Grayson POV
I didn't feel the pain until the second I looked down and saw the blood.
Not mine.
It was smeared across her hoodie like a warning label, deep red and wet against soft yellow cotton. My hands were shaking. I didn't know if it was from the adrenaline or the scent.
Sweet peach. Omega. Injured.
Gods, I'd never moved so fast. One second, I was slamming into the barrier after Haskin cheap-shotted me, and the next, I was tangled in broken plexiglass, sprawled half across the front row and half across a girl who smelled like my worst temptation.
Molly.
That's what they'd said her name was.
I wasn't supposed to get involved. Not here. Not now. I was under strict orders to lie low, keep my head down, stay out of fights, and not make headlines. Coach Aster practically tattooed it onto my gear.
But the second I hit her, the second I saw those wide green eyes cloud over, everything in me snapped. Alpha instinct. Raw. Violent. Protective.
"Get off her!" a blonde girl had yelled her friend, I guessed. She looked ready to throw a punch herself.
I scrambled off Molly, hands hovering like I could fix it just by being close. The scent of her blood tangled with the sweet trail of her omega pheromones, making it nearly impossible to think straight.
A medic reached her before I could, checking her arm. "Cut from the barrier," he said quickly, latex gloves already stained. "Deep, but not arterial. We'll need stitches."
"I'll take care of her," the doctor called Connor, our team's medical guy.
I didn't even realize I was following them until I was halfway down the hallway behind the locker rooms. One of my teammates, Jenkins, maybe tried to grab me, but I shoved him off. I needed to see her. Make sure she was okay.
This was my fault.
I shouldn't have lost my edge out there. I shouldn't have let Haskin bait me.
Now this girl this delicate, wide-eyed omega was bleeding because I couldn't keep my damn temper in check.
When I found the medical room, Coach Aster was already there. He was talking to the girl, clipboard in hand, muttering something about liability forms. I pushed the door open just as Connor shot him a look.
"Frank," Connor said sharply, "you're not helping."
Coach looked like he wanted to argue but finally threw his hands up and stepped back.
And then I saw her again. Molly. Sitting on the exam table, her hoodie half shredded, blood crusted on her arm and lip trembling like she wasn't sure whether to cry or throw something. Probably at me.
I stepped forward, unsure what to say. "Is she… okay?"
Connor glanced over his shoulder. "She'll live. Barely missed needing a transfusion with how much blood she's lost. She's going to need monitoring for a mild concussion and a few stitches."
Molly looked up at me just then, her eyes still glazed, cheeks pale. "You… you're the one who… hit me?"
I winced. "Yeah. I'm sorry. That wasn't supposed to happen."
Her friend snorted from the corner. "You think?"
Connor grabbed my arm and nudged me toward the hallway. "Let me finish patching her up. Come back in ten."
I wanted to argue, but I could feel Molly's gaze boring into my back, and I didn't want to make it worse.
So I nodded and left.
I paced the hallway for exactly seven minutes and twenty-four seconds before Connor stepped out and motioned me back in.
"She's stitched and bandaged. Bit loopy from the pain meds, so don't expect full sentences," he said, holding the door open.
Inside, Molly was propped up against the wall, hair disheveled, her bangs falling into her eyes. Her good hand clutched a water bottle, her bad arm now wrapped in gauze. She blinked at me, her lips parting slightly like she wanted to say something but didn't know what.
I cleared my throat. "I'm Grayson. Grayson Wood."
"I know who you are," her friend piped up. "Everyone does."
I nodded. "Right. Listen, I feel terrible about what happened. Let me drive you home my car's out back. My driver can get you both there safely."
"No" Molly started, but the blonde cut her off.
"We'll take it. Thank you."
Molly looked like she wanted to protest again, but the meds were clearly kicking her butt. She slumped slightly, nodding in exhausted agreement.
I lingered, uncertain. I wasn't used to feeling guilt most of my life had been skated through with a bruised jaw and a shrug. But something about seeing her hurt… seeing her bleeding because of me… it didn't sit right.
Before I left the room, I turned back to her. "Can I… get your number? Just so I can check in. Make sure you're okay."
Her lips parted, but the friend answered again. "We'll text you."
She grabbed my phone, typed something quickly, and handed it back.
I looked at the number, then at the omega still watching me like I was a tornado in skates.
"Thanks," I said softly. "For not screaming at me."
Molly gave me a tired smile. "I'll scream tomorrow."
By the time I got home, my brain was fried. I dumped my bag by the door and collapsed onto the couch, still in my warm-up pants. I closed my eyes, but her scent wouldn't leave my nose. That peach-sweet omega softness had sunk into my lungs like a drug.
I'd never reacted like that before not to anyone. Sure, I'd been around omegas. I'd dated some, slept with a few, but none had ever smelled like… that.
She was a problem. A complication. A soft, bleeding, wide-eyed complication that I couldn't stop thinking about.
When I finally dragged myself off the couch to check my gear bag, something small and pink fell out onto the floor.
A wallet.
Her wallet.
Molly.
I picked it up and thumbed through it. Driver's license. Student ID. A bunny sticker. Cash. And a faint trace of her scent that clung to the seams like it was stitched in.
I sat down on the edge of the bed, gripping the wallet like it might vanish.
I should've just sent it back through my driver. Texted and asked for an address. But the alpha in me the part of me that hadn't stopped buzzing since she looked at me with that dazed expression said no.
You bring it to her. You make it right.
So the next morning, after a cold shower and a long internal argument, I did.
I found her walking outside her dorm building, bundled in a flannel shirt that looked two sizes too big and flinching slightly every time the wind hit her.
"Molly?" I called.
She turned, hair wind-tossed and eyes widening in surprise. "Grayson?"
Her friend Alexis, I now knew stood beside her, already grinning like she'd just won a bet.
"You left this," I said, holding up the pink wallet.
Molly blinked. "Oh my god. I didn't even know"
"I figured I'd return it in person. Wasn't sure if you remembered last night clearly."
She took it from me carefully, fingers brushing mine. The contact was electric.
"I remember," she murmured.
I took a breath. "How's the arm?"
"Sore. But functioning. Doctor Connor stitched me up like a pro." She gave me a half-smile, then hesitated. "Thank you… for coming."
Before I could answer, my phone buzzed in my pocket. I checked it Coach Aster. No doubt wanting to scream about more bad press.
"I've gotta get to practice," I said, backing away. "But… I meant what I said. Let me know if you need anything. Anything at all."
Molly looked like she wanted to say something more, but Alexis nudged her forward.
"Text him later," she whispered, loud enough for me to hear. "Don't make it obvious you're into him."
I chuckled under my breath and turned.
But just as I rounded the corner, I realized I hadn't asked the question burning at the back of my mind since last night.
The one I'd have to ask soon because if I didn't, I was afraid I'd go insane.
What the hell do I do if she's my fated match?
That night, I sat in the locker room long after the others had gone, the locker's metal cold against my back. I stared at her number on my phone for the hundredth time, thumb hovering over the screen. My instincts roared, demanding I call her. But instincts had ruined me before. What if reaching out… ruined her too?