He nods once, then heads back toward the tunnel. I return to my drills, a new energy fueling each stride, each shot. I've got thirty more minutes to warm up properly, to prove to myself that I can do this.
Thirty minutes before I have to face them. My teammates. My pack.
I lose track of time, focused entirely on the rhythm of skate, shoot, retrieve. The sound of voices from the tunnel pulls me back to reality. They're here.
I straighten up, squaring my shoulders as the first players emerge onto the ice. Aidan comes first, as usual. The kid's always early, eager as a puppy. He stops dead when he sees me, jaw dropping comically.
"Darren?" His voice carries across the ice. "Holy shit!"
I can't help the small smirk that tugs at my lips. "Morning, rookie."
He skates over, eyes wide with surprise and relief. "You're back! I thought—we all thought—" He stops, obviously unsure what to say next. He tries to hide it, but I can tell he's scenting the air. Noticing what's there, or rather, what isn't.
His eyes are practically bugging out of his head.
"You—" He glances around, lowers his voice. "How did you...?"
I tap the scent blocker patch on my neck hidden beneath my hair and my gear. "Modern medicine. Amazing what they can do these days."
Understanding dawns on his face. "You actually did it. The suppressants and blockers."
"Your idea," I remind him. "Not a bad one."
Before he can respond, the rest of the team starts filtering onto the ice. Their instantaneous reaction is exactly what I hoped for. Confusion, surprise, disbelief. Dmitri stops mid-stride, his massive frame going still as a statue. Jones and Peterson, the other new sub, exchange glances, clearly wondering if they missed some announcement about my return.
Then Zayn emerges from the tunnel.
His reaction alone makes the battery-acid flavored suppressants worthwhile. He freezes, dark eyes narrowing as he spots me. The leather scent I've come to associate with him spikes with what I can only describe as outrage, even though it's not as intense to me right now. It's oddly satisfying.
"What the fuck?" he says, loud enough for everyone to hear.
I casually flip a puck with my stick, catching it flat on the blade. "Morning to you too, Copeland."
Zayn looks around wildly, like he's searching for someone to confirm he's not hallucinating. "You can't be here."
"Funny, I thought this was where the team practices." I toss the puck in the air, catch it again. "And last I checked, I'm still on the team."
Coach blows his whistle, interrupting whatever Zayn was about to say. "Alright, ladies! Circle up! Malloy's back with us today, non-contact only. Lane drills to start, then we'll run the power play."
The team gathers, most still casting confused glances my way. I keep my expression neutral, chin up, jaw tight, daring anyone to challenge my presence. Jax skates up beside me, his gray eyes intense.
"We need to talk," he says quietly. "After the circle."
I give him a slight nod. I knew this was coming. We haven't talked since he used his fucking bark on me, even if I'm pretty sure it wasn't on purpose now that I've had time to cool down and think.
Coach runs through today's practice plan, laying out drills and strategy adjustments for our upcoming game against the Blues. I listen intently, focusing on the hockey, on the comforting rhythm of preparation. This is what matters. Not biology, not designations, not the subtle changes I can feel reshaping my body even through the chemical haze of suppressants.
"Alright, split up! Lane drills, let's go!" Coach barks.
As the team disperses, Jax catches my arm, steering me toward the far boards where we can talk without being overheard. His scent, smooth bourbon, reaches me even through the blockers. It shouldn't be comforting. I refuse to let it be comforting.
"What happened to your scent?" Jax asks without preamble, his voice low.
"Blockers," I say, keeping my own voice equally quiet. "And suppressants."
His eyebrows shoot up. "Already? You just presented a week ago."
"Turns out not all doctors are as conservative as the one at the hospital." I shrug, trying to project a casualness I don't feel. "Found a clinic with a doctor who specializes in late presentations. They were more understanding."
