Page 10

Chapter

Seven

AIDAN

T he carpet outside Darren's door has a worn path now from all my pacing. Seven days since we brought him home from the hospital, and I've probably walked miles just in this hallway, back and forth, trying to work up the courage to knock.

I raise my fist, then drop it again. This is the sixth time I've almost knocked today. But I can't just stand here forever, can I?

The doctors sent him home with pain meds for the concussion and a stack of pamphlets about "transitional biology" that he immediately threw in the trash. When Jax tried to fish them out, Darren nearly broke my wrist.

I take a deep breath, smelling the faint traces of woodsmoke that leak from under his door. It's strange how quickly I've come to associate that scent with Darren. Before his injury, he just smelled vaguely smoky. Now he smells like a campfire on a crisp fall night, warm and inviting.

My knuckles finally connect with the door. Three quick taps.

"Darren? You awake?"

Silence stretches so long I wonder if he's sleeping. Or ignoring me. Probably ignoring me.

"I know you're in there," I try again. "I, uh, just wanted to check if you need anything."

"I'm fine." His voice is rough, like he hasn't spoken in days. He probably hasn't. "Go away."

At least he responded. That's progress from yesterday.

"Jax and Dmitri went to practice. Zayn's at some photo shoot." I shift my weight, pressing my palm against the door. "I thought maybe you'd want to come out? Eat something that isn't from the mini-fridge?"

"I said I'm fine."

I should leave. He clearly wants to be alone. But I can't shake the memory of him taking that hit for me on the ice. If he hadn't jumped in front of that shot, we might have lost the game. I might have been the rookie goalie who let in the tying goal in the final seconds.

Instead, he's the beta defenseman who became an omega overnight.

"Coach asked about you," I say, the words tumbling out before I can stop them. "He's talking about putting you on injured reserve until... until things stabilize."

Something crashes against the wall inside his room.

"Great," Darren snarls, his voice closer now. "Tell him I'm having a wonderful time 'stabilizing.'"

"I didn't tell him anything," I say quickly. "None of us have. Besides us, only the hospital staff knows you're a… well, you know. We figured you'd want to?—"

The door yanks open so suddenly I almost fall forward.

Darren stands there, looking like hell warmed over.

His hair sticks up in all directions, dark circles underline his bloodshot eyes, and several days' growth of stubble darkens his jaw.

He's wearing sweatpants and a wrinkled T-shirt that he's been wearing for at least a couple of days.

His scent is stronger on it, but not unpleasant.

Not by a long shot.

And that's a problem, no matter how much I'm trying to ignore it. Because I think ignoring it is exactly what he wants right now.

But it's what's behind him that makes my eyes widen.

His bed is covered in blankets. Not just normal sleep-under-them blankets, but a carefully constructed mound of them. Pillows, throws, what looks like every spare bedding item from the linen closet, all arranged in a circular pattern with a depression in the middle. Like a nest.

Darren follows my gaze, then slams the door three-quarters shut, blocking my view.

"What do you want?" he demands, glaring at me through the narrow opening. The scent of woodsmoke intensifies, but there's something sharper, too. Embarrassment, maybe, or anger.

"I, uh—" My brain short-circuits, trying to process what I just saw. Nesting. He's already nesting. Like omegas do before?—

Nope. Not thinking about that.

"I just wanted to see if you're okay," I manage. "We're all worried."

"I don't need your worry." He runs a hand through his messy hair, making it stand up even more. "I don't need anything from any of you."

His words sting, but I try not to take it personally. My mom always says people lash out when they're hurting, and Darren's hurting worse than anyone I've ever known.

"I know," I say softly. "But maybe you need food? Real food, not just whatever snacks you've got stashed in there."

His stomach growls loudly, betraying him. A flush creeps up his neck.

"You said everyone's gone?" he asks, suspicion narrowing his eyes.

I nod. "Just you and me. I skipped practice. Told Coach I was still feeling that shot I took to the collarbone." It's not completely a lie. The bruise is still there, a purple-yellow reminder of how close that game was.

Darren hesitates, and I see the conflict playing out across his face. Pride versus hunger. Isolation versus basic human needs.

"Fine," he says finally. "Give me a minute."

The door closes in my face. I hear shuffling, then the sound of a drawer opening and closing. He's changing clothes, probably. Or maybe hiding the evidence of his nesting instinct kicking in.

