Filed to story: Alpha's Regret: His Wrongful Rejection
When we get to the gym, we join the other straggling scavengers. A few of us break for the bleachers, but Mr. Arnold blocks our way, pointing toward the locker room. “Not today, slackers. Everyone in uniform. Go on.”
He’s met by a chorus of groans, but we do as we’re told and after some last-minute trading, most of us end up in either a Moon Lake Athletics shirt or a pair of shorts with an elastic waistband. Lucky me, I’ve got both. I’m wearing strappy white sandals, but I’m also not planning on exerting myself, so it’ll be fine.
Nia and I file out with the others and line up on the court. Luckily, the males are on the other side of the gym, and the space is big enough that they create a fog of mustiness rather than a wall of stench.
Cadoc is standing next to Mr. Arnold, arms folded, face blank. Cadoc speaks quietly, giving orders it seems, and when he’s finished, he jogs to join the males. He doesn’t spare me a look. Which is fine. Expected. Good.
My wolf harrumphs, plops on her butt, and loses interest in the real world, directing all her attention toward lazily grooming her fur.
Brynn and her crew are casting glances at Nia and me, their whispers punctuated by cackled laughs. This is not fine or good, but it’s hardly a surprise. Rank is brutal. If you step up—if you’re even perceived to maybe think about stepping up—the higher ranks smack you back down. Gotta keep order.
I was walking with the alpha heir. Me, a scavenger nobody. The urge to put me in my place will be completely irresistible. I hope we aren’t practicing softball today. Those balls leave a big ol’ welt.
“Males. Outside. Basketball,” Mr. Arnold announces. “Females. Inside. Volleyball.” He snaps and points, and the usual human helpers jog off to set up the nets.
Nia and I exchange a look. She’s read the room, too, and she knows I’m in for it, and she’ll be getting the spillover due to guilt by association.
“Could be worse,” she says. “Could be basketball.”
“Could be better.” I trudge with the other scavengers and humans to our side of the net. “Could be golf.”
Nia shudders. “Those suckers sting.”
They do, and they leave a mark, but a basketball to the back of the head can knock you out.
The humans start bossing us around, assigning us places to stand, and reminding us about the rules. Brooklyn, the human who always takes charge, makes us stand in a circle with our arms around each other’s shoulders. She yammers a while, and then claps her hands, shouting, “We got this!”
The other humans loudly agree.
“What do we get again?” Enid Wogan asks.
Brooklyn squeezes her eyes shut like she just took a softball to the gut. “Just call the ball, okay?”
“Call it what?” Enid whispers to Nia. Nia shrugs.
The humans are less loudly enthusiastic when we take our places. They hate that they’re always teamed with the scavengers. They want to win, and even though they know they don’t have a shot against shifters, they still get disappointed when we lose.
It’s dumb. Everyone knows that it’s not about winning—it’s about shifters learning how to moderate their speed and strength around humans—but it’s hardwired into the humans to compete, so they’re always pissed off at the end.
Enid serves first. The ball splats against the wall at the opposite end of the gym, raining down plastic confetti on the males filing out to the basketball courts behind the building.
Coach Arnold sighs. “Go get another one, Wogan.”
She sprints for the basket of spare balls, and Coach Arnold blows his whistle. “Slow it down, Wogan.”
Enid slows into this weird stop-motion run where she lifts her knobby knees real high and freezes between strides. Brooklyn and the other humans groan.
Mr. Arnold rolls his eyes, and his helper trots to get a new ball and throws it to our opponents. “Now watch how it’s done,” he barks at us.
Lowry Powell tosses the ball in the air and gently whacks it over the net. It falls like a feather mid-court.
“Got it!” a human calls, but Nia’s closer. She punches it into the net, and the pole on wheels holding it upright tips and clatters to the hardwood floor.
“Is that a point?” Nia asks.
There’s a general muttering and cursing. Mr. Arnold shakes his head and scribbles on his clipboard. The human helpers fix the net.
And on the other side, Brynn Owen taps a Hughes on the shoulder and switches spots so she’s right across from me.
Shit.
Brynn’s shiny blonde hair is tied back in a neat ponytail, the ends cut so sharp they look like an angled paint brush from art class. Her lips are shiny with pale-pink gloss, and her Moon Lake Athletics shirt somehow nips in at the waist instead of hanging from her all boxy like a pillow case.
