"He's processing!" I throw up my hands in frustration. "It's been a week, Zayn. One week since his entire life turned upside down. You think he's just going to roll over and accept it because you decide he should?"
Zayn takes a long sip of water, studying me over the bottle. When he lowers it, his expression is harder.
"You care an awful lot about his feelings, rookie."
The insinuation in his tone makes my face heat up. "He's my teammate. My packmate."
"Mmhmm." Zayn's eyes narrow slightly. "And does he smell like just another packmate to you? Or something else?"
"What's that supposed to mean?" My voice comes out sharper than intended.
"Nothing," Zayn says innocently. "Just wondering where all this protectiveness is coming from all of a sudden."
I clench my jaw, resisting the urge to punch that knowing look off his face. "I'm going to check on him."
"I wouldn't if I were you," Zayn calls after me as I head for the door. "He's not in a very receptive mood. And with those pre-heat pheromones he's putting out, you might find yourself?—"
"Shut up," I snap, not turning around. "Just... shut up."
I head for the stairs instead, taking them three two at a time, Zayn's laughter following me like a shadow.
Part of me wants to go after Darren, but I know he'd just think I'm being overprotective, and that's the last thing he needs right now.
I just don't know what Ishoulddo.
Chapter
Eight
DARREN
Ipull into the practice facility parking lot at 6:15 AM, two hours before I'm supposed to show up. Or at least, it would be if anyone was expecting me. My hands shake slightly as I cut the engine, not from nerves, but from the cocktail of chemicals currently flooding my system.
The suppressants tasted like battery acid going down. The doctor at the omega clinic warned me they might make me jittery, might mess with my sleep, might cause "mild discomfort" until my body adjusted.
Medical speak for "they'll make you feel like absolute horse shit." But feeling like horse shit is better than feeling like an omega.
At least for now.
The security guard does a double-take when I badge in. "Malloy? Thought you were on injured reserve."
"Not anymore." I keep walking, not slowing down for questions I don't want to answer.
The locker room is empty this early, exactly as planned. I need time to gear up, to get onto the ice before anyone can try totalk me out of this. I drop my bag at my stall, which is still there, still has my name on it, and take a slow breath.
The air feels different in my lungs now. Sharper. More information in every inhale, like suddenly upgrading from standard definition to 4K. Even with the blockers, I can still smell faint traces of my teammates lingering from yesterday's practice.
Bourbon. Pine. Leather. Vanilla.
I shake my head, trying to clear it. Focus on the task at hand.
I start dressing methodically, muscle memory taking over. Jock. Compression shorts. Base layer. Socks. Shin guards. Padded pants. I've done this thousands of times, but today it feels like I'm putting on armor for battle.
The doctors said I'm cleared for light activity. The concussion symptoms have mostly subsided, just occasional dizziness when I turn too quickly. But that's not why they wanted me to stay on IR.
"Your body is adjusting to significant hormonal changes," Dr. Casell had said, her eyes full of concern that made me want to punch a wall. "Physical exertion could accelerate the process. Your first heat could arrive sooner than expected."
Like I give a shit. I'm not sitting on my ass waiting for biology to dictate my life. I swear these people think omegas are just supposed to lay around spreading hole in the hopes that we catch a stray knot.