My chest tightens. I don't know much about male omegas—they're pretty rare, and I've never known one well at all—but I know enough to recognize pre-heat nesting behavior. It's too soon. The doctors said it could be weeks or even months before his first heat.

Unless they were wrong.

Or maybe he's just adjusting to his new instincts in general.

Before I can spiral down that worrying path, the door opens again. Darren's changed into clean jeans and a henley, and he's made a half-hearted attempt to smooth his hair. He still looks rough, but at least he doesn't smell like he's been marinating in misery for a week.

I back up to give him space as he steps into the hallway. He moves cautiously, like he's not sure his body belongs to him anymore.

"Thanks," he mutters, so quietly I almost miss it.

"For what?"

"For not making a big deal about..." He gestures vaguely back toward his room. "That."

I swallow hard. "No big deal. I mean, who doesn't like blankets, right?"

He snorts, the closest thing to a laugh I've heard from him in days. "Right."

We walk down the hallway in silence. I'm hyper-aware of his presence beside me, of the woodsmoke scent that surrounds him, more potent now that he's out in the open. It doesn't smell like any omega I've encountered before. It's richer, deeper, almost like?—

Stop it. Stop analyzing his scent like a creep.

"Kitchen's stocked," I say as we reach the main level. "Dmitri went shopping yesterday."

Darren grunts in acknowledgment, his gaze sweeping the open-concept living area like he's checking for threats. Probably Zayn. The pack house is quiet, just the hum of the refrigerator and the faint sound of traffic outside.

"Or we could order in," I suggest. "Whatever you want."

He heads straight for the kitchen, opening the fridge and staring at its contents. "I'm an omega, I'm not a helpless baby bird, McKinney."

"I know that." I lean against the counter, trying to look casual and not like I'm watching his every move. "Just offering options."

I guess at least he's not in denial anymore and beating the shit out of anyone who reminds him of his new reality. Progress?

He grabs a Gatorade and cracks it open, downing half in one long pull. His Adam's apple bobs, a droplet of blue liquid escaping to trace a path down his stubbled throat.

I realize I'm staring only when Darren shoots me a look that could thin paint. "Problem, rookie?"

"No," I croak, and quickly look away, confused by my own fascination.

I've never been attracted to men, certainly never to one as…

manly as Darren. But something about the way he smells now pulls at this primal force in me.

Protective instincts, maybe. The alpha in me wanting to take care of a packmate in need.

Yeah, that's all it is. Just normal alpha protectiveness.

"Let's order in," Darren decides, crushing the empty plastic bottle in his fist. "Nothing here looks good."

"What do you want? There's that Thai place down the street, or?—"

"Pizza." His voice leaves no room for negotiation. "Double pepperoni, extra cheese. From Gino's, not that chain bullshit Zayn likes."

I smile, relieved to hear him expressing a preference. "Gino's it is."

While I place the order on my phone, Darren prowls around the living room like he's seeing it for the first time. He stops at the large windows overlooking the city, hands shoved in his pockets.

"They're going to cut me," he says abruptly, his back to me.

I fumble the credit card I was about to input. "What? No, they're not."

"Don't bullshit me, kid." He turns to face me, blue eyes hard. "There are no omegas in the NHL. Not one. Not ever."

"That doesn't mean?—"

"It means exactly what it means." He cuts me off. "Once word gets out, I'm done. Seven years building my career, and it's over just like that."

The resignation in his voice twists my gut. I'm not used to seeing Darren like this. Not joking. Not talking shit. Just serious and defeated. I set my phone down, forgetting about the pizza.

"You don't know that for sure," I argue. "The team wants you back. Jax is already talking to management about?—"

"Jax needs to mind his own fucking business." Darren stalks to the couch and drops onto it, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. "No amount of captainly intervention is going to change biology and he can't bark the coach into submission."

So he's still pissed about that. Not that I can really blame him. I know Jax feels like shit, but saying that won't do much now.

I move to sit in the armchair across from him, choosing my next words carefully. "Maybe not. But that doesn't mean your career is over. You're still you. Still the best defenseman I've ever played with."

His eyes flick up to mine, suspicion warring with an emotion that looks almost like hope. "You're just saying that because you're afraid I'll punch you if you don't."

I laugh, the sound startling in the tense atmosphere. "Dude, I've been afraid you'd punch me since the first day of training camp when I let in that softie from the blue line."