Chapter 119: How’s the wounded puppy?

​"How’s your leg?" I asked much later, the exhaustion finally pulling at my eyelids.

​We had finally gotten out of the tub and were laying flat on our backs on the massive bed, staring up at the dark ceiling. It was 2 am already.

​"It’s fine, Reid said.

​Thankfully, I had taken a very thorough look while we were washing up, so I knew he wasn’t just being defensive—it was indeed fine. The swelling was almost completely gone, the muscle resting easy under his skin.

​"It’s thanks to you, Cap," he murmured softly.

​I shifted my head, only to find him already turned toward me, looking at me with those warm, intensely loving grey eyes that made my chest feel tight.

​"You stayed by my side the whole time," he whispered, his large hand reaching across the mattress to find mine, interlocking our fingers in the quiet space. "And you didn’t let me fuck it up."

​I immediately turned my face away toward the window, desperately trying to hide the hot flush spreading rapidly across my cheeks. "Yeah, whatever."

I let out a quiet breath into the dark room, letting the solid weight of his hand in mine anchor me. Knowing that his leg was completely fine—that the swelling had gone down and his strength was intact—felt like a massive boulder being lifted off my chest.

​At least now, it was all good. My left winger could use his legs again, and the Serpents wouldn’t be down a star player for Friday’s game.

​"Get some sleep, Reid," I murmured, my voice soft as I kept my face turned away, though I didn’t let go of his fingers. "We still have a long week ahead of us."

​"Goodnight, Kain," he whispered back, his grip tightening just a fraction before his breathing slowed, settling into the steady, deep rhythm of sleep.

Laying there in the quiet penthouse, the scent of frozen pine and orchids lingering in the air, I finally closed my eyes.

​The next morning, I woke up in Reid’s arms. No surprise there. His arms just felt so warm and solid, wrapping around my waist, and his morning pheromones were just so grounding.

It was like waking up inside a crisp, snow-covered forest. I could never get enough of it, even if the logical part of my brain screamed at me to get up.

​But I couldn’t stay down for too long. Since Reid had helped me rip out the skin-colored adhesive patch into oblivion, I needed to find another one to cover the mark on my neck.

If anyone walked in and saw the mark on my bare-neck, it was over.

​It was Monday, which meant Jax would likely come over to check on Reid’s leg, and with him, the usual crowd of noisy teammates.

​And what do you know? I was right.

​I had just finished smoothing down a fresh, flesh-toned patch over the bite mark when the muffled sound of laughter, heavy footsteps, and the distinct, annoying tone of Miller’s voice echoed from the front entryway of the penthouse.

They were already here, and they definitely weren’t planning on being quiet.

The explosive racket shattering the morning quiet belonged to Russo, Miller, Gerald, Peter, and a few of the other guys.

​It was already 11:00 AM, meaning they had just wrapped up their morning practice on the ice. They were likely stopping by the penthouse hoping to check in on their missing Captain and see if the ’wounded puppy’ was going to actually make it to team practice tomorrow.

"Hey, Cap, how’s the wounded puppy?" Miller teased.

​Right on cue, the bedroom door clicked open behind me.

​Reid walked out into the hallway, his blonde hair completely unkempt from sleep, his large hand casually scratching the back of his head as he blinked against the bright morning light.

​"Who’s the wounded puppy?" he muttered, his voice still thick and gravelly with sleep.

​The moment he stepped into the living room, the entire group of guys froze, their eyes instantly dropping down to his legs. They stared at his ankle, checking for the massive swelling that had sidelined him for days but it was gone.

​Russo blinked, letting out a loud, incredulous whistle. "Wow. He lives."

​"And he’s walking," Miller added, shaking his head with a grin. "We thought the Captain buried you out back, McCoy. Congrats on staying alive."

"Quiet, you," I snarled, crossing my arms over my chest to maintain whatever shred of captaincy I had left after waking up in my rookie’s bed.

​The guys just laughed, entirely unfazed by the glare.

​"Don’t be harsh, Cap. We even picked up something good for you guys," Russo said, stepping further into the kitchen and setting down a heavy stack of brown paper bags on the island. "We got crazy waffles."

​The sweet, rich scent of baked batter and maple syrup immediately wafted through the air.

