No Perfect Game (BL)

Noah's POV

Logan wakes up long enough to croak, "Don't take me to my parents' house." Then he promptly passes out again. 

I don't even bother holding back the exasperated sigh that escapes me. "Really, Logan?" I mutter, smacking his cheek lightly to keep him from slipping too far under. His head lolls to the side, a low groan slipping from his lips. 

"Stay with me," I say firmly, smacking his cheek again. I don't mean to sound… well, mean. Or angry. But I'm terrified, I'm fucking terrified of what will happen if he closes his eyes and doesn't open them again. I don't want to think about the implications of him leaving this earth, leaving me for good. So the smacks aren't hard— they're just enough to keep him semi-conscious. My hands are shaking, and Finnian is pacing in the back of my mind, growling low with worry. 

This is bad. This is really, really bad. 

I half-drag, half-carry Logan out of the club, his arm slung over my shoulders as I navigate through the crowds. Every step feels like a marathon with his dead weight leaning heavily against me. By the time we make it outside, the contrast between the club warm with bodies and sex and the cool night air hits me like a slap in the face. It's that Eastvale evening breeze. And, while I'd usually find it comforting, it does nothing to clear the fog of panic that's settled over my brain now. 

Don't die, you dumb oaf. Don't die, you dumb oaf. Don't die, you dumb oaf.

The words stir in my mind like a litany. Logan stirs weakly, groaning again. And then, of course, he throws up. 

I barely manage to dodge the mess as he doubles over, retching onto the sidewalk. His shaking hand fumbles in his pocket before he pulls out his car keys and presses them into my palm. 

"Thanks for that," I mutter, wiping his mouth with the sleeve of my shirt. I'd take him puking his guts out to him dying any day.

Logan mumbles something incoherent, his head lolling back as I grip his waist to keep him upright. 

I glance at the car keys in my hand and press the unlock button. The sleek Lamborghini Huracán STO parked just a few feet away flashes its lights, and I can't help but roll my eyes. Of course he rented something ridiculous. 

"Show-off," I mutter as I open the passenger door and lower him into the seat. He's barely coherent, his head lolling against the window, his mouth still smeared with vomit, and those puncture wounds on his neck are still oozing blood. 

My stomach churns at the sight. The bleeding should have stopped by now. Werewolves usually heal fast—it's one of the few things we can always count on. But we're not immortal, or indestructible and the venom… it's slowing everything down, confusing his body's natural processes. 

"You're going to be okay," I whisper, more for myself than him. 

I climb into the driver's seat, my fingers fumbling with my phone as I text Elliot. 

Had to leave. Babysitter called—emergency with Oliver. You good? 

It's a lie, but it's the best I can come up with right now. 

His reply comes swiftly; I'll be fine. Go take care of your kid!

I glance at Logan, whose head hangs lifelessly against the headrest. Definitely not a kid. My gut twists. Finnian growls low, her worry echoing my own. 

"Logan, I'm taking you to the hospital," I say, starting the car. 

His eyes flutter open, hazy and unfocused. "No… hospital," he mumbles, his voice barely audible. 

"What? Logan, you need—" 

"No…" he groans, his hand weakly gripping my arm. "Please… can't let them… find me like this." 

I freeze, his words hitting me like a punch to the gut. 

I know what he means. If anyone recognizes Logan Whitaker, the "Lightning," like this—covered in his own vomit, barely conscious, bitten—it's going to be a feeding frenzy for the press. They'll hound him, spin it into something salacious, and tear him apart just like they tore me apart when I was accused of doping. 

And as much as I resent him for leaving me to face that alone, I can't let him go through it too. Besides, if this gets out, the Coyotes will be in trouble and I can't have that.

I grip the wheel tighter, my knuckles turning white. "Fine," I say through clenched teeth. "No hospital." 

His hand slips from my arm as he passes out again, and I let out a shaky breath, my heart pounding in my chest. This man will be the death of me.

I head for his hotel instead. As his coach, I know where he's been staying, though I never bothered to find out his room number—knowing that felt like crossing a line. 

Luckily, the room key is attached to the car keys so, when I get to the shiny, 5-Star hotel Logan has been staying in, I know I won't look as lost as I feel.

