Page 12

Chapter

Eight

DARREN

The suppressants tasted like battery acid going down. The doctor at the omega clinic warned me they might make me jittery, might mess with my sleep, might cause "mild discomfort" until my body adjusted.

Medical speak for "they'll make you feel like absolute horse shit." But feeling like horse shit is better than feeling like an omega.

At least for now.

The security guard does a double-take when I badge in. "Malloy? Thought you were on injured reserve."

"Not anymore." I keep walking, not slowing down for questions I don't want to answer.

The locker room is empty this early, exactly as planned. I need time to gear up, to get onto the ice before anyone can try to talk me out of this. I drop my bag at my stall, which is still there, still has my name on it, and take a slow breath.

The air feels different in my lungs now. Sharper. More information in every inhale, like suddenly upgrading from standard definition to 4K. Even with the blockers, I can still smell faint traces of my teammates lingering from yesterday's practice.

Bourbon. Pine. Leather. Vanilla.

I shake my head, trying to clear it. Focus on the task at hand.

I start dressing methodically, muscle memory taking over. Jock. Compression shorts. Base layer. Socks. Shin guards. Padded pants. I've done this thousands of times, but today it feels like I'm putting on armor for battle.

The doctors said I'm cleared for light activity. The concussion symptoms have mostly subsided, just occasional dizziness when I turn too quickly. But that's not why they wanted me to stay on IR.

"Your body is adjusting to significant hormonal changes," Dr. Casell had said, her eyes full of concern that made me want to punch a wall. "Physical exertion could accelerate the process. Your first heat could arrive sooner than expected."

Like I give a shit. I'm not sitting on my ass waiting for biology to dictate my life. I swear these people think omegas are just supposed to lay around spreading hole in the hopes that we catch a stray knot.

Fuck my life.

I pull my practice jersey over my pads, the familiar heft of my gear settling on my shoulders.

In the mirror across the room, I look the same as I always have.

Still 6'4", still built like the defensive wall I'm supposed to be.

But underneath, everything's changing. Cells rewiring.

Chemistry shifting. Body preparing for a clusterfuck I never asked for.

The suppressants should buy me time. That's what the doctor at the clinic said, the one I found only after three other assholes outright refused to prescribe to a fresh presentation without "stabilization time." But this one understood. Or at least, took my money without too many questions.

"These will delay your heat and mask your nature significantly if you pair them with the blockers," she'd explained, handing over the prescription like it was contraband. "But they're not a permanent solution."

I don't need permanent. I just need enough time to show them all I'm still me. Still The Brick. Still the same player who earned his spot on this team through seven years of blood and broken bones.

I press a fresh scent blocker patch against my neck, right over my scent gland. It burns like a motherfucker, but I just grit my teeth. Better than the alternative. Better than smelling like an omega, like something that needs protecting.

By the time I hit the ice, the fresh blockers and suppressants have kicked in fully.

My hands are steady, my focus laser-sharp.

I start with simple drills, testing my edges, my balance.

Everything works like it should. Better, even.

My reflexes seem quicker, my awareness of the space around me heightened.

Is this what being an omega is like? This hyperawareness? This sensitivity to everything?

I push the thought away and skate harder, faster. I slam pucks against the boards, each one a satisfying crack of rubber against fiberglass. I imagine each one is Zayn's smug face. His voice echoes in my head.

“I don't fight omegas. It's not sporting.”

Fuck him.

At least imagining him eating every puck I shoot helps me focus.

I'm so absorbed in my personal war against the pucks that I don't notice I'm no longer alone until I hear skates cutting ice behind me. I turn, puck balanced on my stick, to see Coach standing at the bench, arms crossed.

"Malloy." His face gives nothing away. "Didn't expect to see you here."

I skate over, heart hammering against my ribs. "I'm cleared for practice."

He gives me a long look. "Medical didn't send me anything."

"It just came through," I lie, meeting his gaze steadily. "Call them if you want."

He won't. He can't, not this early. By the time the office opens, practice will be halfway over. But I can hope he buys my bluff.

"You sure you're ready?" he asks, studying me carefully. "That was a nasty hit. Never seen you go down like that."

"I'm fine." The words come out harsher than intended. "Concussion symptoms are gone. Just needed some rest."

Coach's eyes narrow slightly, like he's trying to solve a puzzle. I hold my breath, waiting for him to mention the other thing.

