Logan's POV
I can feel all eyes on me as I enter the locker room.
You'd think that getting stared down by over a dozen men would be less daunting when you're an alpha and you're used to being put in the spotlight.
It doesn't.
The energy in the room shifts the second I step inside. Conversations pause. Water bottles stop mid-squeeze.
Every single Coyote is looking at me.
Their gazes—curious, skeptical, some downright hostile—makes my skin itch. They don't trust me.
Can't blame them.
Not that my nervousness lasts long. I've got bigger things to worry about.
"Whitaker, nice of you to finally join us," Noah deadpans without looking up from his clipboard. He looks so radiant, even with a light sheen of sweat across his forehead and that focused wrinkle between his brow. Noah always looks amazing, but today, he's practically glowing. It's infuriating. And distracting.
I spent the past week with my parents, chugging down potions, baptizing my wounds with ointment, and training with my dad, just like I used to when I was a kid. There was always the option to come to practice, to train with the Coyotes like I was supposed to. But I didn't want to see Noah. I didn't want to face him until I was sure I could pull off the stunt I'm about to pull off.
"Miss me, Coach?" Starting casually. Casual is good.
That gets me a glance—short, sharp, and unimpressed.
Yeah. I missed him.
His focus returns to his clipboard. Not in the mood for jokes. I get it. Neither am I.
"I want to play," I tell him, my voice steady despite the storm raging inside me.
Noah, still without looking up from his clipboard, laughs. Like I just told the funniest thing he's heard this year.
"Nice joke, Logan. Get changed. It's almost time to get out of here."
"I'm serious, Noah. Let me play."
That gets his attention. He finally looks up, his eyes a mixture of surprise and confusion. "I'd ask if you were insane, but I think we've already established that you are."
I lean forward, desperate, "I know you think I'm not ready—
"You're not."
"—but I can prove to you that I am. I can win this."
For a second, I think I see him waver. His walls start to crack, and I can almost see the Noah I used to know—the one who believed in me, who trusted me. But then it's gone. His expression hardens, and he shakes his head. "Absolutely not."
He walks away, barking orders at the rest of the team to hustle out of the clubhouse.
I clench my jaw.
I can't let this go. I won't let this go.
I go through the motions of changing into my uniform, then head out with the rest of the team to the field. The moment we step into the stadium, the crowd noise hits me like a freight train—loud, electric, buzzing with anticipation.
The stadium is bright, the crowd is loud, and the energy is palpable. I can feel it coursing through my bones as I take off my hat to sing the anthem with the rest of the crowd. This is where I belong. This is where I thrive. I've been off my game since I got back, but now my head is clearer than a spring in the summertime.
I have to play.
When we get to the dugout, I corner Noah again. "You have to let me play."
He completely ignores me. "Sven, you're our leadoff hitter. Elliot, you'll be our catcher."
"Noah…" I try again, my voice low but insistent.
He glares at me. "We might not win this but I'll be damned if the Coyotes are made a laughing stock again."
It feels like a dig at my performance during our last game, my embarrassing walk out of the field.
"That's harsh, Noah," I hiss.
His eyes widen like he's just realised what he said. "I didn't— I—" A sigh. "Look, Logan. The roster is already set for the game. There's nothing wrong with being a substitute."
"The Lightning doesn't substitute."
He runs his hands through his hair. "Well, there's a first time for everything. There are plans."
"You're the coach," I remind him, trying to keep the edge out of my voice. "You can change them."
"Sure, but—"
I grab his hand, forcing his gaze up to mine. His warm, hazel eyes burn into mine. The eyes of my mate, my being. I'll give him the world, but first I'll give him this game. "Noah… please…"
A pink tongue darts out to wet his lips. Those same lips part and—
"Is this pup bothering you, Coach?" a new voice cuts in. I look up to see a woman with a mane of fire-red hair standing beside us. She's wearing a Coyotes jersey, but I've never seen her before. I try to hide my irritation at the interruption.
Definitely an Alpha.
"We were just talking," I say, forcing down my irritation.
Noah snorts, jerking his thumb at me. "Get a load of this, Clio. Whitaker here wants me to let him play after he missed training all week."
"I was injured. You know that," I defend.
