Logan's POV
There are two things I hate most in the world.
The first is travelling.
I hate the crowds at the airport, the too-long lines, the fake politeness of flight attendants who keep asking if I want another water. And then there's the whispers—always the whispers.
"Isn't that Logan Whitaker?"
"No way, what would he be doing here?"
"Isn't he the guy who hit that grand slam against New York?"
Every step through the terminal feels like walking on a runway under spotlights. I tug my baseball cap lower, but it only kinda helps. People recognize me anyway. That's the curse of being Logan Whitaker: rich, famous, and one of the best players to ever set foot on a baseball diamond.
Perhaps I'd enjoy travelling if it wasn't tied so closely to my job.
Which brings me to the second thing I hate most; being an athlete.
Don't get me wrong, it's not like I don't love baseball. I do. I love the crack of the bat connecting with the ball, the way my muscles burn as I sprint through the bases, the rush of adrenaline when I dive for a catch. I even love the chaos in the locker room after a win, my teammates tossing me around like I'm the star I know I am.
But zoom out, and the shine dulls fast.
The Paranormal Athletic Committee—PAC for short—is supposed to regulate supernatural sports, keep the games "fair" and "entertaining" for all audiences. What that really means is humans profit from watching us play at full strength, while PAC makes sure we don't lose control and accidentally hurt someone.
And heaven forbid we hurt a human. Athletes like me have reputations built on how well we can perform both on and off the field. One incident, one mistake, and my career—and fortune—would go up in smoke.
It's so stifling but I made my choice.
I shift my duffel bag higher on my shoulder and step out into the sticky Eastvale air.
Two years.
It's been two years since I've been here, and the place hasn't changed a bit. The air still feels the same—hot and humid, the kind of weather that clings to your skin. Perfect for intense games of baseball, terrible for an afternoon nap. It gets better though. I know that when the sun sets, the breeze will roll in, cool and soft. Perfect for breedi—
No. I won't let nostalgia get me.
"Logan. You still there?"
The voice pulls me out of my thoughts. It's my manager, Dave Parker, who somehow manages to sound both cheerful and exasperated at the same time.
"Yeah, I'm here," I say, though my tone makes it clear I'm not happy about it.
"Good," Dave says briskly. "You're meeting with your new coach soon. Can't be zoning out now, kid."
I roll my eyes. I'm 26, a professional athlete, and four good heads taller than him, but he still calls me a kid. "Was this really the only gig you could find for me?"
"You know the situation, Logan," Dave replies, his tone turning serious. "With the way your stats have been looking lately—and the fact that we don't want anyone poking around your injury—this is the best option. Laying low in your old stomping grounds with the Eastvale Coyotes is perfect for now."
My jaw tightens at the name of the team. Eastvale. God, I don't want to be here. Too many memories. Good ones, sure, but the bad ones are the ones that keep me up at night.
'Don't you trust me? I thought you always had my back!'
His voice echoes in my head, sharp and raw, as hurt and teary as the last time I heard it. My wolf, Fenrir, stirs, restless. He doesn't like being back here any more than I do. But it's not just the place—it's him. It always was.
I shake my head to clear the memory. What are the chances of seeing him again, anyway?
I push through the baggage claim area, grabbing the bag with my gear off the conveyor belt. Dave's still droning on in my ear. "How's your shoulder?"
"Fine."
"You doing the physical therapy exercises I told you about?"
"Sure, Mom."
He snorts but doesn't let up. "Don't forget to check in with Dr. Monroe. He's the best in sports medicine. We can't afford any setbacks—"
I tune him out as whispers start to rise around me again.
"Isn't that Logan Whitaker? The star outfielder for the San Diego Shadows?"
"No way. What would he be doing in a dump like Eastvale?"
Good question.
I tug my baseball cap lower and pick up the pace. The last thing I need is attention right now. I have a job to do and the sooner I can get my arm back in top shape, the sooner I can get out of this cursed town.
---
Valley Forge Stadium looks just like I remember it: small, unpolished, but functional enough to play a decent game of baseball. The familiar crunch of gravel under my sneakers feels like stepping back in time.
I catch myself remembering the first time I caught a ball here, the scraped knees and bloody palms from my little league tournaments. It was here that I fell in love and ran out of it.
This field used to feel like home. Now it feels like a tomb, full of ghosts I can't escape.
Agitation crawls up my neck like a viper, I swallow it down. I stand on the edge of the field, scanning for the coach I'm supposed to meet. The air here smells the same—dirt, chalk, sweat—but there's something else, something sharp and familiar that makes Fenrir's ears perk up. I grit my teeth against the pull.
