"Let's order in," Darren decides, crushing the empty plastic bottle in his fist. "Nothing here looks good."
"What do you want? There's that Thai place down the street, or?—"
"Pizza." His voice leaves no room for negotiation. "Double pepperoni, extra cheese. From Gino's, not that chain bullshit Zayn likes."
I smile, relieved to hear him expressing a preference. "Gino's it is."
While I place the order on my phone, Darren prowls around the living room like he's seeing it for the first time. He stops at the large windows overlooking the city, hands shoved in his pockets.
"They're going to cut me," he says abruptly, his back to me.
I fumble the credit card I was about to input. "What? No, they're not."
"Don't bullshit me, kid." He turns to face me, blue eyes hard. "There are no omegas in the NHL. Not one. Not ever."
"That doesn't mean?—"
"It means exactly what it means." He cuts me off. "Once word gets out, I'm done. Seven years building my career, and it's over just like that."
The resignation in his voice twists my gut. I'm not used to seeing Darren like this. Not joking. Not talking shit. Just serious and defeated. I set my phone down, forgetting about the pizza.
"You don't know that for sure," I argue. "The team wants you back. Jax is already talking to management about?—"
"Jax needs to mind his own fucking business." Darren stalks to the couch and drops onto it, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. "No amount of captainly intervention is going to change biology and he can't bark the coach into submission."
So he's still pissed about that. Not that I can really blame him. I know Jax feels like shit, but saying that won't do much now.
I move to sit in the armchair across from him, choosing my next words carefully. "Maybe not. But that doesn't mean your career is over. You're still you. Still the best defenseman I've ever played with."
His eyes flick up to mine, suspicion warring with an emotion that looks almost like hope. "You're just saying that because you're afraid I'll punch you if you don't."
I laugh, the sound startling in the tense atmosphere. "Dude, I've been afraid you'd punch me since the first day of training camp when I let in that softie from the blue line."
A ghost of a smile touches his lips. "I wouldn't have punched you. Maybe just put you in a headlock until you promised to do better."
"That's because you're not an asshole."
"Debatable."
"No, it's not." I lean forward, matching his posture. "Look, I know I'm just the rookie, and I don't understand half of what you're going through. But I do know this. I've looked up to you since I signed with the team. Not because you were a beta or an alpha or whatever, but because you work harder than anyone I've ever met. Because you put the team first, always."
Darren stares at me, his expression unreadable. "You've been practicing that speech, haven't you?"
Heat creeps up my neck. "Maybe a little. In the hallway. Like, the first four times I almost knocked."
He shakes his head, but his gaze is softer now. "You're a weird kid, McKinney."
"So I've been told." I hesitate, then push ahead. "For what it's worth, I still think you're the same player. The same guy. Nothing's changed that matters."
"Everything's changed," he says quietly. "You just don't see it yet because you're young and stupidly optimistic."
"Maybe. Or maybe you're just old and grumpy."
He snorts again. "Twenty-seven is not old."
"It's young inpeopleyears, but it's ancient in goalie years."
This time he actually laughs. A short, rusty sound like he's forgotten how. "I needed this." He scrubs a hand over his face. "Just... normal shit-talking. No one tiptoeing around me like I'm made of glass."