"All the more reason your ass should be warming the bench," Noah shoots back. He starts walking away, but I catch his arm.
"Please, Noah. Let me do this. I need to do this."
Noah's jaw tightens. There's a war going on behind those eyes.
If he agrees, he's playing favorites. If he says no…
I hope he doesn't say no.
Finally, he turns to Clio for help. She just shrugs. "You're the head coach. Your call."
Noah exhales sharply, rubbing his temples. "I swear to the goddess, Logan… if you mess this up, I'll make you eat your tail."
My grin is instant. "You won't regret this."
"Matteo, you're out," he calls. "Logan will take your spot."
"Fuck that!" Matteo erupts, shooting out of his seat.
"Hey! Who's the coach!?" Clio barks.
Matteo's fangs bare as he growls behind his throat, curses a string of expletives under his breath and sits back down. I pull my hat further down my head and walk out onto the field.
I'll make it up to him by winning.
I take my place in the outfield, the grass soft beneath my cleats. The Thunderbolts are up first, and their leadoff batter steps into the box. The pitcher, a wiry guy with a mean fastball, winds up and fires.
The batter connects, sending a line drive straight toward me. I sprint, my legs burning as I close the distance. The ball slaps into my glove with a satisfying 'thwack'. One out.
The next batter steps up. This one's bigger, with a stance that screams power hitter. He takes a swing at the first pitch and sends it soaring toward the left-field wall. I'm already moving, my heart pounding as I leap, glove outstretched.
I miss.
The ball clears the wall, and the crowd erupts. Home run.
The Thunderbolts' dugout goes wild, and I can feel the weight of Noah's stare from across the field. I grit my teeth and focus.
By the top of the fifth, the Thunderbolts are up 5-0. Their pitcher is on fire, striking out our batters one after another. I'm getting frustrated. I know I'm a great player, but I'm not getting any hits, and it's difficult playing like I'm just another human. No partial shifts, no nothing. My wolf is silent, my palms are sweaty, and Noah is looking at me with a mixture of deep concern and regret. I hate it.
'Where are you?' I plead, searching within me. 'Come back to me.'
Still nothing.
I force myself to focus on the game.
The Coyotes are stretched thin. The Thunderbolts have it out for us and they're not giving us any leeway. We're trying our best but it's clearly not good enough.
I step up to bat in the bottom of the ninth, my grip tightening on the wood. The Thunderbolts' pitcher smirks at me like he already knows how this is going to end. He winds up. I swing.
I miss.
Fuck.
The crowd groans, and I can practically feel Noah's stare drilling into my back.
The catcher chuckles behind me.
"Hey, Lightning," he says, his voice carrying the smirk I can't see behind his helmet. "Meet Thunder."
I tamp down my annoyance at the joke and focus on the play.
The pitcher sends the ball flying again. I swing and miss.
Strike two.
The catcher laughs as he tosses the ball back. The pitcher looks triumphant.
Bottom of the ninth.
Bases loaded.
Two outs.
It's now or never.
I take a deep breath.
Then, I lift my bat—and I point it. Not at the pitcher. Not at the outfield. At the dugout. At Noah.
The crowd loses their fucking minds. The commentators are shouting something about how I'm calling my shot, but I don't care. This is for him.
I grip the bat tighter, and suddenly, I feel it. The shift tears through me—not slow, not subtle. A surge of energy, bones stretching, fur bristling along my arms, ears sharpening. The Thunderbolts' pitcher freezes, eyes wide in shock.
Yeah. You weren't expecting that, were you?
To be honest, neither was I.
The ball comes flying. I swing. The crack of impact echoes through the stadium. The ball soars, high, far, disappearing over the stadium wall.
Grand Slam.
I round the bases, heart pounding, adrenaline pumping. My teammates are screaming, pounding my back, yanking at my jersey. The crowd is on their feet. The commentators are spewing out a litany of words I don't pay attention to.
I glance at the dugout.
Noah is staring at me.
His lips parted. His eyes wide.
Like I just rewrote the laws of the universe.
That's right, baby. Keep those eyes on me.
I wink.
His face goes red. My laughter carries in the wind.
Logan Whitaker is so back.