My Quarterback Mate

The whistle shrieked its final note and the stadium erupted. Blackwood Ravens had won.

My eyes found Jax, my Jax, the quarterback who just led the Blackwood Ravens to an improbable championship victory.

I pushed through the throng ready to launch myself into his arms, to share in the glory we’d built together.

He was coming to me. I was rushing to him. But he walked past me.

Oh, he didn't see me.

I held his arm. He looked at me and yanked away my grip. “Jax? It's me.”

I spoke as I stumbled back a step. Confusion bloomed in my chest. His eyes, usually warm and full of affection when they met mine, were already past me, fixed on someone else.

Then she was there. Seraphina, the cheerleader. Her lips stretched into a saccharine smile. Her pom-poms, forgotten, lay crumpled beside her.

“What?”

“Congratulations, wolf,” Seraphina said. Her father was the team’s biggest sponsor, the biggest in the VIP box.

“Thanks, Sera,” Jax said as his arm snaked around Seraphina’s waist, pulling her against him. Their lips met, a public display that felt like a fist slammed into my gut.

"Jax!" My voice cracked. He finally turned.

"Oh, Lyra," he said. "Didn't see you there."

"Didn't see me?" I was sure he did. My voice hitched, a sob threatening to escape. I kept my composure. "We just won the championship, Jax! I was coming to congratulate you!"

“We?” He expelled a sharp breath through his nose. "Right. Look, Lyra, things change. I move mountains on that field. I'm the best player in this league, maybe the best in the country. I need someone who matches that. Someone who stands where I stand." His gaze flicked to Seraphina. She straightened. "Seraphina's father owns half the city. She's going places, and I'm going with her."

My stomach lurched. Bile burned the back of my throat. "But I made you stronger! I risked everything to get you the—"

"Enough!" His voice cut through the air. He raised his hand, not to strike, but to silence.

It felt worse. He pushed me again. A sudden shove that sent me backward, stumbling over my own feet. I hadn't expected it.

I landed hard on the ground. My knees scraped against the rough concrete. A sharp, searing pain shot up my legs. My cheeks burned. My breath hitched. I squeezed my eyes shut against the stares I felt on my face.

“Do you want to suddenly force yourself into me? All because I am a star, golddigger?”

Laughter filled the air. Tears sprang to my eyes, blurring the faces of the laughing people, celebrating players, the triumphant coaches, the cheering fans.

Lying there, exposed and hurting, a single, burning promise solidified in my chest: Never again. Never, ever again will I date a player.

A shadow fell over me. Amidst my tears and the sting of pavement on my knees, I looked up. A postman, a wiry man with lines around his kind eyes and a worn leather bag slung across his chest stood over me.

He offered a hand, which I ignored. Then he simply placed a thick envelope on the floor. Beside me. "For you, Miss Lyra," he murmured.

I rose to my feet. My name, Lyra Aethelred, was written across the front in elegant script. My fingers trembled as I tore it open.

The letter began:

Dear Ms. Lyra Aethelred,

For years, your name has been whispered in the hallowed halls of the Lycanthropic League. Your dedication, your methods, and your ability to transform floundering teams into champions are well known. We are acutely aware of your past successes: the Crimson Fangs of ‘21, the Shadow Howlers of ‘22, and most recently, the Blackwood Ravens of ‘23. Each time, you arrived when they hit rock bottom, a beacon of hope and a catalyst for triumph. You have, by all accounts, engineered their rise, guiding their captains, empowering their transformations, and unleashing their full potential. Your meticulous, almost preternatural, understanding of physical conditioning and mental fortitude has left an indelible mark on this league.

We understand you’ve since departed from each winning team, leaving behind questions and theories. However, the results speak for themselves. We believe you possess a gift, a capacity to rejuvenate even the most broken of spirits and bodies. This brings us to the Ironclaws, currently sitting at the bottom of the Lycanthropic League standings. They need your expertise, your fire, your almost mythical touch. They need a miracle, and we believe you are that miracle.

We are formally extending an offer for you to assume the role of Head Fitness Coach for the Ironclaws, effective immediately. We believe you can, once again, reignite the spark that has been extinguished within this proud, but currently lost, pack. We eagerly await your response.

Sincerely,

Ironclaws Governing Council.

My eyes scanned the words, a strange mix of disbelief and a flicker of something akin to grim satisfaction.

The Lycanthropic League was a hidden world, a secret fiercely guarded from human eyes. A league where pure humans were forbidden to play, only to tend to their every need.

I dragged myself home, the letter clutched in my hand. The words echoed in my mind. It had been three teams. Three broken promises. Three captains who soared to victory on my back, then cast me aside like a broken toy.

I helped them become more than alphas, then they found their chosen mates, their true she-wolves. I was merely a stepping stone, a temporary fix.

"One last time," I whispered, staring at my reflection in the darkened window. My eyes were red. My face felt swollen. "But no love," I vowed to myself. This time, my heart would remain walled off, impenetrable.

The next morning, I was at the Ironclaws’ clubhouse. I pushed through the door to the locker room.

The sound of male voices abruptly stopped.

They stood there, a dozen hulking figures. They wore no shirts. Some heads were bowed. Powerful shoulders rippled under scarred skin. They looked like statues carved from stone, a collective image of defeat and raw, untapped power.

"Good morning, gentlemen," I announced and eyes turned to me. "I'm Lyra Aethelred, your new fitness coach."

A low snort erupted from the back. "A woman?" a gruff voice scoffed.

"A man trained us, and we still lost every damn game. What's a woman gonna do?" Another round of cynical murmurs rippled through the room.

“This is the end! I'm leaving,” another said.

Just then, the door to the adjoining restroom swung open. He emerged, a vision of raw, untamed power. His body was a masterpiece of muscle and sinew, rippling under taut, bronze skin. Dark hair fell in artful disarray around a face that was both rugged and strikingly handsome. His eyes, the color of molten gold, held an intensity that could burn through steel. This was the one with the most muscle, the young alpha of the pack, the captain. Kaelen Fur.

Kaelen’s gaze swept over his teammates. "Laughing, are we?" His voice cut through the locker room. The snickering stopped dead. "This woman," he continued, his eyes fixing on the one who’d scoffed, "is older than any of you. She’s twenty-nine years old. Our Beta, Roric, is twenty-two. Do you understand what that means? It means she has more experience on this earth than the lot of you put together. It means she's seen more, learned more. And she's here to fix what all your 'man-training' couldn't."

My breath hitched. He needn't say my age. Huh! However, my heart, which I’d so carefully walled off, gave a single, hard thump against my ribs, a desperate drumbeat saying, one more try! What?

Twenty-nine. And his Beta was twenty-two. How old the fuck was Kaelen, then? A new wave of curiosity, hot and unsettling, washed over me.

It wasn't love, not yet. It was something far more deeply unsettling, a hum that vibrated through my very bones. A hot flush spread low in my belly.

He strode forward. "Welcome, Lyra," he said and extended a large hand. His fingers were long and strong. "I'm Kaelen."

His hand engulfed mine. A shockwave of heat passed between us. The sheer size of his palm, the strength in his grip, the warmth that seeped into my skin—it was overwhelming. My body responded without my permission. A familiar, unwelcome wetness spread.

One more time!