"Oh no," I breathe, the pieces clicking into place with horrible clarity. "No, no, no."
"What?" The man next to me is looking at me with concern now. "What's wrong?"
But I can't answer him. Can't form words past the sudden understanding that's crashing over me like a cold wave. The suppressants. He's been on them for months, pushing his body to maintain his beta façade, ignoring his omega biology. And now, in the middle of a game, in front of thousands of people,surrounded by alphas and aggression and intense physical stress...
Darren is going into heat.
Chapter
Thirty-Five
AIDAN
The puck slides across the ice like it's on fucking rails, and I snatch it out of the air with my glove before Vancouver's center can even blink. The crowd groans, and I can't help the shit-eating grin that spreads across my face. We're demolishing these assholes, and Lexie's watching from the VIP box. Life doesn't get much better.
"Nice save, rookie!" Zayn calls as he skates past, tapping my pads with his stick.
I flip the puck to Dmitri, who starts the breakout with that ease that makes him so fucking dangerous. Everything's clicking tonight. We're moving like one organism, five bodies with a single mind, and Vancouver can't keep up.
But something's off.
I track the play as it develops, ready for the inevitable shot that'll come my way, but my eyes keep drifting to Darren. He's in position, doing all the right things, but there's an offness with the way he's moving. Like he's fighting against his own body instead of working with it.
The whistle blows for an offside, and I take the opportunity to skate out to the blue line, pretending to adjust my gear whilereally getting a better look at our omega defenseman. Up close, it's worse. Sweat's pouring off him in rivers, way more than it should be even with the intensity of the game. His face is flushed, and not the good kind of flushed from exertion.
"You good, Brick?" I ask, keeping my voice low.
He doesn't look at me, just nods sharply. "Fine. Get back in your net."
But he's not fine. I've spent enough time around Darren to know his tells. The way his jaw clenches when he's fighting an injury. The slight tremor in his hands that he's trying to hide by gripping his stick tighter. The way he keeps shifting his weight on the ice like his gear suddenly doesn't fit right.
Fuck.
The ref drops the puck, and I scramble back to my crease, but my focus is split now. Half on the game, half on Darren. He wins a battle along the boards, but when he pivots to make the outlet pass, he stumbles. Just for a second, barely noticeable to anyone not watching for it, but I see it.
My heart drops.
No. Not here. Not now.
Vancouver gets a shot off, and I make the save on autopilot, my body moving without conscious thought while my brain tailspins. Darren's been on suppressants for months. We all knew they weren't a permanent solution, but he's been so careful. Why now? Why in the middle of a fucking game in a hostile arena with thousands of people watching?
The play continues, but I can't shake the dread building in my chest. Every time Darren touches the puck, I hold my breath. Every hit he takes makes me want to charge out of my net and protect him. Which is insane. He's Darren fucking Malloy, The Brick. He doesn't need protection.
Except maybe he does.
The second period ends with us up 3-0, but I barely register Jax's goal. All I can see is Darren practically collapsing on the bench, Jax leaning over him with that captain's concern that usually means someone's about to get benched.
I can't hear what they're saying from my end of the ice, but I can read body language well enough. Darren's shaking his head, stubborn as always. Jax is commanding. Probably trying to get him off the ice.
Come on, Darren. Just listen to him for once.
But no. Of course not. When the third period starts, Darren's back out there, and now I'm genuinely panicked. Because I'm not the only one who's noticed something's wrong.
Vancouver's players are predators, just like us. They smell weakness like blood in the water. I see it in the way their biggest defenseman—Brennan, I think—keeps eyeing Darren. The way their forwards are suddenly targeting him specifically, testing him with little shoves and jabs after the whistle.
They don't know what's wrong yet, but they know he's a target.
"Heads up, boys," I mutter to myself, tracking the play as Vancouver brings it into our zone.
