Chapter 71: Playing maid for the scoreboard

​I paused, my entire body going instantly rigid against the hard wood of the door. The blood in my veins felt like it had turned to ice water, my knuckles locking tight against my forearms.

​"What?" I demanded, my voice dropping into a whisper.

​"That’s a joke," he said, a faint, lazy trace of his usual mocking smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth, though his eyes were still dark and heavy with the aftereffects of the pain.

​I gritted my teeth, a hot wave of pure irritation instantly replacing the panic.

"Don’t say stuff like that even as a joke, McCoy. I’m warning you."

​"Why, Cap?" Reid murmured, tilting his chin up slightly against the pillow, his smoky grey eyes tracking my rigid posture with an insufferable, knowing glint. "You scared of what I’ll do to you if I actually go into a rut now?"

​"Stupid rookie!" I snapped, my composure finally cracking as I stepped away from the door and yelled across the room at him. "If you go into a rut now, how the hell will you manage your leg? You can’t even stand up!"

​Reid gruffed, his smirk faltering for a fraction of a second as he actually looked down at his heavily wrapped, throbbing left ankle. He stared at the thick ice pack for a moment, then looked back up at me, that snobbish, perverted confidence rushing right back into his face.

​"Ah," he drawled, his voice dropping into a low, entirely too suggestive rumble. "The others still work fine."

​I clenched my fists, my jaw aching from how hard I was biting down. He was right back to acting like a smug, insufferable menace, and I absolutely did not have the patience to deal with his dirty mouth today.

The sweet taste of justice from earlier was completely gone, replaced by a desperate urge to stomp out of his apartment and let him rot in his own luxury prison.

​"I’m leaving," I gritted out, turning on my heel to grab my keys off the counter.

​Groowl~

​A loud, deep, thoroughly pathetic sound violently cut through the quiet room, echoing clearly off the sleek marble walls.

​I froze.

​I slowly turned my head back around, my eyes landing right on Reid’s midsection. The rookie went completely still, his snobbish expression instantly wiping clean as a dark, uncharacteristic flush crept up his neck. He looked utterly mortified.

​He hadn’t eaten a single thing all night, and clearly nothing this morning either. With an ankle that swollen, he couldn’t exactly stroll into his kitchen to whip up a meal.

I remembered the sheer exhaustion in his scent when I walked in, the messy state of his hair, and the way he had hissed in pain just trying to shift his weight on the cushions earlier.

The stubborn idiot had barely managed to force himself to hop on one foot, leaning his entire heavy frame against the walls just so he could use the bathroom this morning. It must have been pure, unadulterated torture.

​He was starving, trapped, and completely helpless.

But then why didn’t he order rake out? Surely, he could order from any restaurant around and though difficult, go to the door and grab it. But he didn’t. Whatever his reasons were, it must’ve been solid if he let himself starve this hard.

And I assume his Alpha pride would rather he starved to death than ask me for help.

​"Was that your stomach, McCoy?" I asked, my voice flat as I crossed my arms, staring at the mighty first-round prodigy currently being betrayed by his own biology.

​Reid quickly turned his head away, his jaw clenching as he stared fiercely out the window, trying and failing to regain his untouchable armor.

"N-no, I’m not hungry," he grumbled, his voice rough and thoroughly defensive.

​Groooowl~

​His stomach loudly called him a liar for the second time.

"Hah!" I let out a pathetic sigh and shook my head. What do I do with this idiot?

​Seriously, the league’s top-rated, first-round prodigy, an old-money Alpha who could probably buy the entire arena we played in, was currently lying on a leather sofa, starving himself to death because he was too stubborn to ask for a sandwich.

​"Yeah, you look totally full," I muttered, tossing my keys back onto the marble counter with a loud, deliberate clink.

​Reid didn’t look at me. He kept his face firmly turned toward the window, his jaw clenched so hard I thought it might shatter, a dark, furious flush still staining his ears.

The heavy, dominant scent of frozen pine in the room took on a distinctly sour, embarrassed note, making the atmosphere feel entirely too cramped.

He was practically vibrating with humiliation, hating the fact that his own body was betraying his smug front right in front of me.

​I rolled up the sleeves of my black sweater, letting out another long, exhausted breath as I walked back into his pristine, sterile kitchen.

​"Don’t touch anything," Reid growled from the couch, his voice rough and thoroughly defensive. "I don’t need the Captain playing maid."

​"Shut up, McCoy," I called back, ignoring him completely as I began ripping open his sleek, handleless cabinets. "If you starve to death on this couch, Marcus will blame me for losing our first-line winger and I certainly won’t hear enough from Coach Devin either. Consider this an official team intervention."

​Unsurprisingly, his kitchen was a total joke. The giant, double-door refrigerator was stocked with nothing but premium sports drinks, alkaline water, and a few sad, unopened meal-prep containers that had probably expired three days ago.

The pantry wasn’t much better—just protein powders, high-end supplements, and a single loaf of bread that, thankfully, hadn’t grown mold yet.

​"Do you actually live here, or do you just use this place as a high-end locker room?" I muttered to myself, pulling out the bread, some eggs I managed to find in the back of the fridge, and a carton of butter.

​I set a pan on the sleek induction stove, the quiet hum of the appliance filling the silence of the penthouse.

As I cracked the eggs into a bowl, I kept my eyes fixed on the food, but my ears were hyper-tuned to the living room.

​Reid was completely quiet now. He hadn’t fired back with another perverted comment or a snobbish remark.

The only sound coming from the sofa was his slow, heavy breathing and the occasional rustle of the leather cushions as he tried, and failed, to find a comfortable position for his throbbing leg.

​The sweet scent of melting butter and frying eggs slowly began to drift through the apartment, cutting through the suffocating, heavy cloud of frozen pine.

Almost instantly, I heard a low, involuntary shift from the couch, the rookie’s defensive aura dropping just a fraction as his bodily needs took over.

​I toasted the bread, keeping my movements efficient and practiced, completely ignoring the way my own inner Omega was quietly humming at the fact that I was currently providing for my wounded Alpha.

It was a stupid, primal reflex, and I locked it down with a mental vice. I was doing this for the scoreboard. Only the scoreboard.