No Perfect Game (BL)

Logan's POV 

The woods behind the Wynwood Pack's main house stretch on for miles, a vast expanse of green and gold that's barely been touched by human hands. The pack's land is immense, sprawling far enough that we don't have to worry about interfering with human society, which is illegal. It's convenient for a lot of reasons, but moments like this? When two wolves just want to shift and run? It's perfect. 

I stand with Rowan at the edge of the tree line, overlooking the familiar expanse of forest. The evening sun filters through the leaves, dappling the ground in soft, golden light. Rowan is pointing out the route for our race, his finger tracing a path through the trees. 

"Okay, we'll start here," he says, his voice confident. "Follow the trail along the ridge, loop around the clearing by the old maple, and finish at the lake." 

I nod, already mapping the route in my head. It's familiar territory, paths I used to run when I was younger. "Sounds good." 

Rowan grins, already tugging his shirt over his head. "Alright, then—" 

"Whoa!" I hold up a hand, stepping back. "What are you doing?" 

He gives me a confused look, like I'm the one being weird. "What does it look like? Stripping. Not all of us can afford enchanted clothes." 

I pinch the bridge of my nose, groaning. Of course. 

Enchanted clothing—the kind that shifts with your form—has been a game-changer for supernaturals like us. No more ruining outfits every time you transform, no more awkwardly retrieving discarded clothes after a run. It's practical, convenient… and apparently beneath my brother. A Mexican coven of witches turned the concept into a clothing empire but real ones know you could meet just about any witch to enchant your clothes for you. Either way, it means I don't have to ruin my clothes with every shift and it means I don't have to do what my brother is doing now even when…

"You can afford enchanted clothes!" I point out. "Hell, even if you couldn't, I could buy you a set." 

Rowan shrugs, completely unfazed. "Yeah, but I like the wind on my balls." He smirks, kicking off his pants. "Now, are you ready to run or not?" 

Fenrir huffs in the back of my mind, eager for the shift. Just run, he urges. 

I shake my head, muttering under my breath as I let the transformation take over. 

As usual, I feel my body slipping into a form that feels more like me than my human skin ever could. My bones rearrange, muscles stretch and shift, fur sprouts along my skin in a ripple of silver. My senses sharpen—the earthy scent of the forest fills my nose, the distant rustle of leaves whispers in my ears, and the ground beneath my paws feels alive. 

Fenrir takes over, stepping forward with fluid grace. My wolf is massive, his silver coat, one that we inherited from our mother, glinting in the sunlight. Rowan's wolf, Lachlan, stands nearby, his fur a pale golden hue that almost looks white. His is a trait passed down from our father. 

Lachlan kicks a stone, sending it skittering across the dirt. The moment it strikes a tree, the race begins. 

Fenrir stretches out his legs, his silver coat a blur against the earth as we weave through the trees. Every muscle coils and releases in perfect rhythm as his paws pound against the earth. The forest blurs around us, the wind rushing through his fur. It's exhilarating—every instinct, every sense, every part of his body alive and attuned to the wild. 

This, Fenrir rumbles, is freedom.

He's right. It feels so amazing to be in full shift and running again. Being a baseball star living so far away from pack grounds, I had to be cautious all the time to avoid a situation where I'd be fined for the public nuisance of being a werewolf existing in wolf form. The only times I really get to feel the physical aspect of my wolf is on the field and during full moons when I'd rent a field to run in. But now, being out in the woods running at full speed in wolf form, I wonder why I even thought it was a good idea to move again.

For a while, I let Fenrir have his fun, weaving through trees and leaping over roots with effortless speed. But then I spot an opening in the trees—a shortcut—and urge him to take it. Fenrir resists for a moment, wanting to win the race fair and square, but I push back, reminding him that Rowan would take every advantage if he could. 

Reluctantly, Fenrir veers off the trail, cutting through a denser part of the woods. The path is quieter here, the trees thicker and the air cooler. But then, just as we're nearing the clearing by the lake, Fenrir slows, his ears swiveling. 

We hear it at the same time. 

A soft, pitiful sound, almost lost beneath the rustle of leaves. Crying. 

Fenrir freezes, his body tense, his ears straining to pinpoint the source. I feel his protective instincts flare, and I know mine are rising too. It's a cub, he growls. A hurt cub.

"Find him," I whisper, surrendering control. 

Fenrir moves cautiously, following the sound through the trees until we reach a small clearing. A slow stream winds through the middle, its gentle babble the only other sound. 

And there, sitting on the opposite bank, is a tiny boy. 

He's no more than two years old, his bare feet dangling in the water. His milk-and-cream hair glows in the evening light, and his small shoulders shake with quiet sobs. A scrape on his knee trickles blood, staining his skin red. 