The Regency Gold Suits stands tall against the skyline, all shiny glass and metal. Its modern design practically screams money, with the gleaming marble pillars at the entrance to the valet out front. Everything about it feels cold and impersonal—exactly like the kind of place Logan would pick. I flash the bored security guard a quick smile as I maneuver the car into the underground parking garage. One glance at the Lamborghini and he doesn't ask for ID. Figures.

The garage is thankfully empty and I carry Logan like a child, his head resting against my shoulder, his body limp and heavy in my arms. I choose the stairs over the elevator—it's safer, less chance of running into anyone. By the time I reach the top floor, my muscles are screaming, my arms trembling from the effort. 

His suite is cold and quiet when I step inside, the decor a blend of modern luxury that I barely notice. My focus is on the man in my arms, his pale skin clammy against mine, his breaths shallow and uneven. 

I take him straight to the bathroom, setting him down on the closed toilet seat. 

"Logan," I say, smacking his cheek lightly. "Wake up." 

He stirs, his glassy blue eyes meeting mine for a moment. "I'm alive…" he murmurs. "I'm scared." 

My chest tightens. "You'll be fine," I say, my voice steadier than I feel. "I'm here." 

But I don't know what to do. My mind is racing, fogged with panic and fear. It reminds me of the time Oliver was bitten by a snake—how I froze, forgetting everything I knew about snake bites until Finnian snapped me out of it. 

Focus, Finnian growls, her voice sharp and clear. We know how to help him.

I start by peeling off his clothes, checking for any external signs that the venom is spreading. I lift his arms, tugging his shirt over his head, and he shuffles weakly to help me remove his pants. 

"I didn't imagine… we'd end up in bed tonight," he murmurs, his lips curving into a faint, pained smile. 

My face burns, and I smack his shoulder lightly. "Shut up." 

His humor fades quickly, replaced by a wince of pain as I lower him back down. I grab my phone, googling symptoms and remedies for vampire venom poisoning. Most of the advice is geared toward humans, but one article catches my attention. 

'Shift immediately,' it says. 'A werewolf's wolf form is better equipped to handle the venom, expelling it faster through enhanced metabolic processes.'

I crouch down in front of him, gripping his trembling hands. "Logan, you have to shift," I say firmly. 

"Can't," he murmurs, his head lolling forward. "Hurts…" 

I can't imagine what he must be going through right now. It must be like acid running through his veins, eating him alive from the inside out. I might have heard about how vampire venom disorients, paralyzes, and burns, but I've never seen it up close like this. Finnian growls in the back of my mind, her worry palpable as she urges me to act. I can't imagine the pain he's in, the way his body must be at war with itself, trying to heal while the venom keeps dragging him down. It's like watching someone drown and not knowing if I can pull them back to shore in time.

It feels like I'm watching him die.

"Please, Logan," I whisper, my voice cracking. Tears blur my vision as I shake him lightly. "Try. You have to try. For me." 

His eyes flutter shut, and for a moment, I think he won't do it. Then, slowly, his body begins to change. 

White fur sprouts from his skin, his bones cracking and reshaping as he shifts. Logan has always described shifting as freeing, like taking off a tight suit at the end of a long day. But this… this is agony. 

He cries out as his wolf form takes shape, tears springing to his eyes as his lids morph. I can hear his bones breaking, the sound of organs shifting like meat in a grinder. His body collapses onto the bathroom floor, his bulky wolf form unable to perch on the toilet.

Fenrir stands on shaky legs, his white fur matted with sweat and blood. The wolf lets out a strangled sound before vomiting a thick pool of blood onto the tiles. 

And then, just as quickly as he shifted, he collapses again, his body shifting back into his human form. 

I don't hesitate. I scoop him up, blood and all, and lower him into the bathtub. 

The water runs over his skin, washing away the blood as he leans against the tub, his breaths still labored but slightly steadier. 

"How do you feel?" I ask softly, my voice trembling. 

He looks up at me, his blue eyes are clearer now but heavy with exhaustion. "Like shit," he mutters. "And you look like a war crime." 

A laugh escapes me, shaky but genuine. Relief floods through me, and for the first time tonight, I let myself believe that he's going to be okay. 

"We've always been messy," I say quietly, brushing a damp strand of silver hair from his face. 

His lips twitch into the faintest smile. "Yeah… messy." 

Broken and messy. That's what we've always been. Which is why, even as I pick up a loofah to clean his body, I know that by the time he's completely fine and asleep, I have to go back home.

I don't want him to mistake my kindness for forgiveness.

Broken things aren't worth holding onto.