She smiles at me, and my wolf lifts her head from licking fur.
“You’re Madrona Kemble’s little sister, aren’t you?” she says.
She enunciates the “Kemble” like it’s an insult, but knowing Geralt Powell like we’ve come to do, it’s not too much of a shame that he didn’t claim Drona and give her his name. I’d rather be a Kemble than a weasel any day of the week.
I don’t bother responding. We’re pack. We all know each other’s business.
“I see you’re following in the family tradition.”
Teagan Roberts must smell drama ’cause she wanders forward from the back row to stand by Brynn’s side. I’ve often wondered if females in the Five Families pick their best friends to showcase themselves. Teagan’s stockier than Brynn, and her bristly brown hair tends to fly away despite the obvious styling and product. She makes Brynn look even more svelte and polished and neat.
Teagan smirks at me, and Nia shuffles closer to my side.
“What family tradition is that, Brynn?” Teagan bounces on her toes as the ball starts sailing over our heads again.
“Rank whore.” Brynn flashes her even white teeth at me.
Nia snorts.
“Something funny, bog rat?” Teagan has gum in her mouth—it’s forbidden in Human Sport but only scavengers get called on it—and she chews it slow and menacing.
“Scavengers don’t whore for rank, bitch. We whore for cash and goods.” Nia lifts her upper lip to show her descended fangs. “Only nobs are stupid enough to fuck for recognition. You can’t trade ‘he let me sit next to him at lunch’ for anything.”
Brynn and Teagan shake their heads, faces twisted with an exaggerated show of disgust. They love baiting us into speaking the truth, and then sneering at us for it.
“I don’t know,” Enid calls from her position behind us. “Is the seat itself up for trade? I’d trade for a seat with a back to it. I hate benches.”
“It was an example, Enid.” Nia sidesteps a ball so it doesn’t hit her. The humans cuss.
“I wouldn’t trade anything for an example.” Enid scoops up the ball and throws it behind her to Brooklyn. It ends up sailing over the human’s head and into the bleachers.
Brynn frowns, probably irritated that we’re not cooperating with her little bullying session. The nobs picked up bullying from humans, but it doesn’t quite work with us scavengers. We’re shifters. We respond to dominance displays. If Brynn growled or flashed fang, we’d probably bare our necks, but she’s just running her mouth.
“Well, as long as you understand that Cadoc might be sniffing your ass, but he’s never, ever gonna bite you. You’re a wet hole, bog trash, and if you’re really lucky, like your sister, you’ll get to play brood mare, and your fatherless pups can eat out of the allotment box, too.”
She pauses, smiles, and without breaking eye contact, she bumps an incoming ball effortlessly back over the net. Brooklyn shouts, “Got it!”
It feels like I took a kick to the gut.
Well, wasn’t I cocky? Of course, words can knock you down.
Brynn isn’t lying. That’s exactly how mating Cadoc will go.
All of a sudden, I’m tired. I want to plop down in the middle of the waxed wood floor, right on top of the painted Moon Lake logo.
Brynn and Teagan seem satisfied. They giggle together and shift positions, refocusing on winning the game without any display of superior skill.
Our side keeps walloping the ball out of bounds.
Nia’s twitchy. It’s against her nature to let shit go, but her instinct will be holding her back, and her wolf is cowed. Mine is getting weirder by the hour. She paid Brynn and Teagan no attention beyond a desultory sniff, and now she’s settling down for a nap.
My wolf and I have always been in tune, but since our first shift, I’m a mess, and she’s the definition of chill. I hope she knows something I don’t.
Maybe it’s just that a wolf her size doesn’t have to worry about anything. I haven’t even started to wrap my brain around her enormity. One thing’s for sure—I can never go the way of Uncle Dewey. There’s no way my wolf would fit in the trailer.
About halfway through the period, Mr. Arnold leaves to go check on the males, handing Teagan Roberts his whistle and clipboard. Brynn and her gang whisper and glance my way, but they don’t come over again. I guess I’ve been put back in my place. I was really expecting worse.
Finally, time’s up. Teagan blows the whistle and tells Lowry Powell and Nia they have to roll up the nets and put the balls back in the storage room.
The rest of us trudge for the locker room. I’m still dealing with the rolling waves of heat, but there’s no way I’m taking a shower. I’m getting in and out. I’ll wait for Nia by the trophy case.