Page 13

His eyebrows shoot up. "Already? You just presented a week ago."

"Turns out not all doctors are as conservative as the one at the hospital." I shrug, trying to project a casualness I don't feel. "Found a clinic with a doctor who specializes in late presentations. They were more understanding."

Jax frowns, and I brace for the alpha lecture. The “you should be more careful” speech. The “think about your health” bullshit. I've rehearsed my counter-arguments a dozen times since picking up the prescription.

But he surprises me.

"You know people are going to find out eventually, right?" he says, his tone devoid of judgment.

The reminder sends a pulse of anger through me. "You think I don't know that?" The words come out sharper than intended. I take a breath, forcing my voice to level out. "I'm not trying to hide it forever. Just long enough to prove I'm still the same defenseman I've always been."

Jax studies me, and I can practically see the wheels turning behind those gray eyes. He's not sure. Weighing the risks, probably. Wondering if I'm making a colossal mistake that will blow back on the team. On him, as captain.

"Is this going to be a problem?" I challenge, feeling my hackles rise. Of course he's going to be an alpha asshole about this, just like Zayn. They're all the same when it comes down to it.

But once again, Jax defies my expectations.

"It's not the worst idea in the world," he murmurs, glancing over his shoulder at the team running drills. "If it buys you time to adjust while showing management you can still play..."

Relief floods through me, though I try not to show it. Having Jax's support, however tentative, matters more than I want to admit. "That's the plan."

I notice Aidan watching us from the drill line, trying to look like he's not eavesdropping. The kid's about as subtle as a fog horn, leaning so far in our direction he might topple over. I catch his eye and smirk.

"Got the idea from a friend," I say, loud enough for him to hear. The smile that breaks across his freckled face is almost painfully earnest.

Before Jax can respond, the familiar scent of leather and arrogance approaches fast. Zayn skates up, stopping hard enough to spray ice.

"What the hell is this?" he demands, glaring at Jax. "You're letting him practice?"

"Last I checked, I'm the captain, not you," Jax says coolly.

He earns some points for that. If he keeps this up, I might even forget the bark thing. Or at least pretend I have.

"He's an omega ," Zayn hisses, like it's a dirty word. "He's not cleared to play. And what the fuck happened to his scent? Is he trying to?—"

"He's on blockers," Jax cuts him off. "And suppressants."

Zayn's eyes widen, then narrow dangerously as he turns to me. "Are you fucking insane? Those things are?—"

"Prescribed by a doctor," I finish for him. "It's my decision. My body."

"Darren is still part of this team," Jax says, his voice taking on that captain's authority that makes even alphas hesitate. "That hasn't changed. We're going to practice. End of discussion."

Zayn gives a disbelieving laugh. "Practice? How exactly are we supposed to play when we're all going to be instinctively protecting the omega?"

Something snaps inside me. Before I can think better of it, I've shoved Zayn hard, sending him stumbling backward. "Worry about protecting yourself," I snarl, pushing off and skating toward the drill line.

His outraged shout follows me across the ice, but I don't turn back. I join the lane drill already in progress, slotting in between Dmitri and Jones and Peterson. Dmitri gives me a subtle nod, acknowledgment without comment. Exactly what I need right now.

The drills start simple, quick transitions up and down the ice, nothing that tests my contact ban. I push myself hard, skating faster than necessary, my edges cutting deep into the ice. Every stride feels like a statement.

I belong here. I haven't changed. I'm still me.

When we shift to defensive positioning drills, I feel a surge of confidence. This is my specialty. Reading the play, anticipating movements, using my size and reach to fuck up passing lanes. I might not be able to hit today, but I can still be a wall.

"Looking good, Brick," Coach calls after I break up three consecutive entry attempts. "Sharp as ever."

The praise shouldn't matter as much as it does. I find myself straightening, pride warming my chest despite my best efforts to stay detached.

We move to special teams next, power play and penalty kill rotations.

This is where it gets tricky. These drills are built on chemistry, on reading your teammates' intentions, on split-second adjustments.

I'm hyperaware of everyone around me, even through the dampening effects of the suppressants.

But I manage to tune out what I shouldn't be able to pick up on as a beta.

We run through several more rotations, and I stay sharp throughout. My body feels different. Lighter somehow, more attuned to the space around me, but my instincts remain unchanged. I still read the play the same way. I still make the same defensive choices.

By the time Coach calls for a water break, I'm riding a cautious wave of optimism. This can work. I can make this work.

I skate to the bench, grabbing my water bottle. Aidan slides up beside me, his vanilla scent flavored with excitement.

"You look great out there," he says, taking a swig from his own bottle. "Like nothing's changed."

"That's the idea," I mutter, but I can't help returning his smile. His enthusiasm is infectious, even to a cynical bastard like me.

"The suppressants are working then?" He drops his voice, glancing around to make sure no one's listening.

I nod. "So far. Still feel like I've got the world's worst hangover, but it's manageable."

"And the blockers?" He reaches up, brushing his own neck where the patch would be. "They're not too uncomfortable? My sister says they burn like crazy."

"They're fine." A lie, but a necessary one. The constant burning sensation is a small price to pay for normal. "Tell your sister thanks for the tip."

Aidan beams like I've just told him he's gonna be gracing the cover of Alpha Athletes magazine. Before he can respond, Coach blows his whistle, calling us back to the ice.

"Scrimmage time," he announces. "Blues versus Whites. Malloy, remember—non-contact only."

I groan inwardly. Scrimmages without contact are like pizza without cheese—missing the best part. But I'll take what I can get.

I'm assigned to the Blue team, along with Jax and Jones, and Dmitri, Zayn, and Aidan are on White, which means the rookie will be in net facing our shots. I catch his eye and make a shooting motion. His responding grin is pure challenge.

