Noah's POV
The field smells like damp grass and fresh dirt, mingling with the faint metallic tang of morning dew. The sun sits high in the sky, casting sharp shadows across the diamond. Perfect weather for practice. Perfect weather to get this over with.
I watch the team run the bases, tapping my pen onto my clipboard as I resist the urge to check my phone. Although it's been months since I became head coach, leaving early for practice still feels foreign to me. Not because I'm not familiar with the process of waking up butt-early to run scrimmages, but because I'm such a worrywart dad, and I miss Oliver.
My boy's probably still snoozing in his blanket fort at Ms. Reilly's house. She's an old, sweet omega, always happy to take Oliver in the mornings, but it doesn't stop the ache in my chest.
For the first two months after taking this job, I brought Oliver to every morning practice. Strapped to me in a carrier, his warm little head tucked under my chin. He used to wake up just as we hit the dugout, big sleepy eyes watching the Coyotes like they were superheroes. My wolf, Finnian, thrived on it—having our cub close and safe.
Now? The separation makes her restless. She whines softly in my head. He's fine. He's fine, I tell her soothingly. "We'll finish quickly and go straight home."
But, before that, I have to do my job.
"Alright, Coyotes, hustle up!" I clap my hands sharply, and the team jogs over. Cleats crunch on the gravel, and familiar scents of sweat, earth, and fur fill the air.
Logan jogs in last, naturally. Late without technically being late. The sight of him in a long-sleeved shirt and sweatpants feels like a direct challenge to my restraint and self-control, which doesn't make any sense because that's the most unflattering clothing combo.
Nevertheless, his muscles bulge through the fabric, his long fingers rake through his shock of silver hair, and Finnian suddenly remembers it's been a long time since we last had sex.
It takes a second for me to tear my gaze away. "Some of you already know him, and the rest of you have probably noticed him running laps, but joining us for practice today is Logan Whitaker, formerly of the San Diego Shadows."
There's a ripple of excitement I don't have to see to sense. 'Of course they're excited,' I think bitterly. 'Big-shot Logan, here to grace us mortals with his presence.'
"Let's keep it professional," I add, cutting through the buzz. "Logan's here to train like the rest of you. Usually, we'd go through batting, pitching, and fielding practices, but I want to keep things short and simple today. We're starting with a scrimmage. Four innings. Play it like it's real. Positions—move!"
The team scatters, and I breathe a bit easier as I watch them divide themselves into two teams. I was once asked how I get a team of alphas to listen to me, an omega, and the response was simple: the Coyotes aren't a team of alphas. We're a team with alphas. Sure, I sometimes worry they'll fail to take instructions because I'm only an omega, everyone understands that playing as a cohesive unit is the most important thing.
Also, most alphas just use the Eastvale Coyotes as a launching pad to get into alpha-only pro-league teams, case in point Logan Whitaker, but we don't talk about that. Go teamwork!
Finnian stirs again, and I look up from my clipboard to watch as Logan jogs toward center field. The outfield stretches wide around him, the early morning light glinting off the dewy grass. Center field. Of course. It's where you stick the fastest, sharpest player—the one who can cover the most ground in a flash. She doesn't growl like I expect. No, she perks up, her attention laser-focused on him.
I catch myself staring, too. Players partially shift to play—it's necessary to gain an edge—but partial shifts cause strain on the body. Most athletes pick and choose where to focus their energy: claws for better grip while pitching or batting, ears for heightened senses to track the ball's trajectory, speed bursts for stealing bases or chasing fly balls.
But Logan? He's different.
What sets Logan Whitaker apart is the fact that he's perfected the partial shift. While others scramble to transfer their energy, Logan has the raw power to maintain a steady transformation without breaking focus.
He's mid-shift now, body morphing into something more wolf than human. His calves lengthen into haunches, claws bursting from his fingers. His ears sharpen and twitch, poking up through his messy hair, and then there's his tail—thick and fluffy, swishing lazily as he stretches in his spot.
This is Logan "The Lightning" Whitaker in his peak form. And while I know he thinks that nickname is silly, it's the best way to describe him. On the field, he's unstoppable. The perfect beastman.
Finnian lets out a low, wistful sound. She's always loved that tail.
Focus.
The scrimmage starts slow, as expected. A couple of solid hits, but no one's fully locked in yet. Until Logan steps up to the plate, his eyes locked onto the pitcher.
I narrow my eyes as I watch him. His stance is calm, relaxed, but there's an intensity in his every movement—like a predator crouched before a kill. He grips the bat with clawed hands, and his tail flicks once, twice, settling into a steady rhythm. Mateo, our pitcher, shifts just enough to sharpen Logan's focus.
Mateo winds up, claws digging into the seams for extra spin, and fires off a fastball that screams toward Logan, barely visible to the naked eye.
Logan swings, and the crack of the bat meeting the ball is sharp and clean. A line drive rockets into the air, cutting across the field in a perfect arc before disappearing over the outfield fence.
The team erupts in cheers, but I stay silent. My eyes stay locked on Logan as he jogs the bases. He hasn't even broken a sweat.
I knew he was good. But damn, how much can one guy improve in two years?
I blow the whistle for a reset, gritting my teeth. The next batter hits a sharp grounder toward second base. Elliot, quick on his feet, snatches it cleanly and flips it to Kyle at second, who pivots on the bag and fires to first.
"Double play!" someone calls, and the team erupts in cheers.
I nod approvingly, jotting it down on my clipboard. Plays like that remind me why I took this job—why I fight so hard for this team.
