Flirt

Logan's POV

I swing.

The bat connects with the ball, but there's no real force behind it. It barely makes it past the pitcher's mound before rolling to a pitiful stop.

I curse under my breath, adjusting my grip. Try again.

The evening air is thick, the usual evening breeze nowhere to be found. Sweat drips down my temple, stinging my eyes. I wipe at my face with the hem of my shirt before setting my stance again.

The ball machine beeps.

Another swing.

Another weak hit.

Another curse.

I'm getting nowhere.

I dig my feet into the dirt, gripping the bat so tight my knuckles turn white. There's no reason I should be struggling like this. I know baseball. My body knows baseball. My muscle memory should be guiding me, my instincts should be sharper than ever. But they're not.

Because my instincts aren't there.

Because he isn't there.

'Fenrir, please come back. I need you.'

The words echo in my head, but the emptiness in my chest is deafening. The silence of his absence sits heavy inside me, gnawing at me with every breath.

I swing again, harder this time, but the bat slips from my grip, flying out of my hands and landing with a dull thunk a few feet away.

"Fuck!" I yell, the frustration boiling over.

I use the remote to switch off the ball machine and press my palms to my face, breathing hard. I feel like I'm unraveling. Like I'm clawing at something just out of reach.

And on top of everything, Noah thinks I'm a broken, careless idiot.

He won't say it. He's been so careful around me, so vocal about his determination to help me get my wolf back. But I know he's thinking it. I know he's frustrated that he has to spend more time around me than he's comfortable with. And I…

I wanted to spend more time with him but not like this. Not when I'm even less capable than ever of earning his love.

"Fuck," I repeat. The swear leaves my lips helplessly.

I hear a sound behind me—soft footsteps against the dirt—and huff, already annoyed at the intrusion.

"You don't have to watch me from the shadows like a creep, y'know?" I say, pushing sweaty strands of silver hair back from my forehead as I stalk over to grab my bat.

When I turn back, Elliot Castellano is standing at the edge of the field, just beyond the tunnel that leads out from the locker rooms.

I've always been vaguely aware of him. A Beta from a neighboring pack, someone I used to see at those rare state-wide pack gatherings as a kid. Events like that don't happen often, human authorities get nervous when there's a large gathering of supernaturals and my dad says no one likes to party with 'those damn Fragile pigs' hanging around. Even back then, I barely spoke to him. I preferred to hang around with other Alphas my age while he stuck with the Betas. I saw even more of him when I found my mate in Noah and even more of him when we first joined the Coyotes.

Still, when my attention wasn't on Noah, it was on my game. I never really cared about the team around me so, inadvertently, I never really noticed Elliot before.

I do now.

His sleek black hair is slightly tousled, his dark grey eyes sharp yet unreadable. He's fit, all lean muscle, and his bat is slung over his shoulder in a way that makes him look effortlessly cool.

He grins sheepishly. "Sorry. You didn't look like you wanted to be interrupted."

I want to tell him, 'I don't.' But I bite my tongue, gripping my bat tighter as I try another swing. The result is the same—weak, unbalanced. My frustration builds like a pressure cooker.

Elliot tilts his head. "Change your stance."

I frown at him. "What?"

"Your stance," he repeats. "Feet shoulder-width apart. Shift your weight to your back leg."

He demonstrates, planting his feet, settling into a perfect batting position.

"You're still standing like you're on hind legs," he explains. "But right now, you're bipedal, and you're not distributing your weight properly."

I exhale sharply. "Well, I am used to playing partially shifted."

Elliot smirks, and there's something different in his expression—something more akin to awe.

"Yeah, I know," he says, eyes shining with admiration. "And it's… wow. Honestly, no one can do what you do."

I blink at him.

Oh. He's a fan.

Elliot seems to realize it too, because his face flushes slightly and he clears his throat, regaining composure.

"But right now," he says, more seriously, "you're bipedal. Your stance has to change." He steps forward, close enough that I can see the light sheen of sweat on his collarbone. "So, you should just…"

His hands land on my waist as he tries to manually adjust my posture. The touch is light but firm, and I flinch—just barely, but enough for him to notice.

