#cookieprusiana

    “God, this is so right,” snickered Gilbert, white fingers curling around the chain link fence. Antonio grasped the wire beside him, making a vaguely guttural noise when one of the goalies leaped to wham the lacrosse ball across the school’s outdoor field. Francis followed Antonio’s gaze and whistled low at the boy’s delicate, dirt-smeared face. “There is nothing more gratifying than watching omega sports practices,” Gilbert testified. Tingling warmth shuddered down his body as a breeze carried the team’s pheromones to where they stood outside the green. After enough action, the sweat would be enough to waft on its own. “Just look how adeptly they handle those balls.” Gil sighed contentedly. “Just as God intended.”

    A couple players in yellow jerseys gained after a broad-shouldered student in a blue jersey, who sped toward the opposite team’s goal, in control of the lacrosse ball. He powerfully elbowed each of their chests without interrupting his run, eyes trained unwaveringly forward as his opponents fell to the ground breathlessly. Francis winced. “I hope that’s not God’s intention for my balls.”

    The same boy cut left across the grass, jabbing another opponent’s throat with his padded elbow, causing them to stumble and lose advantage. He swung the stick, propelling the ball into the net at an angle the goalie did not cover in time. The boy in blue threw his hands in the air, shouting in victory. Antonio grimaced. “That omega’s pretty brutal.”

    “Downright vicious,” Gil breathed, impressed. “It’s still early in the game, too.” Gilbert traced him throughout the entire game. Antonio and Francis drifted to their respective homes a half hour into their practice, having caught enough of the omegas’ pheromones to ruminate over for the night. Gilbert remained at the gate; enraptured by those broad shoulders and how determined they were to make every shot.

    When practice ended, the star of the blue jerseys tore off his headgear and hollered a joyous, “Fuck yeah!” The responses were mixed mutterings of “oh, fucking can it, Jones” and shouted “suck on that, bitches!” Jones was a tan omega male with blond hair that stuck to the back of his neck in salty sweat Gilbert could detect from his distance. He also wore glasses, which were sliding down his slickened nose, despite his frequent attempts to adjust them correctly. He was grinning from ear to ear, unashamed of his pride, against all W Academy’s proper omega training.

    The coach blew his whistle. “Alright, Mg. Jones,” he admonished, “That’s enough good sportsmanship for today, I think.”

    Jones’ smile faltered an inch, but he apologized “my bad, coach” with the instructed expression of good humor. The coach gave a look that clearly spoke “yeah, I’m sure you’re real fucking sorry, you undisciplined teenaged trash.”

    “Get inside, omegas,” he ordered. “Get dressed and go home.” The team filed into the locker room, faces flushed from the exercise.