Fenrir growls low in my chest, clawing at the edges of my control. I bite down hard on the inside of my cheek, focusing on the pain, anything to keep him reeled in. He's not usually this restless but now he's pacing like crazy.
'Mate. Mate.'
No. Not him. It can't be.
But it is him and my heart nearly stops when I see him.
Noah Bennett.
His scent hits me like a punch to the gut—warm cedar, fresh rain, and something softer, sweeter. It used to be my favorite thing in the world. Now it's a reminder of my biggest regret.
He's breathtaking, even now. And he's changed. Dark curls tied back from his face, sun-kissed skin glowing in the afternoon light, sharp hazel eyes that used to soften when they looked at me—none of that's new. But the rest of him? He's broader now, his shoulders stronger, his frame more muscular than it used to be. He looks taller somehow, though I know that's impossible. Maybe it's the way he carries himself now, confident and steady, like someone who's had to rebuild himself from the ground up.
Fenrir paces in my head, restless and eager. 'Mine,' he whispers. I shove the thought down hard.
Not anymore.
This isn't the Noah I left behind. He isn't my omega. He's older. Hotter. And he's not alone.
There's a kid standing next to him, maybe one or two years old. Wide-eyed, with curly brown hair and… blue eyes. My blue eyes.
"Papa!" the boy chirps, wobbling toward Noah with the bat dragging on the ground behind him.
Noah crouches beside him, guiding his tiny hands to grip the bat correctly. "Just like that, Ollie. Swing big!"
The word "papa" echoes in my ears. My chest tightens as the boy shifts into a batting stance, his little brow furrowing in concentration. That determined frown—it's like staring into a mirror.
Fenrir freezes, the air gets punched out of my lungs. 'Mine,' he growls louder. 'Mine.' I shake it off, but the word echoes anyway, bouncing around in my skull until I can't think straight.
No. This can't be.
I glance down at the message from Dave on my phone. Meet with the coach at the Valley Forge Stadium by 4 PM. This is the stadium. It's 4 PM.
Noah looks up then, his hazel eyes locking with mine.
My breath catches. Something clicks into place, deep in my chest—a pull, a spark, the ghost of a bond I thought I'd buried long ago. Fenrir whines softly, but I shove him down. 'He hates us,' I remind my wolf. 'He doesn't want us anymore.'
Still, Fenrir whines desperately while I watch as Noah's expression hardens, his jaw tightening like he'd been expecting me—or maybe hoping he wouldn't see me. He crosses the diamond to meet me and with each step, my heart sinks further and further. Noah. My first love. My ex-mate and ex-boyfriend. The one person who probably hates me more than the goddess herself. The one person I was hoping not to see. Here.
He stops across the barricade from me, folding his hands. I shove mine in my pockets and take a step forward, my throat dry. "Noah."
His eyes scan my entire being. "Logan. Good to see you back in town."
So why don't you sound too happy about it?
"I just got in," Fuck, I hate small talk. "I wasn't really expecting to see you."
He scoffs. "Yes, we both know you were planning on avoiding me throughout your stay here then ditch the moment you were done with your business."
For a second, I blanch and, because he knows me more than anyone, he notices the subtle change in emotion. His laugh is dry, humorless. "Let's pitch it straight, Lo. You're good at running when you're uncomfortable."
He knows I hate it when he calls me 'Lo.' "That's not fair," I growl.
He quirks an eyebrow. "Is it not?"
I can't say anything more because he's right. Even now, his voice cuts through me like a blade, sharp and precise, hitting every place that still aches. Fenrir shifts uneasily, torn between anger and something softer— he's never really let me live down the fact that I took our mate from him.
Still, it's humiliating how much Noah still affects me. But how could he not? It's been so long, and he still gets under my skin.
Two years ago, on this very field, I left Noah Bennett when accusations of his doping spread across the world of supernatural sports. Two years ago, I let him deal with the fallout from PAC alone while I moved across the country to go pro on a new team. Two years ago, I—
I glance at the boy. "Is he—?"
"Yours?" Noah interrupts, his tone icy. "You lost the right to ask that question the moment you walked away."
Again, fair.
I swallow hard, forcing my voice steady. "I'm supposed to meet up with the coach for the Eastvale Coyotes. Do you know where he is?"
Noah sighs, already looking exhausted, and pulls his hands out of his pockets. He brushes a stray curl out of his face, extending a hand to me like we're strangers.
"Noah Bennett, head coach of the Eastvale Coyotes. I look forward to working with you."