Logan's POV
The locker room is quiet, save for the faint dripping of water from a distant showerhead. My breathing echoes faintly off the walls as I sit on the bench, alone, head bowed, and shoulder throbbing.
I didn't mean to be rude to Noah. Hell, I don't even think I was rude—at least, not intentionally. I had the out. I got the out. Sure, he's the coach, and I could've left the ball for the catcher like he asked, but you don't win games by letting other people take your chances. You won games by doing what had to be done on the field, even if it ruffled feathers.
Still, it's clear Noah didn't see it that way. I could see the anger and irritation burning in those hazel eyes during practice. I've never seen him that pissed before—not even when I accidentally burnt his toast that one time and claimed it "added flavor."
Fenrir whines low in my chest, his disapproval crawling up my spine. Mate hates us, he growls. His voice is quieter than usual, edged with guilt.
He's not our mate anymore, I remind him sharply.
Fenrir growls again, louder this time, but he doesn't argue. He's never fully forgiven me for what I did to Noah and Finnian.
I groan, pressing my hand against my left shoulder as another sharp pang of pain radiates down my arm. Maybe Noah was right. Maybe I should've let the catcher handle it, because now I'm paying for it.
My fingers knead at the joint, trying to work out the tension, but it's no use. The balm I brought helps dull the pain, but it's not enough. This shoulder's been my Achilles' heel for months now, ever since I overthrew a fastball back in San Diego. It was a stupid mistake— I didn't even have to throw with my left hand, I'm ambidextrous— but I was feeling cocky and now I'm paying for my pride with a torn rotator cuff.
Normal players would've taken the season off to heal. But not me. I'm Logan "The Lightning" Whitaker. I don't take breaks, and I don't sit out, no matter how bad it gets. I can't stand to see headlines like 'Lightning Takes Back Seat Due to Injury'— like I'm some kind of weak human. I refuse to let the media smell blood in the water. So it was better to come back home to Eastvale and let the headlines look more like 'Baseball Legend Returns to Local Team', at least then I can lie during the interviews that the Coyotes hold a soft spot in my heart and I want to help them rise in ranks.
Not like that's a complete lie.
A low hiss escapes my lips as my shoulder aches particularly harshly. Here I am trying to prove I've still got it while my shoulder feels like it's about to fall off. Perhaps I did need that break.
You think? Fenrir snarks.
I'm about to tell him off when the locker room door creaks open behind me, and the familiar scent of cedarwood and rain hits me like a punch to the gut. Fenrir begins to whine happily and I don't have to turn around to know it's Noah.
I keep my head down, rubbing more balm into my shoulder. "If you're here to reprimand me about practice, I'm sorry," I mutter, without looking up.
Noah snorts, the sound sharp and unimpressed. "If you're sorry, say it like you mean it."
I flinch slightly, but before I can respond, he's already walking toward me. "Oh, for Pete's sake, let me do it."
I barely have time to register what he means before Noah's hands are on my shoulder, pushing mine away and working the balm into my skin with firm, practiced movements.
My entire body stiffens at first, but the moment his fingers dig into the sore muscles, I feel myself relax against my will. It's muscle memory—his touch is too familiar and too soothing for me to remain tense underneath it.
Fenrir whines softly, pressing closer to the surface of my mind. Mate, he murmurs, tail wagging in my head.
My real tail flicks behind me, betraying me completely.
Noah pauses. "Put your ass-brush away, Whitaker. It's making it hard to work."
Heat floods my face as I realize I'm still in partial shift, my tail wagging like an idiot's. With a huff, I force my body back to full human form, the tail losing its fur before melding back into my body into a shorter coccyx. My pointy lupine ears fall back to human pinna and the claws on my hands and feet shrink.
I've heard others describe shifting as painful, talking about their bones breaking and muscles tearing as their bodies take on an inhuman form. But, for me, shifting is like the sweet burn of mulled wine in the winter, like the feeling of taking your clothes off at home after a stressful day out. I'm more comfortable in my lupine form; if anything, my human form is the second skin.
"Better?" I grumble.
"Much," Noah says, his tone annoyingly smug as he goes back to working on my shoulder.
The locker room falls silent again, save for the sound of his hands rubbing against my skin. His touch is firm but not harsh, the kind of pressure that makes the ache bearable. My body relaxes further, but my mind is still racing, trying to think of what to say.
Apologise like you mean it, Fenrir growls.
I don't even think I can, there's too much to apologise for.
Finally, I take a breath and say, "I'm sorry. I should've listened to you."
Noah scoffs, and I can hear the eye roll in his voice. "Well, that's in the past. I shouldn't have expected the Logan Whitaker to take orders from anybody."
A low growl rumbles in my throat before I can stop it. This omega—this brat—giving me, an alpha, attitude. Two years ago, I would've wrapped my hand around his throat and kissed him until he forgot how to be so damn stubborn.
But I can't. Not anymore and especially not when he has every right to be mad.
I take another breath, forcing Fenrir to calm down. "Look, Noah, I'm not here to be a thorn in your side—"
"Could've fooled me," Noah mutters under his breath, still working on my shoulder.
