Page 16

Chapter

Eleven

ZAYN

A nother city, another win, same bullshit.

I pull my suit jacket over my shoulders and check my reflection in the mirror.

My undercut's a little long, but I don't trust anyone but my usual barber not to butcher it.

I have circles nearly as dark as my eyes underneath from the shit sleep I've been getting lately, courtesy of one defenseman turned omega.

Everyone should be riding high after three consecutive wins, but instead, the locker room feels like we're attending a funeral where the corpse might sit up and do the fucking Macarena at any minute.

And it's all because of him.

From my corner of the room, I watch Darren finish his post-game routine. The way he folds his towel exactly the same every time would drive most people crazy, but now everyone's staring at it like it's some kind of fucking miracle. Look, the omega can fold towels just like he used to! Amazing!

I snort and turn away, adjusting my collar. The worst part is I caught myself doing it too. Watching him. Noting the way his shoulders move under his shirt, how his jaw tightens when reporters get too close.

Aidan can't stop staring at his ass in the locker room. Same with Dmitri, even if the not-so-gentle giant is subtler about it.

And Jax can't hide his protective instincts, even if he's good at brushing them off as a captain's responsibility.

It's pathetic.

"You coming tonight?" Dmitri asks, materializing beside me like a mountain shifting location.

"Wouldn't miss it." I paste on my media smile, the one that gets me endorsement deals and shitloads of Instagram followers. "Someone has to make sure you don't try to arm wrestle the entire bar again."

Dmitri's expression doesn't change—it rarely does—but there's a flicker of amusement in those ice-blue eyes. He follows my gaze to where Darren is now talking with Jax, their heads bent close together. Something sharp twists in my gut.

"He played well tonight," Dmitri says, his deep voice pitched low. "Back to his old self almost."

"Lucky bounces," I reply, the lie slick on my tongue. Darren played better than well. He was a fucking wall out there, same as always, but somehow even more graceful. Like the omega awakening enhanced what was already there. "The Stones aren't exactly a challenge."

"Hmm." It's impressive how much judgment Dmitri can pack into a single syllable. And annoying as shit.

I turn away, busying myself with my tie. I don't need the Russian's silent disapproval. I know what I'm doing. What I've always done. Channel anything uncomfortable into something I can control. Irritation. Sarcasm. Being the asshole everyone already thinks I am anyway.

It's simpler that way.

"Bus leaves in five," Jax announces to the room. Our captain's already dressed, as usual. Gray suit that matches his eyes, and a neutral expression that doesn't fool any of us. He's been wound tighter than a spring since Darren's presentation.

We're all a fucking mess, if I'm being honest. A pack of scent-bonded alphas suddenly circling our newly-discovered omega like he's the last lifeboat on the Titanic. The suppressants and blockers mask his scent, but they don't change what we know. What we feel.

What I refuse to feel.

I grab my bag and head for the door, deliberately cutting a path that takes me nowhere near Darren's stall. I don't need to catch another whiff of artificial neutrality where that woodsmoke scent should be. Don't need to watch him move in that new way that makes my skin feel like an off-rack suit.

On the bus, I claim a row to myself, sprawling across both seats with my headphones already in place. Universal signal for "fuck off, I'm not talking." It usually works.

Not tonight.

Aidan drops into the seat across the aisle, his face flushed with the residual high of the win. The kid played lights out, two incredible saves in the third that kept us ahead. He deserves to celebrate.

Just not with me.

"Hell of a game, huh?" he says, either missing or ignoring my go-away signals.

I grunt noncommittally, scrolling through my phone with exaggerated focus.

"That save in the third," he continues, unperturbed by my lack of enthusiasm. "Darren really bailed me out there. If he hadn't cleared that rebound?—"

"Yeah, yeah, Malloy's a fucking hero." I cut him off. "Save the fanboy routine for someone who cares."

Aidan blinks, surprise flickering across his freckled face. "I was just saying?—"

"Go say it somewhere else." I turn up my music loud enough that he can hear it from across the aisle, a clear dismissal.

The kid's face falls, but he takes the hint, moving further up the bus to where Jones and Peterson are playing some card game on a makeshift table of equipment bags. I watch him go, ignoring the stab of guilt. Better he learns now. We're not friends just because we wear the same jersey.