The inning ends, and Logan takes his position in the outfield. The opposing team's batter steps up, and I watch the pitcher throw, then the batter swings, and the ball rockets into shallow center field, veering toward the catcher's territory. My voice cuts sharply through the field. "Logan, back off! Let the catcher handle it!"
For a moment, it seems like he's actually going to listen—his stride slows, ears twitching toward me. But then his legs coil, claws digging into the dirt, and in one fluid leap, he's airborne.
He snatches the ball mid-flight, landing in a crouch with all the effortless grace of a predator.
"Out!" the umpire shouts, but my blood boils.
Logan jogs back to his position, his tail swishing like he didn't just blatantly ignore a direct order.
Of course. It's Logan. Why listen to your coach when you're convinced you can do it all yourself?
I blow the whistle for a reset, gritting my teeth. The game rolls on, and Logan doesn't just shine—he dominates. His partial shift is perfect, every step, every throw, every leap executed with perfect control. He moves like the game was designed for him, like the rules bend around his claws and his speed. While others waste that crucial second adjusting claws, switching focus, or catching their balance, he's all speed and precision, tearing across the field like… well, like lightening.
Watching him is a mix of emotions I'd rather not name. His precision is breathtaking
Plus, he looks so good out there—too good, dammit. Like he belongs on a billboard instead of a baseball field.
It's maddening. It's mesmerizing. And somewhere, buried under all that bitterness, it's a little heartbreaking.
I shake my head, snapping myself out of it. Get it together, Noah. You're not some starstruck rookie.
Seeing Logan play is electric, I can't deny that. But some things haven't changed. He's as arrogant as ever, relying on instinct and brute skill instead of listening to me.
Once again, the ball rockets into the air, and Logan's already moving, claws extended, his tail swishing as he leaps. He snatches it cleanly, landing with all the grace of a predator in its prime.
I feel my chest tighten, not just from the play, but from the sudden thought that Oliver would've loved seeing this. He used to clap and cheer from the sidelines whenever someone made a big catch, his little voice shouting, "Again, Papa!"
Finnian whimpers and I rub the back of my neck, trying to shake the ache. Finish practice. Get home to him.
"Time out!" I shout, my voice cutting through the action. The team freezes, turning to me with confused expressions.
Logan pads over slowly, his tail flicking in annoyance. "What's the problem?" he asks, his tone just shy of dismissive.
"You're the problem," I snap. "I told you to back off on that last play and let the catcher handle it, but you decided to ignore me. Care to explain?"
Logan shrugs a little too casually. His tail flicks once, sharply, and I catch the briefest twitch in his jaw before he says, "I got the out, didn't I?"
Something flashes across his face—frustration? Annoyance? Maybe even regret. But it's gone so quickly I can't be sure, and I don't care to figure it out.
Finnian growls low in my chest, her fur bristling at the blatant disobedience. She hates being ignored—especially by him.
I clamp down on the feeling, forcing my voice steady. "This isn't the Logan Whitaker Show. We're a team. If you can't follow orders, you're not helping anyone out there."
The team shifts uncomfortably, but Logan holds my gaze, unflinching. He doesn't say anything, but the defiance in his eyes speaks loud enough. This is what I worry about; the Alpha who wouldn't listen. No surprise it's Logan.
Another player steps in between us before I blow a fuse. It's Elliot, an omega infielder and good friend of mine. He raises both hands up, his usual easy smile plastered on his face.
"Alright, let's all cool off," Elliot says. "It's just practice, Noah. You've got time to get him in line."
Just practice!? Finnian's hackles rise in irritation and it translates to the goosebumps erupting across my skin. Elliot doesn't get it— If this bastard can't listen during 'just practice', our games are going to be disastrous.
"Reset?" Elliot asks, tilting his head slightly.
"No, we're done here," I say, my voice tight. "Hit the showers. We'll review footage tomorrow."
Logan stalks off without a word, but his tail lashing sharply behind him, betraying his anger. For just a second, I think I see his shoulders slump, but he straightens almost immediately, his claws digging into the dirt as he disappears into the dugout.
The field empties out, but my chest is still tight, my hands gripping the clipboard so hard my knuckles ache.
The last two seasons have been brutal for the Coyotes. Most of our star alphas left for higher-paying teams, and we've been hanging on by a thread. Managing isn't enough.
Alfred's words echo in my mind: Logan is our saving grace, Noah. If things continue like this, the Coyotes are going to be no more.
"What does that mean?" I'd asked him.
The bosses are getting restless, Alfred had said, pinching the bridge of his nose. They're losing money, and I'm tired of finding ways they can keep cutting costs. There's been talk of selling the Coyotes, leaving new owners to rebuild it from the ground up. You know what that means.
I knew exactly what it meant. It meant job cuts. It meant losing the stability I'd worked so hard to build. And it meant explaining to my two-year-old why his Papa couldn't buy him new crayons.
Elliot taps me on the shoulder, startling me.
"Elliot! Gods, you scared the crap out of me!"
"That's your fault for spacing out," he jokes, shoving his hands in his pockets. "You didn't tell me Logan would be in town."
I sigh, running a hand through my hair. "Alfred didn't want it public yet."
Elliot smirks, his sharp green eyes studying me. "You can't let him get under your skin, Noah. It's what he wants."
Of course that's what he wants! He's an asshole!
The fact that I have to meet with him again to complete paperwork after this only infuriates me more. I bristle but say nothing. My wolf is restless again, and I know it's not just about me. Logan's talent is undeniable, but if he keeps this up, he's going to be more liability than asset.
And I can't afford to have this team crumble. Not now. Not again.