Page 11

A ghost of a smile touches his lips. "I wouldn't have punched you. Maybe just put you in a headlock until you promised to do better."

"That's because you're not an asshole."

"Debatable."

"No, it's not." I lean forward, matching his posture.

"Look, I know I'm just the rookie, and I don't understand half of what you're going through.

But I do know this. I've looked up to you since I signed with the team.

Not because you were a beta or an alpha or whatever, but because you work harder than anyone I've ever met.

Because you put the team first, always."

Darren stares at me, his expression unreadable. "You've been practicing that speech, haven't you?"

Heat creeps up my neck. "Maybe a little. In the hallway. Like, the first four times I almost knocked."

He shakes his head, but his gaze is softer now. "You're a weird kid, McKinney."

"So I've been told." I hesitate, then push ahead. "For what it's worth, I still think you're the same player. The same guy. Nothing's changed that matters."

"Everything's changed," he says quietly. "You just don't see it yet because you're young and stupidly optimistic."

"Maybe. Or maybe you're just old and grumpy."

He snorts again. "Twenty-seven is not old."

"It's young in people years, but it's ancient in goalie years."

This time he actually laughs. A short, rusty sound like he's forgotten how. "I needed this." He scrubs a hand over his face. "Just... normal shit-talking. No one tiptoeing around me like I'm made of glass."

I grin, absurdly pleased to have broken through, even momentarily. "I can shit-talk all day if it helps. It's like my one superpower."

"So I've noticed."

My phone chimes with a text from the pizza place offering me a coupon like they think the reason I haven't ordered yet is because I was on the fence. "Guess I'd better place that order."

"Please, I'm fucking starving," Darren grumbles. "You know how much it sucks to survive on cheese crackers and protein bars because you're avoiding Zayn?"

I laugh. “You could've texted me and I would have at least slid a PopTart under your door.”

"I'll keep that in mind for next time," he says, smirking.

My phone dings with a successful order alert. "Food's on the way. Twenty minutes."

Darren nods, then falls silent, his gaze drifting to the window again. I let the quiet stretch, afraid to break whatever fragile peace we've established.

After a while, he speaks again, his voice so low I have to strain to hear. "I don't know who I am anymore."

The vulnerability in those words hits me. Darren "The Brick" Malloy, the toughest guy on our team, sounds lost . Scared, even.

"You're still you," I say simply. "Still Darren. Still The Brick. Still the guy who makes sure rookies know which clubs to avoid and which restaurants won't give us food poisoning before games."

He looks at me, really looks at me, like he's trying to see if I actually believe what I'm saying. "It's not that simple."

“Maybe it is.” I shrug. “Maybe we're all making it more complicated than it needs to be.”

"Easy for you to say. You're not the one who's going to—" He stops abruptly, jaw clenching.

Go into heat. That's what he can't bring himself to say.

My mouth goes dry. The blanket nest flashes in my mind. The doctors must have been wrong about the timeline.

"Is it... starting already?" I ask carefully.

His face hardens immediately. "No."

But the flare of his nostrils, the way his scent spikes, make it clear he's lying. Or at least, he's not telling the whole truth.

"Because if it is, we should probably?—"

"It's not," he says firmly. "Just nesting instincts. The doctors said it might happen. Doesn't mean anything."

Except it does. It means his body is preparing for something it's never done before. Something that will make him vulnerable in ways he's never experienced.

"Okay," I say, backing off. "But if you—if anything changes, you know you can talk to me, right? Or Jax, or?—"

"I'm not discussing my biological functions with any of you," he cuts in, color rising in his face. "Ever. Got it?"

I nod quickly. "Got it."

The doorbell rings, saving us from the awkward turn in conversation. I jump up to answer it, grateful for the interruption.

When I return with the pizza, Darren has composed himself again, all traces of vulnerability locked away behind his usual gruff exterior. He takes the box from me and flips it open, the smell of cheese and pepperoni filling the air.

"Plates?" I offer.

He shakes his head, already grabbing a slice. "Napkins. I'm not eating off china with a fork and knife like Zayn."

I fetch a stack of napkins from the kitchen and grab two beers while I'm at it. When I turn around, Darren's already demolished half a slice, eating like a man who hasn't seen food in days. Which, to be fair, he hasn't.

