the suspension.

The coffee finishes. I pour two mugs and carry them up.

Everett’s awake, propped against the headboard with the comforter at his waist and his hair sticking up stupid again. There’s a mark on his shoulder that I put there. It’s a good look. I keep that to myself.

“Coffee,” I say, and hand him a mug.

“Thank you.” He puts both hands around it and takes a slow sip.

I get on the bed on top of the covers and we drink our coffee without making conversation. Neither of us mentions the upcoming hearing or anything about hockey. That’s probably a good thing.

Finally, he looks at me and says, “How come you don’t have any artwork on the walls?”

It’s not a question I expect, and not really an answer I want to give him because it’s kind of embarrassing.

I shrug. “I’m not good at picking out art. The one time I bought actual art the boys found out and they’re still laughing at me. I guess I could get a decorator in but I’ve just never got around to it.”