The scrimmage starts fast, both sides hungry after a week of practices without me clogging up the neutral zone.

I stay disciplined, remembering my non-contact restriction, using positioning and stick work to compensate.

It's not the same as being able to throw my weight around, but it's still effective.

"Outlet to Malloy!" Jax calls, retrieving a puck behind our net. I cut hard toward the boards, finding the seam for a clean breakout pass.

I take the puck in stride, scanning the ice as I cross the red line. Peterson is streaking up the opposite wing, creating a two-on-one against Dmitri. He's good, but even he can't cover two lanes at once.

I sell the shot, getting Dmitri to commit, then slide a pass across to Peterson who buries it past Aidan's outstretched glove. The kid curses colorfully, slapping his stick against the ice in frustration.

"Don't worry, rookie, I'd have saved it," I call out, skating past the net.

"In your dreams, bro!" he fires back, but there's no heat in it.

We reset for the next shift. As I pass the White bench, I catch Zayn watching me with an unreadable expression. Not quite anger, not quite concern. Somewhere in between that makes my skin crawl.

I push it aside, focusing on the next play, the next shift. One moment at a time. That's how I'll get through this, breaking it down into manageable pieces. This drill. This scrimmage. This practice. This game. Not thinking about heats or designations or the fragile future of my career.

The scrimmage continues, and I fall into the usual rhythm.

Skate, defend, transition, repeat. My body feels good.

Better than good, actually. There's a new fluidity to my movements, a heightened awareness of space and time that's hard to define.

Is it an omega thing? Or just what I've always had, and lost since awakening as one?

I guess the suppressants could be normalizing things.

I'm so caught up in the flow that I almost don't notice the subtle differences in how my teammates are playing around me. Almost.

It's small things. Jax positioning himself between me and an oncoming forechecker, even though there's no contact allowed. Dmitri pulling up on a puck battle near the boards when we both arrive at the same time.

Most telling of all is Aidan. When I find myself alone on a breakaway during the final minutes, he squares up in his net like always, competitive fire in his eyes.

But when I make my move, a quick deke to the backhand I've scored on him with in practice dozens of times, he reacts a fraction of a second slower than he should.

Like he's hesitating. Like he's... letting me.

The puck slides across the goal line, and the Blue team whoops and hollers. But the victory feels hollow as I skate past the net, catching Aidan's eye. There's a flicker of protective instinct poorly disguised there that confirms my suspicion.

He let me score.

The little shit fucking let me score.

The realization hits like a crosscheck to the kidneys. Is this what Zayn meant? Are they all going to start handling me differently? Protecting me? Making allowances?

I’m going to fucking gag.

"Nice move," Aidan calls as I circle back for the next faceoff. His smile is genuine, but we both know the truth.

"Don't do that again," I mutter as I pass him.

He blinks in confusion. "Do what?"

"You know what."

Coach blows the final whistle before he can respond. Practice is over, but the unease that's settled in my gut remains.

As we file toward the tunnel, I catch fragments of conversation, snippets that wouldn't have meant anything a week ago but now feel loaded with subtext.

"Malloy's looking good out there."

"Yeah, moving really well for a guy who just had a concussion."

"Different, though. Did you notice how he?—"

I tune it out, focusing on putting one skate in front of the other. The suppressants are wearing thin, fatigue creeping in at the edges of my awareness. I need another dose soon, before the woodsmoke scent returns and confirms everyone's suspicions.

In the locker room, I keep to myself, avoiding eye contact as I strip off my gear. The practice went well. Better than I could have hoped, really. I proved I can still play. Still contribute. Nothing has fundamentally changed about my ability to do my job.

So why does it feel like everything has changed anyway?

Zayn walks past my stall, pausing just long enough for me to notice. "Guess I was wrong," he says, voice pitched for my ears only. "You did great out there."

I look up, suspicious of the sudden praise. "Thanks," I say cautiously.

His smile doesn't reach his eyes. "Though I did notice Jax shadowing you on that forecheck in the third shift. And Dmitri pulling up on the boards. Subtle, but sweet, right? The way they're looking out for you?"

My jaw clenches so hard I'm surprised my teeth don't crack. "Fuck off, Copeland."

"Just calling it like I see it." He shrugs, moving away. "Welcome to the omega experience, Brick. Hope you enjoy being the team's newest handicap."

I want to go after him, to grab him by his perfect hair and slam that smug face into the nearest wall. But the rational part of my brain, the part not overwhelmed by new, volatile emotions, knows he's baiting me. Trying to prove his point about omega instability.

I turn back to my gear, focusing on the routine of packing up. Across the room, Aidan is watching me, concern written across his features. When our eyes meet, he gives me a tentative smile that's clearly meant to be reassuring.

"Good first day back," Jax says, appearing beside my stall. His voice is casual, but his eyes are assessing. Checking in on me without making it obvious. "How are you feeling?"

"Fine." I stuff my skates into my bag with more force than necessary. "Why wouldn't I be?"

He doesn't rise to the bait. "Just asking. We've got a team meeting tomorrow morning before practice. Eight AM."

"I'll be there."

He nods, clapping me on the shoulder before moving away. It's a normal gesture, the kind of casual contact teammates share all the time. So why does it suddenly feel like he's handling me with kid gloves?

The answer is obvious enough.

Because he is. Because they all are.

I finish changing quickly, eager to escape the subtle wrongness that's descended over a space that used to feel like home. As I sling my bag over my shoulder, I catch Dmitri watching me from across the room. The big guy holds my gaze for a long moment, then gives me a single, solemn nod.

I don't like the way he's looking at me. The way they're all looking at me.

The way they look at an omega.

Yeah, I gotta do something about that.