Noah's POV
"And that's a home ruuuuun!"
The stadium erupts. A wall of noise crashes over me—cheers, screaming, the pounding of thousands of feet against the stands. The air is thick with sweat, adrenaline, and the sharp scent of fresh-cut grass.
"This is incredible, folks! I never thought I'd ever see it! The Eastvale Coyotes are now the champions of Golden Sun!"
I don't even think.
One second, I'm standing in the dugout, my mouth hanging open in disbelief. The next, I'm sprinting onto the field.
Logan stands under the floodlights, still gripping the bat, his chest heaving. His blue eyes scan the field, and when they land on me—when he turns fully, his beastman form radiating power under the glow of the lights—his entire face splits into a grin.
There's a tidal wave of teammates behind me, but in that moment, there's only us.
I crash into him at full speed, and Logan catches me like he's been waiting for it, like he knew I'd come flying into his arms the second the ball cleared the fence.
"Oh my God, you won!" I shout, breathless, my heart hammering against his.
Logan laughs, lifting me higher, his hands gripping my waist tight. "We won!"
I want to kiss him, right here, in front of everyone, but before I can, the avalanche of bodies behind me slams into us.
Sven, Elliot, and the others pile on, shouting, howling, their voices blending into the deafening roar of the crowd. Logan is ripped from my arms, dragged into the frenzied celebration, but his hand never leaves mine. Even as we're shoved and tackled, as champagne is cracked open and sprayed wildly into the air, his fingers stay locked around mine like a promise.
The rest of the night is a blur.
The trophy is lifted—Logan and Sven holding it high above their heads as the cameras flash. I'm soaked in champagne and sweat, my jersey clinging to my skin. People are hugging, crying, laughing. Logan is glowing—radiant, alive. He keeps glancing at me, that teasing little smirk playing at the corners of his lips.
I know exactly what he's thinking.
'The real celebration starts when we get home.'
Finnian whines, eager. My mouth waters at the thought; I'm even more eager than she is.
And, in only a few minutes, we'll have our mate all to ourselves.
Eventually, after what feels like an eternity of smiling for cameras and shouting into microphones, we start heading for the dugout tunnel that leads to the locker room. I'm buzzing, practically floating. The stadium lights shine overhead, and Logan's hand is still in mine, his thumb running slow circles against my palm.
"Logan! Any words for the press?" a reporter calls out.
Logan barely glances at them. "Schedule a press conference or something," he says, waving them off. He turns to me, his eyes warm, soft. "I'm too happy to have my mood killed by reporters."
I mouth, "I love you."
He smiles. Starts to say it back.
And then— he stops.
His whole body goes still.
A terrible, icy feeling creeps up my spine. My grip tightens around his. "Logan?"
He's staring ahead, toward the locker room. And then I see them.
Alfred.
Two PAC officials.
Dressed in crisp, dark suits. Waiting.
My stomach drops.
Alfred's face is grim as he steps forward. "They want to talk to the team."
The officials don't waste time. "We received an anonymous tip that someone on the Eastvale Coyotes has been using Lumea."
The words slam into me like a punch.
Lumea. It's the opposite of Virilite. Instead of suppressing, it enhances.
I've heard of supernaturals using the drug recreationally but everyone here knows better. We're athletes and it's highly, highly illegal.
Voices rise in protest instantly. Sven scoffs. "Seriously? That shit's impossible to get."
The officials are unmoved. "No one would have easier access to it than professional baseball players."
"That's bullshit!" Elliot snarls. "None of us would—"
"If you're all so confident, then you won't mind if we check the lockers."
A ripple of unease moves through the team. It's not fear—because none of us have anything to hide—but there's still a tension, a frustration at being accused of something so ridiculous.
Sven tries to lighten the mood. "Even if someone was on that shit, no one would be dumb enough to leave it in their locker."
We all wait by the entrance while the officials search. Logan's grip on my hand is a vice. I can't hear myself think over the beating of my heart.
And then—
"Found it."
Everything goes silent.
I blink. My ears ring. My mouth feels dry.
The official holds up a small, sleek bottle.
From my locker.
A cold weight settles in my gut. My heartbeat pounds against my ribs.
It's a mistake. A setup. A fucking lie.
