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“It’s kind of fuzzy,” Darren says, rubbing his head, before he fixes his attention on Zayn and squints. “But you seem really familiar.”

“Oh, yeah?” Zayn’s voice gets rougher as Dmitri and Aidan look increasingly agitated. “How so?”

“I can’t place it,” Darren says with a troubled grimace.

“It’s like… like something in the back of my mind is telling me…

” he trails off as Zayn leans in close, hanging on his every word.

Finally, Darren’s eyes lock on his and he shifts to his usual deadpan delivery as he adds, “that you’re a giant fucking douchebag. ”

Zayn’s expression falls flat, and he flips Darren off with a slew of curses.

Dmitri scowls, but Aidan howls a laugh as if he wasn’t just freaking out. “Nice one! Zayn, you should have seen your face.”

“Fuck off, rookie,” Zayn growls.

Darren rolls his eyes. “About fucking time,” he growls, voice rougher than usual. “They won’t tell me shit except that I have a concussion, which… no shit. Been there, done that.”

Relief floods through me. This is the Darren I know. Irritable, impatient, already chafing at the restrictions of medical care. He had even me going for a second there. But beneath his usual scent, that woodsmoke aroma lingers, stronger now in the confined space of the hospital room.

“How are you feeling?” I ask, moving to stand at the foot of his bed.

“Like I got kneed in the head by a freight train,” he replies with a grimace that might be an attempt at a smile. “But it’s just a knock. I’ll be back in shape by next game.”

Zayn snorts, leaning against the wall with forced casualness. Dmitri shoots him a warning look.

“What?” Darren’s eyes narrow, darting between us. “What’s with the funeral faces? Did we lose the fucking game or something?”

“We won,” Aidan pipes up. “Your block saved the game. It was awesome.”

Darren’s shoulders relax slightly. “Well, at least there’s that.” He shifts in the bed, wincing as the movement jostles his head. “So when can I get out of here? These beds are shit, and it smells like antiseptic.”

The awkwardness in the room thickens. Darren’s enhanced sense of smell is already working, even if he doesn’t realize it yet. Before, he would have barely noticed the hospital scents.

“The doctor says you need observation,” I say carefully. “Concussion protocol.”

“Bullshit. I’ve had worse.” He starts pushing himself up to sitting, grimacing through the pain. “Just need some rest in my own bed.”

No one speaks. The silence stretches, uncomfortable and loaded. I search for the right words, the captain’s speech that will make this easier, but they won’t come.

“Jesus, what?” Darren snaps, looking at each of us in turn. “You’re all acting weird as hell.”

“You’re a fucking omega, dude,” Zayn blurts out.

I close my eyes briefly. Of all the ways to break the news, trust Zayn to choose the blunt force approach.

Darren stares at Zayn for a long moment, then barks out a laugh that makes him wince in pain. “Very funny. Concussion jokes. Classy.”

“It’s not a joke,” I say quietly. “The doctors ran tests. Your scent changed on the ice. We all noticed it.”

Darren’s face goes through a rapid sequence of emotions. Disbelief, confusion, anger. “That’s bullshit,” he says flatly, finally settling on denial. “I’m a beta. Always have been.”

“Apparently not,” Zayn says, earning another glare from Dmitri.

“The doctor says the head trauma might have triggered a latent presentation,” I explain, keeping my voice steady. “It’s rare but?—“

“It’s fucking impossible is what it is,” Darren cuts me off, his heart monitor beeping faster. “I’m twenty-seven years old. I’m not some teenager hitting puberty.” His hands clench into fists in the blanket. “This is some kind of mistake.”

“No mistake,” Dmitri says, his deep voice gentle in a way I’ve rarely heard. “We all smell it. Woodsmoke.”

Even he’s come to terms with it. But Darren is going to be another matter entirely.

Fear appears on Darren’s face, but it’s quickly transformed into anger. “So I smell different, so fucking what? That doesn’t make me an omega. Maybe it’s a side effect of the concussion, or the drugs they’ve got me on.”

“The blood tests confirmed it,” Dmitri adds simply.

Darren goes still, processing this. The monitor beside him shows his heart rate climbing steadily. “No,” he says finally, yanking the IV from his arm with a wince. “This is bullshit. I’m getting out of here.”

Aidan steps forward, hands raised placatingly. “Darren, you need to rest. The doctor said?—”

“I don’t give a fuck what the doctor said!” Darren swings his legs over the side of the bed, the movement nearly toppling him as he underestimates his own weakness. “I’m not an omega. I can’t be. Do you know what that would mean? My career, my whole fucking life ?—“

He tries to stand and immediately sways, grabbing the bed rail for support. Blood trickles down his arm where he ripped out the IV. The heart monitor wails as the sensors lose contact.

“Darren, stop,” I say firmly, moving toward him. “You’re going to hurt yourself.”

“Back off, Jax,” he warns, voice low and dangerous despite his obvious weakness. “I’m fine.”

But he’s not fine. His face has gone pale, and he’s swaying on his feet. The sudden movement after hours of lying down has left him dizzy, vulnerable to further injury if he falls.

“You need to get back in bed,” I say, stepping closer.

“I said back off!” He pushes away from the bed, stumbling toward the door. His legs give out halfway there, and he starts to fall.

Instinct takes over. “ STOP !” I bark, my alpha voice cutting through the room with enough force to make even Zayn flinch.

Darren freezes mid-stumble, his body responding to the command before his brain can process it. He drops to his knees, a textbook omega response to an alpha command that leaves us all shocked into silence.

We all freeze. Then awareness gradually floods back into Darren’s eyes, replacing shock with something far more dangerous. His head turns slowly toward me, blood from his arm dripping onto the linoleum floor, face twisting into an expression I’ve never seen directed at me before.

Pure, unadulterated rage.

Oh shit.