Don’t do it. I heard Emely in my head. She was trying to communicate with me, but I cut the connection.

Neither Nash nor her father had put an alpha bond on me, but Emely somehow always made it into my head.

“Hold this,” I said, taking off my shirt to hand it to Bayla, who accepted it, partly confused, partly overwhelmed.

Again, people cheered as I ran onto the field in just my sweatpants to show Nash how to play properly.

We’d practiced together for years in high school, until it had been over for me.

Now Nash looked at me with a condescending grin, as if he’d forgotten those days, and divided his guys into two teams. Hunter and Noah came to me.

Of course, he sent the one who probably liked me the least and one who couldn’t really play, even though he was very well trained.

What we were going to play here wasn’t a real football game, but something similar, a silly little game, part of the pack duels.

I threw the ball to one of the guys from my team on Nash’s side, got into position and ignored all the people gathered around us, some of whom had their cell phones out.

“Let’s go!” one of the guys on the edge of the imaginary pitch shouted.

The ball flew up into the air, and with a leap, I caught it just in time to run for it. The crowd cheered, but I didn’t really care. I ran straight at Nash, who was standing there with his legs wide and focused, ready to tackle me to the ground.

Just at the right second, I ducked, slid under his outstretched arms, rolled and kept running until I reached the finish line and pushed the ball to the ground. Loud clapping and cheering filled the campus.

Only Nash looked at me with a grumpy expression. Apparently, he hadn’t expected me to be in such good shape.

“Come on, Nash!” one of the guys I didn’t know called out, probably a newbie.

Immediately, people on the outside joined in to cheer Nash on.

I briefly looked for Bayla, who seemed a little distrustful of the game.

We repositioned ourselves and one of Nash’s team members stood behind me on the right, holding the football.

“Go!” the blonde guy on the sideline shouted, and the ball flew over my head to Nash, who was standing about 30 meters away from me. He threw himself up to catch the ball.

The crowd cheered as he immediately took off running.

I concentrated on his steps, his movement and his muscles.

However, just in front of me, something happened that I hadn’t expected.

Nash didn’t seem to want to avoid me, instead he rammed me so hard on the shoulder that I flew to the ground. A murmur went through the crowd as I stayed on the ground a little longer, twisting in pain.

But I got up.

In the corner of my eye, I saw that more people had their cell phone cameras out.

I looked at Nash, who was grinning slyly at me.

I didn’t know when he’d started acting like this, but I knew he’d become a real bastard over the years. He was definitely no longer the quiet boy of three years ago who wrote poetry alongside all the sport and mostly stayed out of all pack affairs. He had become one of them.

Back then, I had thought we were so different because I had always been the rowdy wild one who broke all the rules. I would never have thought that we could become even more different by turning the tide.

“Take your place!” the blonde Senseque guy shouted from the edge of the pitch.

We got into position.

But Nash wanted to get something off his chest.

“Don’t be so weak this time, Bardot!” He looked at me challengingly. “Your mother would turn in her grave if she saw what you’ve become.”

My whole body tensed up. I dropped the ball, and slowly, my hands clenched into fists. I felt the anger creeping into every fiber of my body. With a deep, angry roar, I threw myself at Nash.

His words had been a mistake. He would pay for it.

I yanked him to the ground and my fists smashed down on his face. Blood sprayed from his nose onto his tense upper body.

Nash didn’t just lie there. He threw me off him with force.

I jumped up and immediately sat on him again.

My fists hammered at him and helped to suppress the emerging transformation.

“Julian! Stop it!”

Emely stood next to us and pulled on my arm. I pushed her away. A little too hard, because she stumbled back.

I looked back at her to make sure I hadn’t hurt her, but then Nash’s fist hit me right in the face and I felt the taste of metal in my mouth.

Nash pinned me to the ground and went to punch, his face covered in blood, his hair all mussed up, and he was pulled off me.

I was about to jump up and lunge at Nash again when Hunter and Emely grabbed me from behind.

“Boys!” Alarik stood between the two of us, arms outstretched, his jaw tense. “Enough!”

He gave us both angry looks. Then he looked into the crowd.

“Stop filming! Damn it!” he shouted loud and clear and the crowd seemed to disperse immediately.

“And you two!” He looked first at Nash, then at me, his eyes still full of anger mixed with disappointment. “In my office!”

I had never seen Alarik as angry as he was now. I had grown up with him on the Copeland estate and had gotten to know him there as the quiet and idealistic, as well as a bit of a nutty professor.

He was usually very patient. But his nerves must have been so shattered by what had just happened that he was now out of his mind with rage.

His huge office seemed much more peaceful than the atmosphere was at the moment, with the large windows overlooking the campus letting in the soft light.

Nash was sitting in one of the chairs in front of Alarik’s oak desk with a compress over his eyebrow and some tissues held to his nose.