I slide a beer across the coffee table to him and sit back down, helping myself to a slice. For a few minutes, we eat in companionable silence, the awkwardness from earlier slowly dissolving.

"Thanks," Darren says eventually, wiping his mouth with a napkin. "For this. For not being weird."

"I'm definitely weird," I correct him. "Just not about this."

He rolls his eyes, but there's no heat in it. "You know what I mean."

I do know. And it means more than I expected that he noticed I've been trying to treat him normally. Not like the others, who keep watching him with a mix of confusion and worry. Even Jax, who means well, can't seem to find the right approach.

"Yeah," I say simply. "I know."

Darren reaches for another slice, and I notice his hand trembling slightly, but I don't say anything. Probably whatever meds they gave him at the hospital.

"Tell me about practice," he says suddenly. "What's Coach saying about the lineup without me?"

I hesitate, unsure how much he wants to hear. But the look he gives me says he wants the truth, not some sanitized version.

"Shifted Zimmerman up to your spot on the first pairing with Jones. Called up Schmidt from Rockford to fill in on the third line. It's... not great."

Darren nods, a grim satisfaction in his expression. "Zim's not ready for first-line minutes. And Schmidt's enough of a liability in our own zone."

"Exactly what Jax said." I take a swig of beer. "Coach knows it too, but options are limited with you out."

"With me out ," Darren repeats, bitterness creeping into his tone. "Like I have the flu. Like I'll be back in a week or two."

I don't know what to say to that. None of us know what comes next. Not the team, not Darren, not even the doctors who keep throwing around terms like "unprecedented case" and "adaptive biology."

"You know, Jax has been running interference. Making sure no one takes any of this to the press," I say carefully.

Darren grunts. "Only a matter of time."

"Maybe," I concede. "But if you get out there and play a few games, show the world you're still the same kickass defenseman you've always been, it might soften things when it breaks. Make people realize there's no point in overreacting."

He gives me an incredulous look. "Even if the press doesn't know yet, any alpha I play with will figure it out as soon as I step out on the ice."

"Unless your scent is blocked," I reason. "Unless they don't know you're an omega."

His eyes widen slightly. "Suppressants…?"

"They're better than they used to be," I say quickly. "My sister takes them and she goes to a college with alphas, omegas, and betas. And then there's that male omega rock star, Asher Wilde. The one who sings for?—"

"Wild Honey, yeah, I know," he mutters. He still sounds like his usual gruff self, but a little less pessimistic. Like he's actually considering it.

I'm surprised myself. Usually, people just dismiss whatever I have to say, as the rookie and all.

Can't even say I blame them. I looked up to the Grizzlies—and Darren—for years before I went pro.

Getting drafted was more than a dream come true.

It was something I never even thought could happen, so I don't mind that they don't really take me seriously yet. I'm fine with proving myself.

Darren is the only one who's ever made me feel like I don't have to.

"It's not a bad idea," he finally says, scratching at his stubble. "Suppress all this bullshit long enough to prove myself out there."

"You've already proven yourself and then some," I remind him. "You're just… reminding them who you are."

He snorts, an unexpected glimmer in his gaze as he studies me. It makes my heart pick up speed a little. "You know, you're pretty smart. For a rookie."

Before I can formulate a response, the front door opens. My stomach drops as Zayn walks in, designer sunglasses pushed up into his perfect hair, leather jacket catching the light.

Here we go.

"Well, that's a surprise," he announces, spotting Darren on the couch. His dark eyes widen slightly. "Our omega is out of hibernation."

Darren's entire body tenses. The woodsmoke scent sharpens with anger.

"Don't call me that," he growls.

Zayn holds up his hands in mock surrender, a smirk playing at his lips. "What? Omega? It's not like it's an insult, it's just reality." He drops his keys on the sideboard with a clatter. "Though I have to say, you're looking a little rough around the edges."

I stand up quickly, trying to head off the disaster barreling toward us. "Zayn, not now, okay? We were just eating."

"I can see that." Zayn saunters closer, his gaze flicking to the pizza box. "Gino's. Solid choice." He reaches for a slice, but Darren slams the lid shut, nearly catching his fingers.

"Get your own damn food," Darren snarls.