I ignore the jab, pushing forward. "But we have to be more amicable to each other if we're going to make any progress."
Instead of responding, Noah presses hard into my shoulder, hitting a tender spot and making me yelp.
"All done," he says, his tone sweet but smug. "Remember to ice it and check in with your physical therapist. That is, if you even bother listening to them."
He stands and turns to leave, but before I can stop myself, my hand darts out and grabs his wrist.
"Noah, wait."
He freezes, his back stiff, but he doesn't pull away.
I tighten my grip, careful not to hurt him. "We can't keep avoiding a conversation. If we're going to be working together, we have to talk about it. Soon."
Noah turns slowly, his hazel eyes locking onto mine. And for a moment, all I see is the anger and hurt simmering beneath the surface.
"Now you want to talk?" he snaps, yanking his wrist out of my grasp. "Now you want a conversation? Do you have any idea what happened after you left, Logan? After you abandoned me?"
My throat tightens, but I don't say anything.
"I had reporters camped outside my house for weeks," he continues, his voice rising. "I couldn't leave without cameras flashing in my face, microphones shoved at me, people calling me a cheat. A druggie. Then the truth came out—the blood tests, the video footage, all of it. Turns out, I wasn't lying. I was innocent. But do you think anyone apologized? Do you think anyone cared? No. They just moved on, like it never happened. Like it didn't nearly ruin me," he scoffs but it sounds choked. " It's like they were saying 'Poor Noah Bennett, it's a good thing you didn't turn out to be a dope head, right?'"
His voice cracks, but he pushes forward. "I was so stressed, so scared, I almost lost Oliver. My body couldn't take it. My mind couldn't take it. I had to quit the team, Logan. I had to leave the only career I'd ever wanted because I couldn't handle the fallout. And you?"
He glares at me, his eyes burning with fury. "You left on day one."
His words hit me like a fastball to the chest, knocking the air out of my lungs.
"You could've talked to me," he says, his voice quieter now but no less sharp. "You could've believed me. But you didn't. And maybe… maybe everything would've turned out differently if you had stayed."
My head is spinning. Yeah, I knew things were bad. I was young and foolish and I didn't want to stick around to see how worse it'd get. I thought Noah could handle it, afterall, he'd always been so strong, level headed while I was the spur of the moment, hot headed Alpha.
I remember the night before I left, how he sat at the kitchen table, head in his hands, while I paced the room.
"Just give me some time," he'd said, his voice frayed. "I'll clear my name and everything will return back to normal."
But I hadn't heard him— not really. All I'd heard was my own fear. My own selfish need to escape before the fallout could touch me. I told myself I'd come back for him when things settled. That he'd understand. But I never did.
Sure he got through it alone, but he shouldn't have had to. He was my mate, my partner and that meant sticking together when the going got tough, supporting each other through thick and thin.
Plus…
"So that kid yesterday…" My voice trails off as the pieces click into place. The way his little hands gripped the bat. The stubborn tilt of his chin and the spattering of silver in his dark brown hair. Those eyes. My eyes.
"Oliver," I whisper, the name foreign and familiar all at once. I'd seen the name in a picture on Noah's Instagram page on one of those nights when I felt lonely enough to cyber stalk my ex.
'Thankful for Oliver, my little miracle.'
Fenrir growls, low and aching, as if the truth is physically hurting him. Mate's cub, he rumbles, the words heavy with longing. Mine. Ours.
My breath hitches. Oh, I fucked up. I fucked up big time.
Noah's voice slices through my spiraling thoughts, cold and sharp. "Oliver is my son and you're an ass."
I watch as he marches to the exit. His hand tightens on the edge of the locker door, his knuckles going white. For a moment, I think he's going to storm out, but instead, he takes a shaky breath, his shoulders trembling slightly. "You know what hurt the most, Logan?" His voice cracks, but he keeps going, as if forcing the words out before he loses his nerve. "It wasn't the scandal. It wasn't the reporters or the cameras in my face. It wasn't even having to quit the team."
He pauses, his throat bobbing as he swallows hard. When he speaks again, his voice is barely above a whisper. "Nothing hurt more than the fact that you weren't there to catch me when I fell."
He takes a step back, his hand gripping the edge of the locker door. "So no, Logan Whitaker. I don't really want to talk. Now come sign your goddamn papers so you can get out of my fur when your next big break comes around."
He doesn't slam the locker door, but the sound of it clicking shut feels just as loud. His footsteps echo as he leaves, each one pounding against my chest.
Fenrir whines softly in my chest, curling in on himself. My wolf doesn't understand why we're still sitting here, why we're not chasing after Noah and begging for forgiveness. Mate, he growls again, the word like a knife twisting in my gut.
But Fenrir doesn't feel the weight of my choices like I do. He doesn't see the fractures I've caused—the irreparable damage I've done. He only knows what he wants. What he lost.
"I know," I whisper.
And for the first time in years, I don't feel like Logan "The Lightning" Whitaker. I just feel like a man who made a terrible mistake.