Page 5 of Full Body Hit, Part 1 (Alpha Omega Hockey #5)

AUSTON

A uston collapsed onto his couch, a hand automatically going to his hip, fingers digging soothingly, searching for an ache that wasn’t there. Even two years after his operation, the phantom pain lingered, but he was fine now.

Or as fine as he was going to get, considering the sport he played.

He turned on the TV. Went through the channels. Lowered the volume. Everything was so fucking irritating lately, grating on hypersensitive nerves.

He pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to ward off the headache creeping up on him, probably because he’d been clenching his teeth since the start of camp.

The talk he’d had with management was still ringing in his ears.

This was his last year playing in the NHL.

There was no doubt about that. Sure, his hips were fine now , but they couldn’t take much more.

His goddamn knee clicked ominously every time he stood up.

His neck was a mess of knots from being tense all the time, and it wasn’t lost on him that he was acting like a complete asshole in the locker room.

He had to face the fact that he was too old and too broken to continue doing the thing he loved.

His body had reached its limit, and Auston simply couldn’t push past it.

Every fucking expert he’d talked to had advised him not to play this year, to escape before he did irrevocable damage to his muscles and bones.

But Auston hadn’t been capable of listening.

He needed this goodbye, grasping the hand of a loved one on their deathbed, pleading with them not to go. Not to leave him alone. Because he didn’t fucking know what he’d do without the love of his life—without being able to skate, to compete, to be part of a team.

But death was inevitable, and so was this.

It wasn’t like he hadn’t had time to prepare for it. He was thirty-seven years old. At the very least, he should be attempting to handle the situation with an ounce of maturity instead of soaking in self-pity and growling at anyone who got in his way.

Being part of a team was one of his favourite things about hockey. He should be looking forward to bonding with them, to playing cards on the plane and having dinners when they were on the road.

Instead, he was just…exhausted. He was a dusty, walking husk, empty and rattling and old .

His sister kept reminding him that he wasn’t actually old in human years. But Auston wasn’t human. He was a hockey player. So she could fuck right off.

He didn’t want to pass the baton to the younger generation. He resented the kids in the locker room, their bright eyes and hopes and dreams. They had their whole careers in front of them, and it coated his tongue in a bitter paste.

He wanted to keep this life for himself. Wanted to grip it between his teeth and shake his head until it was limp and his to have. He’d worked so fucking hard and sacrificed so much, and now he was supposed to just…give it up?

Nah. Not without a fight, at least.

Auston was fully aware that he didn’t exist without hockey. He didn’t have a partner. Didn’t have kids. Didn’t have a fucking hobby. He honestly wasn’t sure if he could still read—the last book he’d gotten through was in high school. He watched hockey, and he trained, and he played.

Who the fuck was he supposed to hang out with after his career ended? He didn’t have a single friend outside of hockey. Hadn’t kept in touch with a single person from his town except his family.

He’d sacrificed it all, and in exchange, he was one of the greats. No one doubted he’d be in the Hall of Fame one day. He had everything a forward could win, except the Lady Byng, but who the hell wanted a trophy dedicated to being a good sport?

Hockey was about hitting hard and not saying sorry afterwards.

Or it used to be, anyway. He had no idea what was going on with the kids these days. Like Sammy, slim and pretty and smelling so much like Noah he’d done a double take when he was informed they were ‘just friends.’

Sure. And the last time he’d stuck his dick in an Omega, they were just shaking hands.

Sammy was all right, though. Had a certain grace about him that demanded respect, as if he were completely comfortable in his skin, in his scent and designation and position in the world, which was a lot to ask from a twentysomething-year-old.

And then there was Chase.

Auston prided himself on being a good leader to rookies. When he’d first made it to the NHL, the veterans of the Baltimore Beasts had been the ones to make him feel at home. Their patience, their advice—those were things he’d never forget.

He’d housed a few rookies back in Baltimore, especially after he’d gotten the C.

He’d done up his basement with a bathroom and private entry—the only thing he hadn’t added was a kitchenette.

The last thing he’d needed was his house burning down because the nineteen-year-old that had been staying with him couldn’t boil water.

So, Auston had no fucking reason to dislike Chase.

Except for his scent.

Auston knew it was politically incorrect to judge someone solely for their scent, but it wasn’t like Auston deemed Chase unworthy because of his scent profile.