Zayn raises an eyebrow. "Touchy, touchy. Is this an omega thing? Being territorial about food now?"

I wince. Wrong thing to say. So, so wrong.

Darren rises to his feet, the pizza already forgotten. He's taller than Zayn by an inch or two, broader through the shoulders, but Zayn doesn't back down. If anything, his smirk widens.

"Say that again," Darren challenges, his voice low and dangerous.

"For fuck's sake, Zayn," I hiss. "Can you not be an asshole for five minutes?"

Zayn ignores me, his focus entirely on Darren. "What part? The omega part? Or the territorial part? Because both seem to be hitting a nerve."

"And my fist is gonna be hitting the back of your fucking throat if you keep talking shit," Darren takes a step closer, invading Zayn's space. "So shut your fucking mouth before I shut it for you."

I move to place myself between them, but Zayn waves me off.

"Relax, Darren. I'm just trying to help you adjust to your new reality.

" His tone is light, almost friendly, but there's an edge underneath.

"After all, we're going to be packmates forever, even if we're not teammates.

And that makes you our omega. Might as well get comfortable with the terminology. "

I may be the rookie, bu t he's an absolute fucking idiot.

"I am not," Darren enunciates each word carefully, "your fucking omega."

One step forward, ten steps back.

Zayn tilts his head, an expression of exaggerated confusion crossing his features. "Really? Because your scent says otherwise. And so do your test results. And that little nest I'm sure you've been building in your room?—"

Darren moves so fast I barely see it, a blur of motion as he grabs Zayn by the front of his expensive shirt and slams him against the wall. Pictures rattle. A framed team photo crashes to the floor, glass shattering.

"Fight back," Darren demands, echoing the words he said to Jax in the hospital. "Come on, knothead. Show me how tough you are."

But Zayn doesn't resist. He just hangs there in Darren's grip, that infuriating smirk still in place. "I don't fight omegas. It's not sporting."

Something breaks in Darren's expression, a flash of raw hurt quickly masked by fury. Just when I think he's about to turn Zayn into a new coat of paint on the walls—and I'm not exactly inclined to stop him—he releases Zayn with a shove and steps back, fists clenched at his sides.

"Fuck you," he says, voice flat and cold.

He turns and stalks out of the room. Seconds later, the sound of the front door slamming reverberates through the house, followed by a crash that might be an object being thrown against a wall outside. Probably one of the lawn sculptures of dogs Dmitri likes so much.

Great. Back to square one.

I round on Zayn, who's straightening his shirt like nothing happened. "What the hell is wrong with you?"

Zayn shrugs, unrepentant. "He needs to accept what he is. Coddling him isn't helping."

"And antagonizing him is?" I shove into his chest hard enough that he staggers back. "He was finally starting to open up. To talk. And you ruined it because you can't keep your mouth shut for two seconds."

"Open up? Please." Zayn moves to the kitchen, pulling a bottle of water from the fridge. "He was eating pizza and pretending nothing's changed. That's denial, not progress."

"He's processing!" I throw up my hands in frustration. "It's been a week, Zayn. One week since his entire life turned upside down. You think he's just going to roll over and accept it because you decide he should?"

Zayn takes a long sip of water, studying me over the bottle. When he lowers it, his expression is harder.

"You care an awful lot about his feelings, rookie."

The insinuation in his tone makes my face heat up. "He's my teammate. My packmate."

"Mmhmm." Zayn's eyes narrow slightly. "And does he smell like just another packmate to you? Or something else?"

"What's that supposed to mean?" My voice comes out sharper than intended.

"Nothing," Zayn says innocently. "Just wondering where all this protectiveness is coming from all of a sudden."

I clench my jaw, resisting the urge to punch that knowing look off his face. "I'm going to check on him."

"I wouldn't if I were you," Zayn calls after me as I head for the door. "He's not in a very receptive mood. And with those pre-heat pheromones he's putting out, you might find yourself?—"

"Shut up," I snap, not turning around. "Just... shut up."

I head for the stairs instead, taking them three two at a time, Zayn's laughter following me like a shadow.

Part of me wants to go after Darren, but I know he'd just think I'm being overprotective, and that's the last thing he needs right now.

I just don't know what I should do.