Page 4 of Knottingley Ever After
Omega senses are fussy little things, and mine are buried under the layered fug of locker-room stink and adrenaline, but I catch a whiff of something like wet linen left in a basement, copper pennies, and faded expensive cologne attempting to mask both.
A predator scent that someone has tried to dress up in church clothes.
I push off and glide closer.
Declan’s gaze flicks to me.Stop,his look says. Then, smoother, more controlled:Slow down.
I do neither.
Because Iris O’Shea is a goalie, not a golden retriever.
I coast right up to the boards and rest my glove on the railing, helmet still tucked under my arm. “Coach.”
Declan’s mouth opens.
The suit gets there first.
“And here she is,” he says, and his voice is silken and a touch nasal. The kind of voice that sells timeshares to grieving widows. He extends a hand, palm down, in a half-gesture-half-blessing. “Miss O’Shea. A pleasure.”
I don’t take his hand.
Pads. Glove. Sweaty, bracing my weight against the boards.
Apologies, sir, my hands are occupied.
Internally, I am preening.
Externally, I am the picture of polite confusion.
“And you are…?”
The suit makes a small, indulgent noise likeisn’t she darlingwithout actually moving his lips.
“We’ll have time for introductions. I was just speaking with Coach O’Rourke about your future. Such apromisingfuture.”
His tongue lingers on the wordpromisinglike it’s a bug he caught between his teeth.
The hair on my arms goes up under my chest protector.
“She’s aware,” Declan cuts in.
Flat. Mild. Glacial.
I have heard my coach use that exact voice exactly twice. Once at a referee who missed a call that nearly ended my career. Once at my father, the morning after Dad came home reeking of pub regret and tried to give Declan parenting advice about an Omega he’d barely raised.
Both times, the recipient went very, very quiet.
The suit’s smile thins.
“Of course,” he says. Pivots. “Forgive me. You’ve had a long night. I’m sure you want to go celebrate.” His eyes slide over me in a single, professional sweep—pads, jersey, name on the back, lingering, justbarely, on the pulse point at my throat where my scent gland sits.
Twenty feet away, in a crowded arena, with my coach standing right next to him.
I have never, in my life, wanted to slap a man harder.
I don’t.
Because Declan’s hand has just landed on the boards next to mine, large, steady, and quietly furious, his thumb very deliberately positioned to brush against the cuff of my glove.