The truth is I can't stand another second of anyone, especially the rookie, mooning over Darren fucking Malloy. Not when I'm working so hard not to do the same thing.

Twenty minutes later, we're filing into some upscale bar downtown, one of those places with exposed brick walls and Edison bulbs that charges fifteen bucks for a beer because of the "ambiance." The host recognizes us immediately, eyes widening as he takes in our group.

"Mr. Copeland! What an honor," he gushes, clearly a hockey fan. "We have your VIP room ready, just as your manager requested."

Of course they do. Perks of being recognizable in a hockey town.

The private room is actually decent with plush couches arranged around low tables, a private bar along one wall, music loud enough to feel but not so loud we can't talk. Not that I plan on doing much talking tonight.

I make a beeline for the bar, ordering a bourbon neat. The first sip burns pleasantly, warming a path down my throat. I scan the room as the team settles in, automatically tracking where everyone chooses to sit. It's instinct at this point, the tactician in me always mapping the field.

Jax claims a corner spot with good sightlines to the whole room.

Captain through and through, always positioned to keep watch.

The others take their usual places, all except for Darren, who slides into a booth against the far wall, angled so his back is protected.

Classic defensive positioning, subconscious but telling.

What's more telling is how my packmates' eyes drift to him. How my own gaze can't seem to stay off him for more than thirty seconds.

I drain my glass and signal for another. This is going to be a long fucking night.

An hour in, the team's relaxed into celebration mode.

Jones and Peterson are downstairs, probably picking up some starstruck omegas with the Grizzlies allure they're capitalizing on for as long as they can.

The win's finally sinking in, the tension of the game bleeding away.

Jax is actually smiling as he recounts a story from his rookie year while Dmitri sips a cocktail and listens in silence.

Aidan seems to have forgotten my earlier brush-off, his laugh carrying across the room as he bonds with the others. Everyone's present and accounted for.

Except Darren.

He's physically here, nursing the same beer he started with, but his attention is fixed on his phone. Every few minutes he glances at the screen, thumbs moving rapidly, then shoves it back in his pocket. Only to pull it out again a minute later.

The pattern repeats enough times that eventually even Jax notices, raising an eyebrow at our distracted defenseman during one of his periodic sweeps of the room. Darren doesn't even see it, too absorbed in whatever's on his screen.

I shouldn't care. It's none of my business what's got him so fixated. But the bourbon has loosened something in me, pried open a crack in the careful wall I've built.

Before I can stop myself, I'm sliding into the booth across from him, my fresh drink in hand.

"Hot date?" I smirk when he startles, nearly dropping his phone. "Or are you just refreshing your Instagram to see how many thirsty comments your last gym selfie got? Spoiler alert, it's fewer than mine."

Darren's eyes narrow, that usual irritation darkening them to a stormy blue. "Fuck off, Copeland."

"Such hostility." I lean back, sprawling deliberately in my seat. "And here I thought we were bonding over our big win. You know, team spirit and all that shit."

He snorts, tucking his phone away. "Since when do you care about team spirit?"

"I'm wounded." I press a hand to my chest in mock offense. "I'm the heart and soul of this team. Just ask anyone."

"More like the asshole," he mutters, but there's less bite in it than usual. Almost like he's too distracted to properly engage in our usual verbal sparring.

Which only makes me more curious about what's on that phone.

Curious , not jealous, I tell myself.

Darren's eyes keep drifting to his pocket, his fingers twitching with the obvious desire to check it again. Whatever's happening there has him on edge. Nervous, even. Which is not a word I typically associate with Darren Malloy.

"Seriously, what's so fascinating?" I nod toward his pocket. "You've been glued to that thing all night. Candy Crush addiction? Social media drama? Or are you finally joining the modern world and setting up a dating profile?"

His reaction is immediate and telling, a flush creeping up his neck, jaw tightening in that way it does when he's caught out. Bingo.

"Holy shit," I laugh, genuine surprise cutting through my practiced nonchalance. "You're actually on a dating app? What, did you run out of groupies?"

"Drop it, Zayn." The warning in his voice should probably deter me. It doesn't.

"No chance." I lean forward, lowering my voice conspiratorially. "What are you looking for, hmm? Some alpha stud to help you through your first heat? Already shopping for knotting partners?"