Two years ago
Max
Jogging out onto the field was like running into a wall. The crowd was wilder than any high school crowd I’d ever experienced, a sea of gold and gray with thousands of voices chanting, stomping, cheering—all of it crashed together into one chaotic wave of sound that thrummed through my veins and shot under my skin like electricity.
My helmet was tucked under my arm, cleats scuffing against the concrete as I sauntered forwards with the rest of the team. The floodlights lit up the night sky, and the scent of freshly cut grass mixed with the adrenaline already pumping in my system. I tipped my head back, inhaling deeply. Savoring it.
First game as a Ridgeline Wolf. Time to show them what I could do.
Everyone thought they knew me—the senator’s kid, the cocky alpha—but tonight was my chance to show them what I was really made of.
Beside me, Zach was practically vibrating with energy that anyone could spot a mile off: he bounced on the balls of his feet, yipping and howling like a total dipshit. When I rolled my eyes and refused to join in, caught in my own moment, he leaned in close, his voice just barely cutting through the roar of the crowd.
“Bro,” he whispered, “I think your mom came to see me play.”
Classic. I couldn’t help but snort, giving his shoulder a good-natured knock. “Nah, I’m pretty sure I see your dad with a ‘I heart Max’s dick’ sign.”
He doubled over with laughter, and I grinned at him, the energy between us crackling. It was damn near infectious. We’d been dreaming about this since high school, running drills in my backyard until the sun went down. Now we were here, and nothing was going to stop us.
I adjusted my scent patch absently, pressing the edges to make sure it was secure. Zach was too busy acting like a maniac to notice if his was slipping, so I checked it too. We watched out for each other like that.
Scent patches were supposed to hold no matter how much you sweat, but I wasn’t about to take chances. I’d seen what happened when a patch fell off mid-game—alphas getting more aggressive, betas trying to keep up, and refs throwing flags left and right. The whole field could turn into a circus in seconds.
That’s why they had Instinct Counselors on the sidelines now, lined up like little toy soldiers with their fancy satchels and stern expresssions. If someone slipped, they’d step in, reset the patch, and make sure the guy wasn’t about to go full primal. It didn’t happen often, but when it did, you felt it. The tension, the way the hits got harder, meaner. It was like the air itself became charged, teetering on the line between logic and the dark, primal part that all alphas were expected to suppress off the field.
But on the field was a different story. Alphas dominate the game because we’ve got the instincts to lead, to push harder, to fight for every yard. We could let out all our aggression, our frustration. Meanwhile betas balance us out, steady and level-headed, but they don’t have the same fire. And omegas? They haven’t cracked the roster on contact sports yet, but someday, they will. And when that day comes, the game’s gonna change for good.
The crowd was roaring louder now, chanting Wolfpack! Wolfpack! like their lives depended on it. I could feel Zach still laughing as we lined up with the rest of the team.
Until the first snap came, fast. Hard.
And just like that, we were locked in. It was game time. The ball hit my hands, and time slowed.
I stopped thinking about the crowd, the noise, anything that wasn’t the ball or goal. My guys held against the other team, giving me precious seconds to scan the field.
Zach darted down the sideline, breaking free from his defender. Instinct took over. My arm cocked, the ball leaving my hand in a perfect spiral. Zach caught it mid-stride, juking past the safety and bolting into the end zone.
Touchdown, baby.
The crowd exploded and I felt it resonate in my chest, a primal satisfaction zinging through my veins. Fuck yeah. My heart pounded with the leftover adrenaline as I jogged down the field, slapping Zach’s hand as he grinned at me.
“Think your dad saw that?” I asked him with a cocky smirk, dissolving into cackles when he groaned.
By halftime, we were up by two touchdowns. My body ached from the hits, but it was the good kind of ache—the kind that reminded me I was alive, doing what I was meant to do.
It wasn’t about instincts out here. It was about trust. Synergy. And somehow, we had it. The rest of team rallied behind me, alphas and betas alike falling into step. They were all a bunch of idiots, but they were fun idiots—and they knew how to play football.
By the time the final whistle blew, we’d crushed the other team 35-14. And me? Four touchdowns, three hundred passing yards, and one hell of a debut. It was as impressive as it sounded, the sort of accomplishment that even someone who didn’t shit about football would be able to recognize.