"I— What? I don't understand," I stutter. "That's not— That's not mine."
Logan's grip loosens. Why does it feel like he's running away?
My stomach turns to ice. My brain tries to process what I'm seeing, but it doesn't make sense. **It doesn't make sense.
"Check it again," I blurt. "That can't be my locker."
The official barely looks at me. "Your name's on it."
"But— I—" I look around me for help from my teammates. My friends.
Sven looks away. Elliot is nowhere to be seen.
"Mr. Bennett, we're going to have to take you in for questioning."
There are many ways I imagined tonight ending; with Logan and I tangled in the sheets, sweaty and spent from hours of love making. With Logan and I shifting and running off into the woods, finding a nice, cozy spot to sleep among the trees. With Logan and I cuddled on the roof of our apartment, me tracing constellations into his skin, him breathing me in.
Many ways and all involving Logan and I.
None involving being escorted out of the stadium in handcuffs.
Reporters turn my way like bees to honey.
The cameras flash.
The noise crashes over me again—a hundred voices, questions, accusations.
Logan shouts, "This has to be a mistake!" He reaches for me—instinctive, desperate—
Then he sees the cameras.
And shrinks away.
Steps back. Into the shadows.
And just like that— I'm alone.
---
The station is cold.
The human processing me sneers as he takes my thumbprint. "Y'know, my son's a Coyotes fan." He glances up, his lip curling. "Never understood how he could take interest in your kind. But now? Now I can tell him you damn mutts have all these powers and still can't play an honest game of baseball."
I clench my jaw, but I don't say anything.
There's no one here to defend me.
I ask for a lawyer—beg for one. They ignore me. They take my blood. They leave me hungry, shaking, alone.
When they finally let me go, it's through the underground parking lot.
And Logan is waiting.
He catches me the second I step out, pulling me against his chest. I collapse into him, exhausted, raw, my whole body shaking.
"I've got you, baby," he whispers. "I've got you."
Alfred drives us home.
The second we step into the house, all I want is Logan. I want his arms around me, his warmth, his reassurance. I want to forget.
Logan helps me out of my messy shirt. We shower together and I stick close to him like an injured wolf.
Maybe that's what I am, an injured wolf desperate for comfort. Logan gives it freely, just like he always does. He holds me, washes my hair and presses soft kisses to my forehead. He rubs lotion on my back, tracing the curve of my spine.
This isn't the wild sex I'd dreamed of after our big win but our win doesn't feel like a win anymore and I don't need him to fuck me. I just need him.
He pulls me to himself and, for a moment, I think we're okay.
And then— he pulls away.
"Did you do it?"
I stare at him.
The exhaustion, the humiliation, the fear—I feel it all crack into something sharper. Something burning.
"Goddess, Logan! Are you really asking me that?"
Logan crosses his arms. His jaw clenches. "What else am I supposed to ask? They found the drugs in your locker, Noah."
I shake my head, stunned. "Someone could have put them there," I stress. "Why would you ask me that?"
"Didn't you see the press, Noah?" His voice is tight. "They took pictures of you in cuffs—"
"That's what you're worried about?" My voice rises. "I was humiliated. Interrogated. Denied a lawyer. And you're worried about the press?"
Logan exhales sharply. He looks away. "Noah… this is a lot. You know I'm about to sign with the Shadows. I don't want this to affect my career."
My heart goes from cracked to shattered.
I laugh—a broken, bitter sound. "They took my blood for a test. I'm innocent. There's nothing in my system. My name will be cleared and this will all blow over."
"How can you be so sure?"
"Because I'm me!" I snap at him. "Noah. The love of your life. The man I thought you knew better than you know yourself."
Logan doesn't say anything.
We've been fighting and making up for so long now. About starting a family. About his deal with the Shadows. About moving.
I love him so I compromise; cubs can wait. Play for the Shadows. We'll leave Eastvale behind.
I get why he's anxious but I wish… I wish he'd trust me more. And I don't want to fight. I just want to get to the part where we make up.
"Let's just go to bed," I say, my voice barely a whisper.
We sleep on opposite sides of the bed.
In the morning I wake up, expecting warmth. Expecting arms around me, lips at my nape.
But the bed is cold.
Logan is gone.