Darren moves to challenge their winger, but he's half a second too slow. The winger blows past him, and I have to make a desperation save to keep it out of the net. The crowd roars, smelling blood, and I see Darren slam his stick against the boards in frustration.
That's when it happens.
Brennan skates past Darren after the whistle, close enough that I see him lean in and whisper something. I can't hear the words, but I see Darren's whole body go rigid. See the way Brennan's eyes widen, then narrow with predatory interest.
"Oh fuck," I breathe.
Brennan knows. The way he's suddenly circling Darren like a shark, the way his nostrils flare as he obviously scents the air. He fucking knows.
I want to scream a warning, but the play's already restarting. Darren wins the faceoff, but his movements are getting more erratic. The flush on his face is deeper now, and even from my crease, I can see the way his chest heaves with each breath.
Kowalski is conversing with his linemate, who looks at Darren and nods. Then they both look at their bench, and I see their coach's eyes go wide.
Shit. Shit shit shit.
"Time!" I scream, slamming my stick against the post. "We need time!"
But the refs don't hear me over the crowd noise, or maybe they just don't care. The play continues, and now Vancouver's players are actively hunting Darren. Not trying to score, not trying to win. Just hunting.
Jax must sense it too because he's suddenly shadowing Darren, trying to shield him without making it obvious. Dmitri's doing the same on the other side. Even Zayn's dropped back from his usual aggressive positioning.
We're trying to protect our omega, but it's too late.
Brennan gets position on Darren in the corner, and instead of playing the puck, he presses close, his lips forming around words that make Darren drop his gloves and shove him. Hard.
The whistle blows, but Brennan's laughing. "Holy shit, boys!" he shouts, loud enough for the whole arena to hear. "Malloy's in heat! He's a fucking omega!"
Time stops.
The arena goes silent for a heartbeat, even if most of them probably can't hear what was said. But everyone on the ice heard.
Then there's chaos.
The Vancouver bench erupts. Their players are banging their sticks, shouting, and I see at least two of them struggling against their own instincts. The crowd's going insane, some booing, some cheering, most just shocked.
And Darren...
Darren looks like he wants to die.
He's backed against the boards, stick raised defensively, but his whole body is shaking now. The omega in heat pheromones must be pouring off him because I can see our own guys fighting their reactions.
"Get him off the ice!" Jax roars, but it's too late.
Vancouver's enforcer loses it. I see the moment his control snaps, see his eyes go dark and feral as pure alpha instinct takes over. He charges at Darren with a sound that's more animal than human.
I don't think. I just move.
My goalie gear weighs a ton, but adrenaline makes me faster than I've ever been. I launch myself across the ice, catching Morris with a body check that would make Dmitri proud. We go down in a tangle of limbs and equipment, but I'm already swinging before we hit the ice.
My blocker connects with his jaw, snapping his head back. My glove hand finds his throat. And then I'm just... gone. Lost in a red haze of protective fury that burns through every rational thought.
This fucker tried to hurt Darren. Tried to attack my packmate. My omega.
Mine to protect.
I hit him again. And again. His helmet comes off somewhere in the struggle, and my blocker finds his nose, his cheek, his eye. Blood splatters across the ice, across my jersey, across everything. He's trying to fight back, but I've got leverage and rage and primal alpha instincts driving me forward.
"Aidan! Aidan, stop!"