Page 15

Chapter

Ten

DMITRI

I wrap the tape around my wrist one more time, making sure it's tight enough to stay but not so tight it cuts my circulation. Game nights have their own pattern, a comfort when everything else feels uncertain. Tonight especially.

The locker room buzzes with pre-game energy, but underneath it all, there's a current of anxiety that doesn't belong. Eyes that dart too often to one stall. Conversations that pause when a certain defenseman walks past. Nobody wants to acknowledge the elephant in the room.

Darren sits in his stall across the room, focused entirely on his own pre-game routine. Methodical. Competent. Same as always. But nothing is truly the same anymore, is it?

I can still remember the woodsmoke scent that flooded the ice when he went down. The way it changed everything in an instant. But tonight, I smell nothing from him. The blockers work well, maybe a little too well. It's unsettling, like looking at a familiar face with the eyes photoshopped out.

"You good?" Jax asks, dropping onto the bench beside me. He keeps his voice low, for my ears only.

I nod once. "Fine."

He studies me for a moment longer than necessary. Jax has always been perceptive. It's what makes him a good captain. "Just remember, nothing's changed on the ice."

But that's a lie, and we both know it. Everything has changed. We just haven't figured out what it means yet.

I finish with my tape and flex my fingers, watching Darren from the corner of my eye. He moves with the confidence he's always had, but there's a new awareness in how he holds himself. Like he expects an attack from any direction.

The truth is, I'm not worried about Darren performing the way he always has. I'm worried about how I'll react if someone takes a run at him. If I'll be able to do my job instead of giving in to the new, insistent impulse to protect.

Part of the problem is that, blockers or not, we all know Darren is an omega. Our omega, even if he wants to be anything else. The other part of the problem is that the other team doesn't.

Coach strides into the room, clipboard in hand, and the usual pre-game hush falls. He reads out line assignments, no surprises there. I'll be on Jax's right wing, Zayn on his left. Peterson sits tonight with Darren back in the lineup, paired with Jones on defense.

"Kings are coming in hot off a three-game win streak," Coach says, his voice gravelly from years of shouting behind benches. "Their top line's been connecting like they share a brain. Malloy, Jones, I need you two locked in tonight. No space, no time."

Darren nods, face set in determination. He's been waiting for this, his chance to prove nothing's changed. I know what that feels like. When I first came to America, every shift was about proving I belonged. That I wasn't just an outsider with a mean check.

"Vinogradov," Coach continues, turning to me. "I want you hounding their transition game. Force them to make mistakes."

"Understood," I say simply. Force mistakes. Create havoc. This is what I do.

Coach goes through the rest of the strategy, but my mind drifts.

I find myself observing the room, noting the subtle shifts in our pack dynamic.

Zayn keeps glancing at Darren with something between curiosity and challenge.

Aidan's attention keeps returning to him as well, though his expression holds nothing but earnest concern.

And Jax, our captain, is working overtime to pretend everything is normal while simultaneously monitoring everyone's reactions. Especially Darren's.

We are a pack trying to find new balance. Like wolves adjusting when rankings shift.

Twenty minutes later, we're in the tunnel, the roar of the crowd vibrating through the concrete beneath our feet. I roll my shoulders, settling my gear more comfortably. The calm before violence.

Darren stands ahead of me in line, his broad shoulders squared beneath his pads. From behind, there's no sign of what's changed. Same number 47. Same stance. Same ritual of tapping his stick blade three times against the floor before stepping onto the ice.

Then we're moving, skating out into the bright lights and wall of noise. The home crowd roars its welcome as we circle the ice. Aidan leads us, rookie goalie taking his position in the crease early to settle his nerves. Smart kid. He's learned fast.

During warmups, I watch Darren from across the ice as he fires pucks at Aidan. His shot looks normal, hard and accurate. His skating is smooth. If anything, he seems more fluid than before.

"Looking good, eh?" Jax skates up beside me, collecting pucks for another round of shots.

"Yes," I agree cautiously. "But in-game is different."

Jax nods, understanding what I'm not saying. Practice is controlled. Games are chaos. And chaos has a way of exposing truths you'd rather keep hidden.

The horn sounds, ending warmups. As we head to the bench for final preparations, I catch Darren's eye and give him a small nod. He returns it, a flash of gratitude crossing his features before his game face returns.

Then the puck drops, and there's no more time for thinking. Only reacting.