It was the lack of scent that got to him.

Or, no, not a lack of scent, but an absence of emotional scent—the changes in pheromones according to someone’s emotional state.

Auston used to give people the benefit of the doubt when it came to quiet scents. Some people were more private. Some people had to keep a lid on their scent because they were used to being around people who weren’t trustworthy.

There were legitimate reasons to learn how to control your scent.

But to do it that well ? That was just fucking suspicious.

There was only one person Auston had ever met who could control their scent like that, and it was his shitty, manipulative ex.

God, Auston still didn’t know how he’d stayed with Hunter that long. Now that the relationship was long over and he could view it from the outside, everything seemed so obvious.

While he was in it, though, he’d been completely blinded by Hunter’s charm. His innocent, soft-spoken persona, his subtle scent. Auston had been intrigued, caught in the spell of drawing Hunter out of his shell, of taking care of him.

Turned out, Hunter didn’t need taking care of…at least, not in any way that wasn’t financial.

It’d started with Auston’s teammates. Hunter would get upset when Auston spent too much time with them, claiming that they got enough time together during road trips. Auston tried to explain that, as a leader, he had to go celebrate with the team after certain games, certain milestones.

Hunter wouldn’t listen. Would claim Auston didn’t really love him, that Auston was mean, abusive, neglectful.

That was the thing about Hunter. He’d never get angry . Would never shout or hit. What he’d done, it didn’t feel like abuse, but Auston could see now how he’d ended up as a shell of himself. Had been riddled with guilt, had felt useless, like a bad partner, a bad Alpha.

Hunter had used silence and tears as weapons, and Auston had suffered a million cuts.

Auston had diminished the time he spent with his teammates. Even on the road, Hunter would want Auston to call him instead of going out, and Auston would feel so fucking guilty he’d do it.

If Auston had been able to access to Hunter’s scent back then, he could have seen right through him.

Hunter wasn’t upset or scared or lonely. He was possessive, angry, and bitter, and it had taken Auston’s sister and his friend and teammate Mark to mount an intervention for him to snap out of it.

Now, he couldn’t help being suspicious when people could flatten their scent the way Hunter did.

The way Chase could.

Maybe it was unfair to the kid, but why would someone that young learn to control their scent that well?

The only reason Auston could think of was to manipulate people.

Auston’s skin crawled thinking about it, but it wasn’t exactly like he could tell Chase what to do with his scent.

What he could do was make it clear that he wasn’t playing along with the rookie’s game. Chase could bat his eyelashes and give Auston big, hurt eyes, but unless it seeped into his scent, Auston knew his chirping wasn’t really getting to Chase, and there was no reason to stop.

Beside him on the couch, his phone buzzed. He glanced at the lit-up screen, leaning closer to read the text that had just come through.

Mark

Stop ignoring me you dick

Auston rolled his eyes, picking the phone up. He unlocked it with a press of his thumb and then swiped into his friend’s contact.

It rang exactly once before Mark picked up.

“Wow. I can’t believe the great Auston Mazdaki took time out of his busy day to call me. I’m truly blessed.”

“Oh, quit with the dramatics. I’ve been in New Orleans for like three days,” Auston argued.

He and Mark were close—had played on the Baltimore Beasts together, had won two cups side by side.

Mark had retired four years ago, moving back to his hometown of New Orleans with his mate.

Had gotten pregnant a few months after and popped out two pups.

Auston was happy for him. He hadn’t been avoiding his friend. At least not any more than he was avoiding everything else in his life.

“Try a month,” Mark retorted.

“Excuse me for settling in.”

“You’re so full of shit. How’s your depressed ass doing, eh?”

“I’m not depressed ,” Auston argued. And he wasn’t. He was just irritated. And snappy. And empty. A little hollow, really, lacking motivation, and energy, and—but he wasn’t fucking depressed.

“Right, okay. You know, I went to a really good therapist after I retired…”

Auston wrinkled his nose. He didn’t need a therapist . “I don’t need a therapist.”

“Bro, I mean this with all the love in my heart, but no one needs a therapist more than you.”

Auston let out a squawk. On the other end of the line, he could hear a faint voice ask, “Is that Aus?”

“See? She knew it was you just by that comment,” Mark teased.