The Alpha Rising Mate

•Freya•

There are two things I have never, in my entire twenty-eight years of life, been able to do.

One: throw a decent curveball.

Two: keep my mouth shut around Chase Bennett.

Which is unfortunate, because one of those skills is currently required for my job.

The press room at T-Mobile Park smells like stale coffee and overpriced cologne. The Mariners just won. Again. Because of him. Again. And I’m in the third row with my recorder in one hand and a grudge that’s old enough to have its own driver’s license in the other.

Chase Bennett is sitting up on the podium looking like he was carved specifically to ruin my life.

Hair wet, Mariners cap backwards. That stupid, lazy, cocky smirk that says he knows exactly how good he is. Which, objectively, is disgustingly good. Fastest arm in the MLB, highest-paid pitcher in the league, and apparently, according to TikTok, the owner of the best ass in professional sports.

I hate that I know that last stat. I reported on it. For journalism.

"Bennett! Good outing tonight. Nine strikeouts, huh?" some guy from ESPN chirps.

Chase shrugs. Like he didn't just throw 102 mph for seven innings straight.

"You know how it is, man. Just trying to keep the ball low and the headlines lower."

He says it while looking directly at me.

God, I hate him.

For ten years, I have specifically, passionately hated Chase Bennett. Not in the fun, enemies-to-lovers, book-boyfriend kind of way. No. In the real, visceral, I-hope-you-step-on-a-Lego-barefoot kind of way.

Not because he broke my heart. Please. My heart has never been that stupid.

But because he ruined my twin brother's future. And because I had been the one who’d sacrificed my own shift at fourteen so I could stay human-adjacent and help Frey chase his dreams.. Born as an Alpha and him, an Omega, he was classified as weak and suppressing my own wolf was the only way to strengthen his.

He and Chase were teammates. Rivals even. Best friends and worst enemies, depending on what day you caught them.

I could remember the day so vividly.

State championship, senior year. The full moon was so fat and bright you could read by it. Both of them were up for the same scholarship to that elite academy that scouts were obsessed with. Scouts in the stands.

Frey took a bad slide. Chase made a reckless call from the mound. Frey’s shoulder tore sideways in a way shoulders are not supposed to tear. I still hear the sound sometimes.

Frey never pitched again. His scholarship vanished and his wolf never healed right after that. He lives with this constant, low-grade ache now, like his wolf is always limping.

Chase went on to be Chase Bennett™. MLB's golden boy. Then MLB's bad boy. Bar fights, tabloid girlfriends, DUI rumors that got buried by a very expensive PR team.

And I went on to become the most annoying woman in sports journalism. On purpose.

"Freya Hart, Seattle Sports Network," I say, and I don't even need to raise my hand. My voice carries. It always has. "Got a minute for a non-fluff question, Bennett?"

The whole room does that little intake of breath. Ah, yes. My reputation precedes me. The Ball-Buster. The Man-Eater. I love it.

Chase's eyes flick to me. They’re this ridiculous amber-brown that catches the light wrong. For half a second in the fluorescents, they flash gold. My stomach does something stupid and traitorous that I immediately blame on the bad press-room coffee.

"For you, Hart? Always," he says. Cocky. So, so cocky. He leans back in his chair like he owns it. "Missed your particular brand of sunshine."

"Oh, I missed you too," I say sweetly. "Like a root canal."

A couple of reporters snort.

"Question, then. Third inning, bases loaded, you shook off your catcher twice and then walked Martinez on four balls. Was that strategy or were you just bored and wanted to give your defense some cardio?"

His smirk gets wider. He likes this. He loves that I come at him.

"Strategy," he says smoothly. "Keeps 'em guessing."

"Right. And the screaming match with the ump in the sixth? Also strategy? Or are we working on your next suspension?"

"Wow. You really did miss me."

"I have a dartboard with your face on it at home. Keeps my aim sharp."

He barks a laugh. Loud, real, and completely inappropriate for a post-game presser. The PR woman on the side of the stage looks like she's about to have an aneurysm.

"Anything else, Freya Fierce?"

That nickname. He gave it to me in tenth grade when I punched him in the nose for calling Frey soft after a bad practice. He bled all over his letterman jacket and then had the audacity to grin at me through the blood.

"Just one," I say, and I lean forward. My recorder light blinking red. "At what point do you think talent stops being an excuse for being an asshole?"

Silence. Beautiful, heavy silence.

Chase doesn't even blink. He just stares at me, that smirk still there, but his eyes—moongoodness, his eyes—go tight at the corners.

"When someone stops asking me loaded questions to get a promotion, maybe I'll get back to you," he says, voice low.

Touché.

The presser wraps. Reporters scatter. I shove my recorder into my bag and try to pretend my hands aren't shaking. They always shake after I talk to him. Hate does that.

I’m halfway out the door when my phone buzzes.

Message from Linda - SSN Producer: Call me. Now.

No hello, no smiley face. That instantly gave me a bad feeling. Linda uses smiley faces like punctuation.

I step into the concrete hallway and call.

"Freya, honey," she says. And instantly I know. That's her breakup voice. "You saw the press release?"

"What press release?"

"We're folding. Network's being bought. They are cleaning house. Effective Friday, we're all out."

My stomach drops to my sneakers.

"Friday? As in three days from now Friday?"

"I'm so sorry. You were our best pitbull. If I hear of anything—"

I stop listening. My brain is doing math it does not want to do. Rent. Mom's car payment I've been covering. Frey’s treatment program. The last hospital bill sitting on my kitchen counter for $8,437 that I’ve been using as a coaster because if I don’t look at it, it’s not real.

I am so screwed.