The first period moves fast. The Kings come as advertised, quick, coordinated, dangerous on the rush.

But our defense holds. Darren and Jones settle into a rhythm, complementing each other better than I expected.

Darren's positioning remains flawless, his stick always in the right lane to disrupt passes.

I forget to worry about him when my line takes the ice.

There's only the game, the cold burn in my lungs, the bite of my edges into fresh ice, the satisfaction of a solid body check that separates man from puck.

This is the simplicity I love about hockey.

For all its rules and systems, it ultimately comes down to will. To who wants it more.

Midway through the period, I get a clean look from the high slot. Jax finds me with a perfect pass after Zayn draws two defenders to the boards. The puck leaves my stick clean, but the Kings' goalie flashes his glove. Save. I curse in Russian, skating back to the bench for a line change.

"Good shot," Darren says as I pass him on my way to the bench. A small thing, this encouragement, but it means something. We're still teammates first. Still focused on the prize.

The period ends scoreless. Both teams feeling each other out, probing for weaknesses. In the locker room, Coach makes minor adjustments to our forecheck, but mostly lets us breathe. Sometimes that's better than speeches.

I sip water and observe. Darren sits quietly in his stall, eyes distant as he mentally reviews his shifts. There's sweat beading along his hairline, but he looks stable. Whatever chemicals he's using to mask his nature seem to be holding.

Then I notice Aidan staring at him from across the room. The kid tries to be subtle, but subtlety isn't in his skill set.

I'm not the only one who notices. Zayn catches it too, a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth as his gaze flicks between Aidan and Darren. He leans over to whisper something to Jones beside him, who glances up with raised eyebrows.

This is how it starts. Glances. Whispers. The things that can fracture a team from the inside.

"Second period," Coach calls, cutting through my thoughts. "Let's go. Same intensity, quicker transitions."

Back on the ice, the game finds another gear. The Kings adjust their breakout, trying to exploit gaps between our forwards and defense. It nearly works. Twice they generate odd-man rushes that force Aidan to make spectacular saves.

Then comes the moment I've been dreading without realizing it.

Darren retrieves a puck behind our net, head up, looking for an outlet pass. He doesn't see the Kings' forward bearing down on him from his blind side. A thundering check sends Darren crashing into the boards, his helmet bouncing off the glass.

A primal rage roars to life inside me. My vision narrows, focuses on the player skating away from Darren's crumpled form. The need to answer this offense burns through my veins, drowning out the whistle, the crowd, everything but the target.

I'm halfway across the ice when Jax's voice cuts through the red haze.

"Dmitri! Line change!"

His voice pulls me back. I look down, surprised to find my gloves already off, ready for violence. I've stepped out of position, left my lane, abandoned the system. Exactly what I feared would happen.

Darren is already back on his skates, shaking off the hit. No harm done. A routine hockey play I wouldn't have thought twice about a month ago.

I force myself back to the bench, heart hammering against my ribs. Jax gives me a measured look as I sit.

"You good?" he asks again, this time with more weight behind the question.

I nod once, not trusting my voice. I need to get myself under control. This protective instinct is natural for alphas around pack omegas, but I can't let it interfere with the game. Can't let it change how I play or how I treat Darren.

He wouldn't want that. Would hate it, in fact. Thank gods he doesn't seem to have noticed.

Yet.

The rest of the game passes in a blur of sweat and effort. We're tied right down to the last, but Zayn gets in the final point with his usual showboating.

Yes, there will be no living with him now.

After the game, the locker room is its own challenge.

Trying to keep my focus away from Darren, or at least not to show it always drifts back to him.

Trying not to let the image of the water cascading down his muscular back linger in my thoughts any longer than it has to, knowing he'd hate me if he knew it registered at all.

All I can do is hope I'm not as obvious as Aidan. The rookie has puppy eyes every time he looks Darren's way. They falter when Darren snaps a towel against his ass on his way by.

"Nice block on that play, rookie," Darren says, before taking a swig of his sports drink.

Aidan turns a few shades of red that clash with his orange jersey and grumbles a barely intelligible thanks.

But then we're all focused on Darren, gulping down the blue liquid, his Adam's apple bobbing as a few droplets spill down his chin. He stops and looks up, cocking an eyebrow. "What?"

"Nothing," Jax says quickly, eyes darting away right before mine do.

The game might have gone off without a hitch, but we're all fucked. That much is clear.