It's Oliver. 

My heart clenches, and Fenrir's does too. He whines softly, his massive body vibrating with the instinct to protect. Our cub, he murmurs. Our little one. 

His first instinct is to care and protect but I hold him back. We're on pack grounds, the possibility of him being lost is slim to none. Meaning he was probably just playing and got hurt. Which in turn means, Noah would be here for him soon and if he finds me here, he'll kill me just as Finnian would kill Fenrir.

We are not safe!

Still, hearing Oliver's hurt and vulnerable sobs whittle me down. Fenrir will not abandon his cub and neither will I, not when he's here like this.

I allow my wolf step closer, lowering his massive head to show submission. Oliver looks up, his tear-streaked face filled with a mixture of fear and curiosity. 

We cross the stream slowly, approaching in a way that will not scare off the cub. I can see the gears turning in his tiny head and, in a way, I know what he's thinking because I've been in his shoes before as a child. He's on pack grounds, he's probably in the safest place in the world, still there's a wolf he doesn't recognise approaching him and the basic lesson of stranger danger has been drilled into him. Either way, I see the moment where the lightbulb sparks bright as he realises that if I'm bowing in submission then I must be friendly.

Fenrir nudges his wet nose against the boy's tummy, and Oliver's caution melts into a giggle. 

"Hewwo, Mr. Wolf," he says softly, his small hand reaching out to pet Fenrir's ears. 

Seeing him smile—even for a moment—makes my chest ache in ways I don't fully understand. It's not just Fenrir's instincts; it's mine. This tiny cub, laughing through his tears, trusting me without hesitation… he deserves better than what I've given him. And I know, in this moment, I'd do anything to make up for the time we've lost.

Fenrir rumbles in contentment, his tail wagging gently as Oliver pets him. He licks the boy's knee, his saliva a salve as it works to disinfect and soothe the wound. Werewolf saliva has mild healing properties—not enough to mend broken bones, but enough to clean a scrape and dull the pain. 

Oliver sniffles but his tears dry. "Tank you," he babbles.

Fenrir pushes up against him again. Knowing that his cub is safe makes him feel happy and I in turn inherit those warm, fuzzy feelings of knowing my boy is no longer crying.

Our cub reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small, smooth stone, holding it out to Fenrir with a shy smile. 

"For you," he says simply. 

Fenrir carefully takes the stone between his teeth, his blue eyes soft with affection. I feel the lump in my throat grow, my heart twisting with emotions I can't untangle. 

But before I can linger in the moment, a howl cuts through the woods. 

Fenrir's ears perk, and I know that howl anywhere. 

Finnian. 

Oliver's tiny head lifts at the sound, and Fenrir immediately backs away, his instincts screaming to run. But he doesn't. He can't. He wants to see her.

You idiot! I practically yell at him, snapping his brain back into focus. If she finds you with him, she'll skin you alive!

Noah is going to kill me.

Fenrir takes a cautious step back, but he's still hesitant.

I like the idea of not dying.

I force him to turn away and rush into an underbrush of shrubs just in time to avoid Finnian as she appears.

The omega steps into the clearing, her sleek hazel coat glowing in the fading light. She's beautiful, every movement fluid and graceful as she approaches her cub. 

She circles him once, sniffing him carefully, her nose brushing against the scrape on his knee. He hugs her fur, his tiny hands holding onto the warmth of his mother. Seeing them here, together, it fills me with a yearning I wouldn't have known if I hadn't come back to Eastvale. A longing to be with my family. Fenrir almost whines from the same longing.

Then she freezes, her ears flattening. 

She smells us. 

Her head snaps up, her piercing hazel eyes locking onto the tree line where Fenrir and I hide. Her gaze hardens, sharp as a blade. 

Fenrir whines softly, his tail tucking low. He wants to go to her, to explain, but I hold him back. She's already angry—we can't make this worse. 

For a heartbeat, I think she might charge. Her stance shifts, her head tilts ever so slightly, and her eyes narrow like a blade poised to strike. Fenrir presses lower to the ground, whining softly, but she doesn't move. Instead, she turns to Oliver, nuzzling him gently before crouching so he can climb onto her back. Like it's routine, he climbs on and clings on to her with his tiny hands.

She prances away slowly, pausing to throw one last sharp and unforgiving look over her shoulder in our direction, before she disappears into the trees. 

The clearing is quiet again, but Fenrir and I are anything but. 

"She saw us," I whisper, the weight of it settling in my chest. 

Fenrir doesn't reply. He just stares after her, his blue eyes filled with longing and regret.

So I'm the only one that understands; come practice tomorrow morning, Noah Bennett will have my head.