The omega thing.

Aidan said no one else knows, but what if someone at the hospital leaked it?

"You smell different," he says finally.

My stomach drops, but I keep my expression blank. "New soap."

It's a ridiculous excuse, but Coach just nods slowly. "Well, good to have you back." He glances at the clock on the scoreboard. "Team's due in thirty. Nothing too aggressive today, you hear me? No contact drills for you."

I open my mouth to protest, but he cuts me off with a raised hand.

"That's non-negotiable, Malloy. You took a knee to the head a week ago and followed it up with an ice massage. We ease you back in."

I know better than to challenge him. Challenging him will only give him more reason to push, and if he pushes, he might notice something.

"Yeah, sure, Coach."

He nods once, then heads back toward the tunnel. I return to my drills, a new energy fueling each stride, each shot. I've got thirty more minutes to warm up properly, to prove to myself that I can do this.

Thirty minutes before I have to face them. My teammates. My pack.

I lose track of time, focused entirely on the rhythm of skate, shoot, retrieve. The sound of voices from the tunnel pulls me back to reality. They're here.

I straighten up, squaring my shoulders as the first players emerge onto the ice. Aidan comes first, as usual. The kid's always early, eager as a puppy. He stops dead when he sees me, jaw dropping comically.

"Darren?" His voice carries across the ice. "Holy shit!"

I can't help the small smirk that tugs at my lips. "Morning, rookie."

He skates over, eyes wide with surprise and relief. "You're back! I thought—we all thought—" He stops, obviously unsure what to say next. He tries to hide it, but I can tell he's scenting the air. Noticing what's there, or rather, what isn't.

His eyes are practically bugging out of his head.

"You—" He glances around, lowers his voice. "How did you...?"

I tap the scent blocker patch on my neck hidden beneath my hair and my gear. "Modern medicine. Amazing what they can do these days."

Understanding dawns on his face. "You actually did it. The suppressants and blockers."

"Your idea," I remind him. "Not a bad one."

Before he can respond, the rest of the team starts filtering onto the ice.

Their instantaneous reaction is exactly what I hoped for.

Confusion, surprise, disbelief. Dmitri stops mid-stride, his massive frame going still as a statue.

Jones and Peterson, the other new sub, exchange glances, clearly wondering if they missed some announcement about my return.

Then Zayn emerges from the tunnel.

His reaction alone makes the battery-acid flavored suppressants worthwhile. He freezes, dark eyes narrowing as he spots me. The leather scent I've come to associate with him spikes with what I can only describe as outrage, even though it's not as intense to me right now. It's oddly satisfying.

"What the fuck?" he says, loud enough for everyone to hear.

I casually flip a puck with my stick, catching it flat on the blade. "Morning to you too, Copeland."

Zayn looks around wildly, like he's searching for someone to confirm he's not hallucinating. "You can't be here."

"Funny, I thought this was where the team practices." I toss the puck in the air, catch it again. "And last I checked, I'm still on the team."

Coach blows his whistle, interrupting whatever Zayn was about to say. "Alright, ladies! Circle up! Malloy's back with us today, non-contact only. Lane drills to start, then we'll run the power play."

The team gathers, most still casting confused glances my way. I keep my expression neutral, chin up, jaw tight, daring anyone to challenge my presence. Jax skates up beside me, his gray eyes intense.

"We need to talk," he says quietly. "After the circle."

I give him a slight nod. I knew this was coming. We haven't talked since he used his fucking bark on me, even if I'm pretty sure it wasn't on purpose now that I've had time to cool down and think.

Coach runs through today's practice plan, laying out drills and strategy adjustments for our upcoming game against the Blues.

I listen intently, focusing on the hockey, on the comforting rhythm of preparation.

This is what matters. Not biology, not designations, not the subtle changes I can feel reshaping my body even through the chemical haze of suppressants.

"Alright, split up! Lane drills, let's go!" Coach barks.

As the team disperses, Jax catches my arm, steering me toward the far boards where we can talk without being overheard. His scent, smooth bourbon, reaches me even through the blockers. It shouldn't be comforting. I refuse to let it be comforting.

"What happened to your scent?" Jax asks without preamble, his voice low.

"Blockers," I say, keeping my own voice equally quiet. "And suppressants."