The crowd chanted my name as I jogged off the field, sweat dripping down my face. Zach met me on the sideline and clapped me on the back, laughing giddily as the team surrounded us.
He flashed me a wild grin. “Call your mom,” he demanded.
I just grinned back, wrestling him into a celebratory headlock and already thinking about the next game. It wasn’t just a game—this was my chance to prove I wasn’t just riding on the Vaughn name, or another cocky alpha trying to make it to the big leagues. And this was just the beginning. Ridgeline University was going to be where my life started for real.
Little did I know how true that actually was.
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Ainsley
Ridgeline’s campus buzzed with the kind of nervous energy unique to the first week of the semester. It was in the way students hurried between buildings, clutching syllabi and overpriced textbooks, their conversations a mix of anticipation and dread. I walked through it all, detached, my focus razor-sharp.
This wasn’t new to me. I’d spent years preparing for this moment, the one that would solidify my trajectory into the world of neuroscience and academia. Every move I made here would matter. Every impression, every word.
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Ridgeline wasn’t just a university, after all. It was a statement. One of the first institutions to enforce scent-neutral policies and mandate instinct counseling, it stood at the forefront of progressivism. Here, alphas and omegas could share lecture halls with betas, their secondary genders rendered irrelevant by scent patches and rigorous academic standards.
For someone like me, it was the perfect stage. A place where intellect mattered more than biology. Where my work could speak louder than the stereotypes people whispered behind my back.
I selected a seat towards the back of the room and arranged my things out neatly. Then I waited. Brushing my fingers idly over the polymer patch attached to my skin, I watched my would-be classmates pour into the lecture hall. Betas dominated, of course, their presence unassuming yet steady. But there were a few alphas, their energy palpable, and omegas, heads held high but gazes wary. If you knew what to look for, you could see it no matter what secondary gender you were: the faint undercurrent of judgment, the way people still underestimated you if you weren’t a beta.
Ridgeline might be a haven, but old biases lingered in every corner of society. After all, it was only decades ago that omegas had been more likely to fly than attend college. Even I was acutely aware of every glance, every assumption people made the second they knew what I was. It was exactly why I’d clawed my way to the top of every academic ladder I’d encountered, not because I wanted to—needed to.
The weight of it could’ve been suffocating if I let it. But I wouldn’t. If anything, it was fuel. It was why I’d chosen this particlar class.
Student ratings online had established the professor, Dr. Castell, as being ‘downright evil’ for assigning absurdly hard homework and going on complicated conceptual tangents because she ‘loved science so much it was terrifying’.
That last line had stuck with me and I’d smashed on the ‘enroll’ button. Terrifying. Wasn’t that exactly the kind of professor I wanted? Someone who didn’t just love the material but lived it? If she was as brilliant as they said, I’d find a way to thrive under her.
“Welcome to Neuroscience 401,” she said as the clock struck the hour. Her gaze swept the room, sharp like a hawk’s. “I want to let all of you, first and foremost, that this isn’t going to be a class for passengers. If you’re not ready to think, there’s the door.”
The corners of my mouth twitched upward. Perfect.
Halfway through the lecture, Dr. Castell posed a question that hung heavy in the air: “If scent response in alphas and omegas is instinctual, why do some individuals resist it entirely?”
The room was silent until a polished voice spoke up somewhere to the left. “Resistance is a learned behavior,” the student said, his tone dripping with condescension. “It’s all about conditioning.”
I turned to see him: slicked back platinum hair, designer frames, the kind of posture that screamed entitlement. He looked like the type who received enough money to pay for Ridgeline’s tuition as an allowance every month. But he was wrong.
“Incorrect,” I said, my voice cutting through the room like a scalpel.
All eyes turned to me. The other student bristled visibly, sweeping an ice-blue gaze over me. “And you are?”
“Mr. Kerrigan,” I replied coolly, staring back at him. “And you’re ignoring physiological variance. Some individuals exhibit reduced scent sensitivity due to genetic factors, as outlined in Dr. Leighton’s 2022 study.”
