Page 68 of False Catch

"Yeah, rowing season's brutal." He shifts his backpack, genuinely sympathetic. "My lacrosse coach is basically a drill sergeant with mommy issues. Yesterday he made us run suicides until someone puked. Guess who won that honor?"

"You?"

"My rookie defender. Kid turned green like a cartoon character." His laugh is infectious. "But hey, at least your sport has the dignity of boats. We're just running around with sticks like overgrown children."

I actually laugh—small, but real. When was the last time I did that?

"There we go," Quinton says, pleased. "I was starting to think you'd forgotten how to do that."

“What? Smile?”

“Relax.”

"I should get to class." Though honestly, talking to him has been the first normal moment I've had in days.

"Business Strategy started ten minutes ago," he points out with a theatrical wince. "We're both already late. Hawthorne is probably devastated. Might as well walk together and share the shame."

He's right, and somehow his self-deprecating humor makes it easier to nod. We walk toward the business building, Quinton filling the silence with a story about his roommate's failed attempt to impress a girl by cooking ("Dude set off three smoke alarms making pasta. PASTA, Reese. It was already cooked.")

"You know," Quinton says as we near the building, "I'm glad we're partners on this project. You're the only person in that class who doesn't think 'innovation' means adding an app to something."

"Thanks," I say, and surprisingly, it's only half a lie. Working with someone outside the team drama has been exactly what I needed.

Professor Hawthorne barely glances up when we slip into the lecture hall. The class is discussing supply chain optimization, and for once, I try to focus on something other than pack dynamics and claiming bites.

Halfway through class, Quinton shifts in his seat, casually draping his arm across the back of my chair. It's such a typical college guy move that I almost laugh. Then his fingers accidentally brush my shoulder.

Every claimed instinct screams at the contact. Wrong Alpha. Not pack. Not Jackson. My skin crawls with a biological revulsion that has nothing to do with Quinton himself and everything to do with the mark hidden beneath my scarf.

"You okay?" he whispers, immediately pulling his arm back. "Sorry, didn't mean to crowd you. My last girlfriend said I have no concept of personal space."

"It's fine." The word comes out strangled. I grip my pen harder, trying to focus on the slides.

"No, it's not." He scoots his chair slightly away, giving me more room. "You've been tense all morning. Whatever's going on with your team, it's really messing with you, isn't it?"

The class drags on interminably. Every second of his casual touch feels like betrayal to the mark on my neck, to Jackson who claimed me, to the pack bonds forming despite our best efforts to resist. By the time Professor Hawthorne dismisses us, I'm practically vibrating with the need to escape.

I shoot up from my seat, but Quinton rises with me, his hand finding the small of my back to guide me toward the door. Another casual touch that makes my claimed body want to recoil.

"There's something different about you," he murmurs as we exit into the hallway. "Can't quite put my finger on it."

We step outside, and I immediately see them.

Photos.

Everywhere.

Plastered on the bulletin board by the business building entrance. Taped to the lamp post. Scattered on the ground like confetti.

Two images, printed dozens of times:

The first—me kissing my last boyfriend at Westlake, his hand tangled in my hair, bodies pressed together in obvious intimacy. A photo from before everything went wrong, when I still believed he saw me as more than just another Omega conquest.

The second—me and Gray from that Sunday after Riverside. The photo that someone had left outside my dorm for Jackson to find. The one that came with the note with “YOU’RE MINE” scrawled across the back. The one that clearly showed that me and Gray were something much more than just teammates.

Blood drains from my face. Students are already gathering, picking up photos, whispering behind their hands. Someone takes a picture with their phone. This'll be all over campus social media within minutes. Without context, the pictures paint a very ugly picture of me that gossip channels will salivate over.

"What the hell?" Quinton's voice cracks with genuine shock. He immediately starts ripping photos down, his usual composure completely shattered. "This is—who would—this is so fucked up, Reese."