Fuck my life.
I pull my practice jersey over my pads, the familiar heft of my gear settling on my shoulders. In the mirror across the room, I look the same as I always have. Still 6'4", still built like the defensive wall I'm supposed to be. But underneath, everything's changing. Cells rewiring. Chemistry shifting. Body preparing for a clusterfuck I never asked for.
The suppressants should buy me time. That's what the doctor at the clinic said, the one I found only afterthreeother assholes outright refused to prescribe to a fresh presentation without "stabilization time." But this one understood. Or at least, took my money without too many questions.
"These will delay your heat and mask your nature significantly if you pair them with the blockers," she'd explained, handing over the prescription like it was contraband. "But they're not a permanent solution."
I don't need permanent. I just need enough time to show them all I'm still me. Still The Brick. Still the same player who earned his spot on this team through seven years of blood and broken bones.
I press a fresh scent blocker patch against my neck, right over my scent gland. It burns like a motherfucker, but I just grit my teeth. Better than the alternative. Better than smelling like an omega, like something that needs protecting.
By the time I hit the ice, the fresh blockers and suppressants have kicked in fully. My hands are steady, my focus laser-sharp. I start with simple drills, testing my edges, my balance. Everything works like it should. Better, even. My reflexes seem quicker, my awareness of the space around me heightened.
Is this what being an omega is like? This hyperawareness? This sensitivity to everything?
I push the thought away and skate harder, faster. I slam pucks against the boards, each one a satisfying crack of rubber against fiberglass. I imagine each one is Zayn's smug face. His voice echoes in my head.
“I don't fight omegas. It's not sporting.”
Fuck him.
At least imagining him eating every puck I shoot helps me focus.
I'm so absorbed in my personal war against the pucks that I don't notice I'm no longer alone until I hear skates cutting ice behind me. I turn, puck balanced on my stick, to see Coach standing at the bench, arms crossed.
"Malloy." His face gives nothing away. "Didn't expect to see you here."
I skate over, heart hammering against my ribs. "I'm cleared for practice."
He gives me a long look. "Medical didn't send me anything."
"It just came through," I lie, meeting his gaze steadily. "Call them if you want."
He won't. He can't, not this early. By the time the office opens, practice will be halfway over. But I can hope he buys my bluff.
"You sure you're ready?" he asks, studying me carefully. "That was a nasty hit. Never seen you go down like that."
"I'm fine." The words come out harsher than intended. "Concussion symptoms are gone. Just needed some rest."
Coach's eyes narrow slightly, like he's trying to solve a puzzle. I hold my breath, waiting for him to mention the other thing.
Theomegathing.
Aidan said no one else knows, but what if someone at the hospital leaked it?
"You smell different," he says finally.
My stomach drops, but I keep my expression blank. "New soap."
It's a ridiculous excuse, but Coach just nods slowly. "Well, good to have you back." He glances at the clock on the scoreboard. "Team's due in thirty. Nothing too aggressive today, you hear me? No contact drills for you."
I open my mouth to protest, but he cuts me off with a raised hand.
"That's non-negotiable, Malloy. You took a knee to the head a week ago and followed it up with an ice massage. We ease you back in."
I know better than to challenge him. Challenging him will only give him more reason to push, and if he pushes, he might notice something.
"Yeah, sure, Coach."
