No Perfect Game (BL)

Noah's POV

I realized I've been going about this the wrong way. 

I've been letting Logan Whitaker get under my skin. Letting his presence worm its way into my thoughts, letting the past resurface like a wound that's just waiting to scab over. It's a bad habit—getting annoyed, reminiscing about what happened, replaying things I should've said back then but didn't. 

I shouldn't be doing any of that. Not anymore. 

Sure, some of the omegas in town had started giving me those looks—you know the ones— those smug, suggestive looks that come up when someone inevitably brought Logan up in conversation. Like, "Oh, your hot alpha ex is back in Eastvale, whatever shall you do!" 

And sure, I bumped into Astrid during my evening walk last night, and she wasted no time in casually mentioning that Logan was at the Big House and she had that cheeky little grin as she said it too, like she was waiting for me to react. 

But none of that mattered. None of it. Because I no longer care about Logan Whitaker. 

I'm renewed. Healed. Blessed. I have my son, I have my job (for now), and I've built a life for myself. A good one. That means no butting heads with the physical representation of my past trauma. 

I am a new man. 

And this new man woke up at 5:00 AM, like he usually does. 

The morning air was clean and crisp as I stepped outside. I'd already done my morning chores, dressed in my tracksuit, packed Oliver's little bag, and scooped him up into Mrs. Reilly's arms for the day. I kissed the top of his head, inhaling the sweet, warm scent of him before heading to my car. 

The sun peeked over the horizon as I took a deep breath, swigged from my water bottle, and smiled. 

I've been going about this all wrong. 

So now, I'm going to treat Logan with the grace he deserves as a person. 

...After I teach him a lesson. 

Because Logan Whitaker being in my town is one thing and Logan Whitaker being on my team is another. But Logan Whitaker getting close to my son? 

That's where I draw the line. 

Oliver loves to run around and play. He gets scraped knees all the time—kids do—but I'm always nearby. Always. Logan had no business comforting my son like he's some big hero and then hiding in the bushes like a scared little pup when I showed up for my boy.

Finnian growls low behind her throat because she could smell Fenrir on Oliver. She doesn't hate him as much as I hate Logan but she doesn't trust him around her cub just like I don't trust Logan around my son.

So, I'm going to teach him a lesson. Respectfully. 

--- 

Elliot calls me just as I'm pulling into the lot outside the Coyotes' field. 

"Yo, Noah," he says, his voice carrying that familiar jolly tone. "You ready for practice, or do you need another shot of coffee to get that coach's brain of yours working?" 

"I've been up since five," I reply cheerily, grabbing my bag. "What's your excuse?" 

"Uh, I'm a mere mortal and 5:30 is too early to wake up?" 

I laugh, tossing my bag over my shoulder. "Just get over here in time." 

"I always do," He pauses, and I can hear the grin in his voice when he adds, "How do you feel about bumping into that alpha who showed up out of nowhere and threw our whole team into chaos." 

I roll my eyes, though he can't see it. "You know who Logan is, dude." 

Elliot was on the Coyotes when everything went down two years ago and he was the one friend I confided in when I had no one to cry to.

"Of course I do and I bet you're thrilled about him being back." 

"I wouldn't say thrilled," I say lightly, dodging the bait. "But I look forward to harnessing his skill."

Elliot chuckles. "You're too calm. Makes me nervous. What are you up to, Bennett?" 

"Nothing," I say innocently. 

Elliot snorts, "You're a terrible liar, Bennett." But he doesn't push it. Instead, he concludes with, "Alright, see you in ten." 

"See you," I reply, hanging up. 

—

Practice starts smoothly enough. I'm polite with Logan, just like I am with everyone else. No snide remarks, no tension. Just business. 

And he looks… shocked. 

I catch him staring at me a couple of times, like he's waiting for me to snap at him or throw some sarcastic comment his way. But I don't. I smile. I nod. I give him instructions like he's any other player on my team. 

Which, of course, is part of the plan. 

Because the real lesson isn't in words—it's in actions. 

"Alright, Logan," I say brightly as the team splits up for drills. "I want you to run the bases again. Let's see that speed you're so famous for." 

Logan's brows knit together. "I already ran them twice." 

"I know," I reply, my smile never faltering. "But you're our star player, remember? Stars work harder than everyone else." 

He glares at me for half a second before jogging to first base. 

"You call that running?" I call out as Logan rounds third base, his legs visibly slowing. "Come on, Whitaker, you're supposed to be 'The Lightning,' remember? Show me some speed."

Logan's glare is scorching, but he doesn't argue. He just digs in, pushing himself harder, his breathing ragged.

The extra laps are only the beginning. I assign him to the most grueling drills, push him to keep going when he's clearly exhausted, and all the while, I keep that same polite, professional tone. 

Finnian stirs uneasily in my chest as I call for another set of drills. She's always been the quiet one, the steady one. But even she bristles at this obvious torture. I ignore her, locking my focus on Logan.

"You're doing great, Logan. Keep it up." 

"Just one more round. You've got this." 

"Think of it as conditioning. You'll thank me later." 

By the end of practice, Logan looks like he's ready to throttle me. Sweat drips down his face, his shoulders slump, and his breathing is heavy. But I don't let up—not until I call for the team to wrap up. 

As the players head off to the showers, I pull Logan aside. 

"How'd practice go?" I ask, tilting my head. 

He glares at me, wiping sweat from his brow. "You petty a—" He stops mid-swear, exhaling sharply before continuing, "You did that on purpose." 

I feign confusion. "Did what on purpose?" 

"You know." 

I smile, folding my arms. "Logan, like I said, you're the star of our team. You have to practice more than anyone else." 

He shuts up, his jaw tightening. He knows I've trapped him. 

I step closer, tapping his shoulder twice before leaning in, my voice low and calm. "I hope you hurt enough to know never to go near my son again." 

His head snaps up, and his voice is firm when he says, "He's my son too." 

I chuckle, the sound humorless. "No, he's not." 

And as I turn to leave, I toss one last parting shot over my shoulder. "Go home and jerk off, Logan. I can see your outline through your pants." 

I don't wait for his reaction. I just walk away, the sound of my footsteps steady and unbothered. 

Let him stew on that.