He immediately pulls back. "Sorry."

I shake my head, exhaling slowly. He's just being nice, there's no need to be so guarded. "It's fine." I sound too sharp, so I correct myself, voice lower. "Just… tell me what to do."

Elliot studies me for a moment, then nods. "Alright then. Feet shoulder-width apart."

I adjust.

"Grip the bat a bit more tightly—it can get slippery without paw pads and claws to hold it in place."

I tighten my grip.

"Weight on your back leg. Swing with your hips. All the power comes from your core." He demonstrates again, smooth and precise. "And don't forget the follow-through."

It's basic advice. The same advice my dad gave me when I was a kid with a plastic bat, before I'd even had my first shift. It feels ridiculous hearing it now, like being taught how to walk after already knowing how to run.

But I do what he says.

I swing.

And it's better. Not as powerful as my partial-shifted swings, but… better.

I exhale, rolling my shoulders. "Not bad."

Elliot grins. "Told you."

I glance at him. "What are you doing here, anyway? We don't have practice today."

He shrugs. "Could ask you the same thing."

I huff a small laugh. Fair point.

"I just love baseball," Elliot says simply. "Even if we don't have practice, I still like to come out here."

I nod. "I get that."

He smirks. "Of course you do. You're Logan Whitaker. The White Shadow."

I groan. I hate that one even more than 'The Lightning.' "Knock it off."

Elliot chuckles, but there's something softer in his gaze now, something almost hesitant. "Y'know… we never really talked when you first played for the Coyotes," he says. "But I've always been kinda…" He rubs the back of his neck. "I dunno. Starstruck, I guess."

I raise an eyebrow. "You're starstruck… by me?"

He laughs. "Don't let it get to your head."

"Too late," I smirk.

Elliot shakes his head, amused, "Don't act like you don't know about your reputation."

I know it's a joke, he's just fooling around. But the truth is, I do know about my reputation. It's all I ever think about. It mattered enough to me for me to leave the one person who meant more to me than anything, so… yeah. I know what it means to be 'The Lightning' or 'The White Shadow' and I know that now, without Fenrir, it's all going to be for nothing. I've been avoiding the press like the plague. Dave's been calling me about interviews he wants to set up and I've turned down all of them. There's going to be a press run soon for The Golden Sun tournament and I'm not looking forward to it. I'm so off my game, I might as well be playing Tee-Ball.

"I know about it," I say, quietly.

He notices the change in my demeanor and says, "Hey… about the last game…"

There it is.

Of course he'd bring it up. Who doesn't want to know why Logan Whitaker ran, without his tail between his legs, off the fields and into the dugout.

"I just wasn't feeling well," my voice sounds too harsh, abrasive. I swallow hard. "Caught a sudden stomach bug."

The look in his eyes tells me Elliot doesn't buy it. Which is fine; I don't need him to believe me, I just need him to stop asking questions.

The suspicion in his eyes gives way for amusement, "Well, let's hope that bug doesn't return." He then takes a step closer, tilting his chin up at me. "Alright, Alpha. Let's see that perfect pitch."

I groan. How does anyone find those two words anything but cringe? "Could we agree to never use that phrase again?"

Elliot chuckles but underneath his chuckle is another sound. A noise coming from behind him.

I try to look and his hands land on my chest, pressing lightly, forcing my attention back to him.

For a moment, I don't move.

I feel a strange heat settle in my stomach, something warm and familiar.

I could keep looking at Elliot. Could keep letting him tease, flirt, challenge me.

But something nags at me, a flicker of movement in the corner of my vision.

I glance over his shoulder, and—

A flash of color.

It's quick, barely there, but my body tenses. I see a shape disappearing down the tunnel.

I frown, a strange prickle running down my spine.

And then, from somewhere distant, I hear it—

A small, faint voice.

"Guy!"

I freeze.

My breath catches in my throat.

Who?