He opened his mouth to retort, but I wasn’t finished and I held up a hand to let him know I wasn’t. “Furthermore, if you’re discussing learned behavior, you need to account for the placebo effect in scent patch usage. Most individuals who ‘resist’ pheromones are simply conditioned to believe they’re unaffected.”
I dropped my hand back onto my planner. Silence reigned. Then Castell’s voice, calm and definitive: “Mr. Kerrigan is correct.”
The other student glared at me, but I didn’t care. I’d made my point.
The rest of the lecture continued and concluded without further event. I was meticulously packing my things when Dr. Castell approached, her sharp heels clicking against the floor in a rhythm that commanded attention. I turned to face her, straightening my shoulders under the way she looked at me: as if I were a particularly interesting problem.
“Kerrigan,” she greeted warmly. “Wonderful job in class today. I’m looking forward to seeing more interplay between you and Mr. Deveraux.”
Before I could formulate a response, Castell continued. “Tell me,” she prompted, “what are your plans for graduate school? Neuroscience, I presume?”
I nodded in affirmation, fingering the strap of my satchel. I wasn’t nervous under her scrutiny, but there was something probing about her tone that gave me pause.
“Yes,” I finally replied, my voice steady. I lifted my chin slightly, meeting her gaze without hesitation. “I’m focused on top-tier programs—SINS, Axion, or Nexal. SINS is my first choice.”
The Solace Institute of Neural Dynamics was the pinnacle of neuroscience research. They were leading breakthroughs in neural mapping, instinct regulation therapies, brain-computer interfaces, and more. If I wanted to secure a future in cutting-edge research or academia, SINS wasn’t just an option; it was a necessity. It was where the best went to become even better
Her lips twitched in what might have been approval. “And post-graduate goals?”
“Research,” I said, unflinching. “With an eventual transition into academia. My aim is to contribute meaningfully to the field and mentor the next generation.”
Castell tilted her head, studying me for a beat longer than necessary. “Ambitious,” she noted. “Good. The world needs more omegas with ambition.”
I resisted the urge to bristle at the implication—Dr. Castell was a beta and words like that were awfully 1970s of her. Opportunity was where the real shortage lay for omegas, not ambition. Instead, I waited, sensing there was more to her line of questioning.
“The Tutor Council,” she began, her tone shifting into something almost conversational. “You’re aware of its structure and benefits, I assume?”
“I am,” I said, carefully neutral. The Tutor Council. Of course she’d bring it up. It wasn’t just a student resource at Ridgeline—it was a cornerstone of the university’s reputation, one of the reasons I’d chosen this place over every other top-tier school in the country.
Ridgeline flaunted the Council in every brochure, promising: No student left behind, regardless of secondary gender. The Council wasn’t like other tutoring programs, thrown together with underqualified upperclassmen looking to pad their resumes.
It was curated. Selective. A hierarchy of academic excellence, where every tutor was handpicked based on their skill, professionalism, and ability to adapt. They weren’t just good—they were the best.
Castell’s expression didn’t flicker. “Then you know we prioritize student success above all else. The Council offers curated resources and individualized programs to ensure that no student, regardless of secondary gender, gets left behind.”
“But the Council isn’t just a resource,” she continued, her voice dropping slightly. “It’s a springboard. Members receive free housing—useful for someone as focused as you—and exclusive networking opportunities with Ridgeline’s alumni network. Most importantly, you’d have a glowing recommendation from the Council Chair and faculty heads. That alone has secured placements at SINS for former members.”
The weight of her words settled heavily. I hadn’t considered taking on any extracurricular activities yet, but Castell was baiting the hook perfectly, and she knew it. Without having to worry about housing costs, my reliance on summer jobs would be reduced and I could devote more time to building my college resume.
“And you think I’d be a good fit?” I asked, my tone measured.
Her gaze sharpened, as if daring me to challenge her judgment. “I know you would. You don’t need to be sold on your abilities, Kerrigan. You need the right opportunities to prove them.”
She let that hang in the air for a moment before straightening. “Consider it.”
And with that, she turned back to her desk, her dismissal as sharp as her approach.
I lingered for a beat, my mind already turning over the implications. The Tutor Council wasn’t just an opportunity—it was a calculated move. One I knew I’d take, because if there was one thing I valued as much as ambition, it was strategy.
If this was my first foothold, I intended to turn it into a foundation.