No Perfect Game (BL)

Logan's POV 

It's been two weeks since the incident. 

Two weeks of drills, conditioning, and games of catch under the sweltering Eastvale sun. Two weeks of pushing through the weight of exhaustion that drags at my heels and pretending everything is fine when I know deep down it's not. 

I went back to practice the very next day, much to Noah's surprise. He didn't say anything about the night before, though—just handed me the clipboard with my drills for the day. He didn't give me extra drills either, which was... unexpected. 

I was glad he didn't bring it up. Afterall, how could I explain that Odessa has become a fever I can't sweat off? That even now, two weeks later, I still feel phantom fangs pressing into my skin? She turns my dreams into nightmares. I hear her voice whispering in my ear, promising things I didn't want: "Just one bite." I feel the helplessness all over again. The shame. The fear. 

I blink back into the present, my fingers tightening around my bat. My heart pounds in my chest, and I realize I'm sweating. Hard. Too hard for the cool temperature of the dugout. 

"Whittaker, are you okay?" 

Noah's voice cuts through my thoughts like a blade. 

I jerk my head up, startled, and look around. The rest of the team is staring at me like I've lost my mind. Noah's standing near the bench, his eyes narrowed with concern. 

Elliot smirks and leans in, making a mock salute. "Aye aye, back to earth, Apollo." 

The team laughs, but I can feel the heat rising in my face, shame clawing at my insides. 

Noah mouths, Are you okay?

I nod quickly, too embarrassed to meet his eyes. Noah doesn't look convinced, but he turns back to the team, addressing them with his usual steady authority. 

Outside the dugout, the crowd is electric. Their cheers echo across the stadium, their energy practically vibrating through the walls. Ads are being announced over the loudspeakers, their jingles mixing with the roar of the fans. They're here for the Coyotes— scratch that— they're here for me.

I can hear it—the distinctive chant cutting through the noise like thunder: "Lightning! Lightning!"

We're in Group A, matched up against the Yuma Yellowjackets, a team of werejaguars who've been placed in Group B. I know the Yellowjackets. Bigshot cats with egos the size of the stadium, always acting like they're too good to lose. They play lazy, confident they'll win by default. 

Normally, I'd relish the chance to take them down a peg. But today... today I can't shake the unease in my chest. 

Noah stands in front of the team, clipboard in hand. "I know you've all been wondering why I've been training you so hard these past few weeks," he says, his voice steady but firm. "It's because we're going to win this." 

The team murmurs, exchanging glances. 

"I'm aware that seems unlikely given our... record," Noah continues, his eyes scanning the group. Then, he looks directly at me. "But I know we can do it." 

I swallow hard. He's not just talking to the team. He's talking to me. 

And what I hear isn't "we can do it." It's "you can do it." 

Noah's gaze lingers on me for a moment before he continues. "Since things are going to get even busier, I managed to convince the manager to bring in an assistant coach. You'll be meeting them soon. But for now, remember your training. Keep a cool head out there and play like you know how to play ball." 

Elliot grins, leaning back against the bench. "Nothing to worry about, Coach. We've got The Lightning!" He draws out my nickname dramatically, and a few of the guys laugh. 

"Cut it out," I mutter under my breath, feeling the heat rise in my face again. 

Noah's voice cuts through the laughter. "We play as a team," he says firmly, his gaze sweeping across the group before landing on me. "Whitaker, you're the leadoff hitter." 

"Yes, Coach," I reply, my voice steady. 

Noah nods, looking around the team before calling us into a huddle. 

"Let's show them!" Noah shouts, throwing his hand into the center of the circle. 

The team piles in, their hands overlapping. I add mine to the top, even though my fingers are trembling. 

"COYOTES ON THREE!" Elliot bellows. "ONE! TWO!" 

"COYOTES!" We shout in unison, our voices reverberating through the dugout like a battle cry. 

As the team breaks off, I bend down to tie my shoe properly, my hands shaking slightly as I tighten the laces. 

"Hey," one of my teammates says, crouching beside me as I fiddle with my laces. His voice is low, quiet enough that the others don't hear. "Coach brushed it off, but… we're really all counting on you, you know?" 

I glance up at him, my throat tightening. There's no malice in his words, no pressure. Just trust. Trust I don't deserve. 

I know I said I could handle the responsibility, that I'll be the one to save the Coyotes. But now, I suddenly feel like I'm going to let everyone down.

I pull my helmet down, shielding my expression. "I know." 

I walk out of the dugout, stepping into the roar of the stadium. The sun is shining high overhead, its heat pressing down on me like a physical weight. I tug at my collar, then throw my hands up, hyping up the crowd. 

The commentator's voice booms through the speakers, rattling off my stats and detailing my transfer to the Coyotes. 

"This is it," the commentator says. "Whittaker, about to pull his signature partial shift to start the game!" 

I step onto the diamond, letting the noise fade into the background. The bat feels heavy in my hands, and my chest feels tight. 

I close my eyes, focusing. Shutting out the cheers, the heat, the tension. 

I try to shift. 

Nothing happens. 

My chest tightens further, panic blooming like wildfire in my veins. I close my eyes, reaching for Fenrir, waiting for the familiar ripple of fur under my skin, the rush of power that always comes when I shift. But all I feel is... nothing. 

My chest tightens, the bat slipping in my sweaty palms. The noise of the crowd fades into a dull roar, and the sun feels like it's bearing down on me, relentless and unforgiving. I can't breathe. My lungs are shrinking. 

Shift, I think desperately. Shift. Come on. Come on!

But there's nothing. 

I can't feel him. 

I can't feel Fenrir. 

The realization hits me like a sledgehammer. My wolf has been lethargic for weeks, ever since that night, but I thought it was just me being tired. Now, it's like he's... gone. 

The crowd's energy starts to die down, their cheers fading into murmurs of confusion. 

"What's happening with Whittaker?" the commentator asks, echoing the question burning in my mind. 

My heart pounds in my chest, my breaths coming in short, sharp bursts. My vision blurs at the edges, my anxiety flaring as I raise a hand to wave at the crowd, trying to play it off. 

Then I speed-walk—no, run—off the field and back into the dugout. 

The team is murmuring their concern, their eyes following me as I stride past. Noah looks baffled, his clipboard clutched tightly in his hand. 

He hurriedly sends another player out to hit, and it takes me a moment to recognize it's the same guy who told me they were all counting on me. 

Noah marches over to me. His hand lands on my shoulders, firm but not rough, and he steers me into the corner of the dugout, away from prying eyes. His voice is low, but there's an edge of urgency to it. 

"What's wrong?" he demands. His hazel eyes lock onto mine, steady and searching. 

I rip off my helmet, my hands trembling as I rake them through my hair. The words stick in my throat, my chest heaving like I've just run the bases. My face is hot, sweat dripping down my temples as I wipe it away with my sleeve. 

"I can't feel my wolf, Noah," I say finally, my voice trembling. 

Noah's face falls, his expression shifting to something closer to horror. "What do you mean?" 

"I mean..." My voice cracks as the words stick in my throat. "I can't shift. I think Fenrir's gone."