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The energy shifts immediately. Defense mode activated. I can feel my focus narrowing, blocking out the crowd noise, the scoreboard, everything but the task at hand. This is where I thrive, in the desperate minutes when the other team throws everything they have at us.

My next shift is a blur of blocked shots and cleared rebounds. Every muscle strains as we weather the storm of the Raptors’ six-man attack, their goalie pulled for an extra attacker. Sweat stings my eyes again, but I don’t dare wipe my visor. Can’t take my hand off my stick for even a second.

Fifty seconds left. The puck ricochets off the boards behind our net.

I battle for position with the other team’s hulking forward, making use of my lower center of gravity to hold my ground.

We’re at war, stick against stick, when I feel it…

the slight give in his stance. He’s trying to spin off me, to create space for a centering pass.

Not happening.

I lean into him harder, pinning him against the boards, using every ounce of strength I’ve built through countless hours in the weight room. This is what separates me from the alphas. The willingness to do the unglamorous work, to sacrifice my body on the altar of winning.

“Get off me, beta bitch,” he grunts, loud enough for only me to hear.

The slur ignites something primitive in my chest. I drive my shoulder higher, compressing him against the glass. “Make me, dickwad.”

The whistle blows, faceoff coming. We disengage, but not before he “accidentally” clips me with his elbow. Officials miss it. Typical.

“You okay?” Jax asks as we line up for the faceoff.

I nod, tightening my grip on my stick. “Just another Tuesday in Alphaland, boss.”

The truth is, I’ve heard worse. Much worse. The beta comments started the day I entered the league and never stopped. The league doesn’t know what to do with betas like me, players who don’t fit neatly into their alpha-glorifying narrative.

So I built myself into someone they couldn’t ignore.

When they said I was too slow, I trained until my legs could outpace most forwards.

When they said I wasn’t tough enough, I became the guy no one wants to meet in the corners.

When they questioned my place among the alpha stars, I earned it with blood and broken bones.

The faceoff. Jax wins it clean, and Dmitri clears the puck down the ice. Twenty seconds left.

The Raptors retrieve, mounting one final desperate rush. Their forwards fly through the neutral zone, a coordinated attack designed to overwhelm. I backpedal, angling to force the puck carrier wide. He cuts inside instead, a move I didn’t anticipate.

I pivot to recover, but my edge catches a rut in the ice, a momentary loss of balance that’s all the opening he needs. He’s past me, driving toward the net with speed. Aidan squares up, but he’s alone against a skilled forward with momentum.

No. Not on my watch.

I launch myself in desperate pursuit, legs burning as I close the gap. The forward cocks his stick for the shot. I dive, stick extended in a last-ditch poke check.

My blade catches the puck, disrupting the shot, but the forward’s momentum carries him forward, his knee connecting directly with my temple as I slide beneath him.

White-hot pain explodes behind my eyes. The world tilts sickeningly as I skid across the ice, helmet wrenched sideways from the impact.

But it’s the crack of my head against the ice on the way down that turns the world black for a few seconds.

Vaguely, I register the final buzzer, the roar of the crowd celebrating our win.

But those sounds come from somewhere far away, muffled behind the high-pitched ringing in my ears. I try to push up onto my knees, but my arms won’t cooperate. Ice pressed against my cheek. Cold. Shouldn’t it feel cold? I can’t tell anymore.

“Darren! Don’t move.” Jax’s voice, urgent. Huge hands on my shoulders, steadying me.

I blink, trying to focus, but everything blurs. Faces swim into view, all familiar, all wearing various shades of worry. Even Zayn.

Shit, I really must be fucked up if that asshole is fretting over me.

“Med team’s coming,” someone says. Aidan, I think. The rookie sounds scared.

I want to tell them I’m fine, but my tongue feels too big for my mouth. The rink spins around me in nauseating circles. Definitely concussed. Not my first, probably won’t be my last. Part of the job description.

“Just... need a minute,” I manage to slur. The words don’t sound right even to my own ears.

That’s when I notice something strange. A scent, threading through the usual smells of sweat and equipment and ice. It’s warm and rich, like woodsmoke. Like the bonfires we used to have after high school games, the whole team gathered around the flames, celebrating or commiserating.

Why am I smelling that now?

“Do you guys... smell that?” I ask, confusion making my voice small. “Like... smoke?”

The team exchanges looks I can’t interpret. Jax leans closer, sniffing subtly, then freezes. His eyes widen, meeting Dmitri’s over my head. The winger’s expression shifts from concern to one I can’t identify.

No, that’s not true. He’s looking at me like I’m a fucking porterhouse steak.

“What the hell?” Zayn mutters, backing up slightly.

Aidan just looks confused.

“Smell what, Brick?” Jax asks carefully, his hand still on my shoulder. But I get the feeling the fucker knows exactly what I’m talking about.

“Bonfire. Woodsmoke.” The words feel thick in my mouth. “S’weird.”

The medical team pushes through the gathered players, dropping to their knees beside me with a clinical casualness that puts me a little more at ease. One shines a penlight in my eyes, making me wince.

“Pupils unequal,” she announces. “Definite concussion. Let’s get him stabilized for transport.”

As they work, securing my neck in a brace, I drift in and out of awareness.

The woodsmoke smell isn’t the only one competing for dominance now.

There are others, too. Scents I know well, but more intense than they’ve ever been, like someone cranked up a dial.

And they’re all growing stronger by the second, wrapping around me like a warm, soft blanket.

Winter and pine. Bourbon. New leather. Vanilla and sugar. All swirling together, forming an irresistible concoction I can’t get enough of, all somehow mingling perfectly with the woodsmoke. Maybe the concussion is messing with more than just my balance.

“It’s coming from him,” I hear Zayn whisper to Dmitri, voice pitched low but not low enough. “That… that scent.”

I don’t like the way he says that. That low, almost reverent tone. That’s not Zayn. That’s sure as fuck not how Zayn talks about anything involving me .

Dmitri grunts something in Russian that sounds like agreement. And he’s still looking at me like he wants to eat me.

The fuck ?

They slide me onto a backboard, the movement sending fresh waves of nausea through me. The crowd has gone quiet, that eerie hush that falls when an injury looks serious. I hate being the center of this kind of attention. Hate the weakness.

“You’ll be okay, Brick,” Jax says, skating alongside as they begin moving me off the ice. His voice remains steady, but there’s an undercurrent I can’t place. “We’re not leaving you.”

The way he says that, and the edge in his tone makes me uneasy. Or maybe it’s the way the team is looking at me now, like they’re all seeing something that doesn’t make sense. Or smelling something that doesn’t.

The smell of woodsmoke intensifies as my adrenaline fades, my body registering the full extent of the pain. It reminds me of comfort, of safety, of the pack bonds that have only ever been there in the background, suddenly roaring to life. Intensifying.

“Jax,” I rasp, grabbing his wrist as they lift the backboard and panic shoots through me. “Something’s wrong.”

He meets my gaze, and I see the confirmation I was dreading. He can smell it too. Whatever “it” is. He’s just better about hiding his emotions than the others.

“We’ll figure it out, Brick,” he promises, but there’s shock written across his features. “You just focus on getting better.”

As they carry me toward the tunnel, I catch fragments of urgent conversation behind me.

“...not possible at his age...”

“...what this means for the team...”

And then, just as consciousness begins to slip away, I hear Aidan’s voice, incredulous and carrying clearly across the ice.

“Holy shit, Darren is an omega ?”