At the absolute worst moment, my stomach let out a low, deeply embarrassing growl, echoing clearly in the sudden lull. Ah, I hadn’t even realized how hungry I was after last night and the tub session.

​The team burst out laughing, Miller nearly slapping his knee.

​"What’s this, Cap? Has McCoy been annoying the hell out of you so much that you’ve been starving?" Gerald teased, leaning against the counter.

​"Yeah, did the kid hold the kitchen hostage over the weekend?" Peter chimed in, grinning.

​I shot them all a look that should have frozen them solid, though my face felt entirely too hot.

Beside me, Reid didn’t even blink at the teasing. Instead, his eyes darted toward the paper bags, his mouth twitching with a faint, lazy smirk as if he knew exactly why I was so drained.

​Before the guys could push it any further, Jax stepped forward from the back of the group, his medical kit slung over his shoulder. His calm, professional demeanor instantly cut through the locker room noise. He looked past the waffles and focused entirely on the rookie’s lower half.

​"Alright, clear out of the way, you bunch of hyenas," Jax ordered mildly, gesturing toward the sofa. He looked directly at Reid, his tone shifting to that firm, no-nonsense team doctor voice. "McCoy, sit down. Let me take a look at that leg."

Reid sat down on the edge of the sofa, stretching out his leg. Jax knelt down, his practiced fingers pressing firmly around the ankle joint, testing the ligaments and checking the bone structure for any deep-seated inflammation.

Reid didn’t flinch, didn’t wince, and didn’t even blink. The swelling was completely gone. The rookie had made a spectacular, impossibly speedy recovery.

​Jax let out a satisfied grunt, tapping Reid’s shin. "Well, structurally, it’s perfect. You’re cleared for the ice tomorrow."

​"It’s thanks to the Captain," Reid said smoothly, his grey eyes sliding over to me with a lazy, deliberate warmth.

​The living room erupted instantly. Russo, Miller, and Peter all let out a synchronous, mocking "Awww," cooing like a bunch of schoolgirls. My ears flushed a violent, hot red under my hair.

​"You’re all a load of nonsense," I snarled, my voice cracking slightly with irritation.

I marched straight past them toward the kitchen island to start ripping open the paper bags and setting out the waffles, desperately trying to drown out their snickering.

​The guys didn’t plan on staying long; they just wanted to confirm that their rookie left winger would be back on the ice for Tuesday’s practice.

But before they headed for the door, Russo slid a printed sheet of paper onto the counter next to the food.

​"Schedule for the meet-and-greet on Wednesday, Cap," Russo said. "The front office wants us all there by noon. We’re signing autographs and doing a press wall."

​I suppressed a heavy sigh. I absolutely hated these promotional events. We were athletes, not celebrities, so why the company insisted on holding these massive, chaotic public relations stunts was beyond me.

Still, it brought funding and awareness to the club, so I kept my mouth shut.

​That is... Until Peter leaned against the island, shaking his head with a grin. "There’s gonna be a massive crowd this time. A ton of girls, and probably a flock of pretty Omegas. They’re all coming out to get a piece of our star rookie. He’s a dangerous topic on the internet these days."

​My ears perked up instantly, my fingers pausing on the waffle packaging. I kept my voice flat. "What do you mean?"

​"Cap, you’re so old-fashioned you don’t even check the team’s social media pages," Peter laughed, pulling out his phone and tapping the screen a few times before turning it toward me. "Look at this. Reid McCoy literally has his own dedicated fan pages now. After that penalty goal two weeks ago, he’s been flying all over the algorithm. He’s already pulling in almost as many numbers as you, Cap."

​I stared at the screen. The page was flooded with high-definition action shots of Reid on the ice, casual gym selfies, and short, edited video clips with dramatic music.

I knew the brat was handsome—I had spent the entire night pinned beneath those exact features—but looking at the comment section, my stomach did a strange, tight twist.

Why the hell were these people so hyperactive? The emojis, the caps-lock screaming, the blatant flirting... It was overwhelming.

​"We just gotta face it," Miller shrugged, grabbing his jacket from the back of the chair. "McCoy’s officially the face of the team now. He’s probably gonna have more fans than all of us combined before the season ends. Have fun at the table on Wednesday, kid."