Chapter 95: I’m not meditating your video game disputes

Russo let out a loud, dramatic snort, pausing the game just to look up at me with a betrayed expression. "Oh, of course. Listen to him, guys! Of course he takes McCoy’s side. The Captain has officially abandoned us."

"Yeah, we’ve been replaced," Miller joined in, wiping a fake tear from his eye. "McCoy gets a little scratch on his leg, and suddenly he’s the Captain’s absolute favorite. We get a concussion, and Evans just tells us to smell some smelling salts and get back on the shift."

"Shut up and play your game," I snapped, though I kept my tone firmly within the realm of our usual banter. "Before I make all of you do suicides on the ice the second we’re back in the rink."

They groaned in unison, returning to their game, but the casual teasing left a heavy, lingering weight in the room.

I leaned against the counter, my eyes drifting back to the darkened doorway where Reid lay sleeping.

They thought it was a hilarious joke—a rookie being overly attached to his captain. They had no idea how terrifyingly close to the truth they actually were.

Despite the sharp crack of my voice, the guys didn’t stay quiet for long. The console controllers were vibrating, buttons clicking furiously, and Miller was already shouting at Russo for missing a pass in whatever digital arena they were dominating.

I ignored them, picking up my duffel bag and walking down the short hallway toward the guest room.

I needed to put my things away, but more than that, I needed a barrier between myself and the living room before my face betrayed the absolute chaos reigning in my head.

Passing Reid’s slightly ajar bedroom door, I couldn’t help but pause.

The heavy, intoxicating scent of frozen pine drifted through the gap, immediately triggering that deep, dangerous pull Vance had warned me about.

My chest tightened. I looked through the crack. Reid was sprawled out on his back, one heavy arm thrown over his forehead, his jaw relaxed.

He looked entirely defenseless, stripped of the arrogant, predatory edge he usually wore like armor when he looked at me.

Where’d he go? Where’s Evans?

The teammates’ words echoed in my ears. He had been looking for me. Even completely drugged out of his mind, his Alpha had realized I was gone and had immediately started protesting.

And my own body, despite the blockers that should still be intact pulsing through my veins, was practically begging me to step into that room, close the distance, and climb right back into that bed, safe in his arms.

Pretend you never found out, I reminded myself fiercely, digging my fingernails into the fabric of my duffel bag until it hurt. It’s just biology. It’s just a glitch.

I forced my eyes away, walking into the guest room and shutting the door firmly behind me.

The room was clean, smelling faintly of citrus and expensive upholstery—none of Reid’s pheromones had settled here yet.

I unzipped the bag and immediately pulled out a pair of my own boxer briefs. Stripping off the loose, maddeningly comfortable sweatpants I’d borrowed from Reid, I went to the bathroom, washed up like I was trying to get rid of my own skin and then came out refreshed. His scent didn’t vanish right away, but it let me breathe out something that wasn’t entirely him.

The familiar, snug fit of my own underwear felt like a return to sanity.

I pulled on my own cotton t-shirt and grey sweatpants, actively ignoring the way my skin seemed to prickle, missing the heavy, weighted warmth of his clothes.

When I walked back out into the living room, the atmosphere had shifted from rowdy to borderline feral. Russo was standing up, shouting at the TV screen, while Gerald was throwing couch pillows at him.

"I’m telling you, the game cheated!" Russo yelled, throwing his hands in the air. "Cap, tell him! There is no way his defenseman recovered that fast."

"I’m not mediating your video game disputes, Russo," I said, leaning against the wall with my arms crossed, falling seamlessly back into my role. "If you put half this much energy into your backchecking on that certain Tuesday, we wouldn’t have lost the shootout."

"Oooooh," the rest of the couch chorused, kicking Russo while he was down.

"Uncalled for, Cap. Deeply uncalled for," Russo muttered, slumping back into his seat, though a smirk still played on his lips. He glanced at my change of clothes, his eyes lingering for a fraction of a second before he raised an eyebrow. "Nice duds. Finally decided McCoy’s closet was too big for you?"

"It was an unplanned stay so I didn’t pack up but I definitely prefer clothes that actually fit," I replied smoothly, keeping my voice deadpan. "Unlike you idiots, I don’t enjoy looking like a walking tent."

"Hey, the oversized look is in," Miller defended, taking a sip of his soda. Then, his eyes drifted toward the hallway, his smirk widening. "Speaking of the giant..."

I turned my head.

Reid was leaning against the doorframe of his bedroom.

The heavy-duty painkillers were clearly still riding high in his system—his posture was slightly loose, his eyes heavy and half-lidded, blinking against the bright lights of the living room.

His blond hair was a messy, unruly bedhead, and his broad shoulders were slightly slouched. But even in his heavily sedated state, his eyes didn’t look at the television. They didn’t look at the five guys occupying his couch.

They locked instantly onto me.

A low, barely audible rumble vibrated in his chest—a localized, possessive Alpha sound that sent a violent shiver straight down my spine. The guys, completely deaf to cues, just thought he was clearing his throat or groaning from the pain.

"Look who’s awake!" Miller barked. "The sleeping beauty returns. Had a nice nap, McCoy?"

Reid didn’t answer him. He didn’t even acknowledge Miller was in the room. He just kept his heavy, dark gaze fixed entirely on me, his nostrils flaring slightly as he took a deep breath, scanning me from head to toe.

His eyes lingered on my chest, noticing my own shirt, before dropping down to the hem of my sweatpants.

A subtle, dangerous frown pulled at the corners of his lips. He realized it. He realized I had tried to wash his scent off.

"Evans," Reid rasped, his voice incredibly deep, rough from sleep and thick with the drugs. He tried to step forward but was locked in place because of his leg. How did he even get up? Does he want to get the perfectly healing leg busted?

But none of that seemed to concern him. He shifted his weight onto his good leg, leaning against the doorframe. His eyes were boring into mine with an intense, demanding gravity that made my breath catch in my throat. "You’re back."

The room suddenly felt about ten degrees hotter. I kept my posture rigid, forcing myself to look him dead in the eye despite the frantic drumming of my heart against my ribs.

"I told you I was coming back," I said, my voice cutting through the living room with deliberate, cool professionalism. I wasn’t going to let the guys see even a flicker of the panic clawing at my throat. "I just went to grab my things. Go sit down before you ruin your leg again."