By the time Coach calls for a water break, I'm riding a cautious wave of optimism. This can work. I can make this work.
I skate to the bench, grabbing my water bottle. Aidan slides up beside me, his vanilla scent flavored with excitement.
"You look great out there," he says, taking a swig from his own bottle. "Like nothing's changed."
"That's the idea," I mutter, but I can't help returning his smile. His enthusiasm is infectious, even to a cynical bastard like me.
"The suppressants are working then?" He drops his voice, glancing around to make sure no one's listening.
I nod. "So far. Still feel like I've got the world's worst hangover, but it's manageable."
"And the blockers?" He reaches up, brushing his own neck where the patch would be. "They're not too uncomfortable? My sister says they burn like crazy."
"They're fine." A lie, but a necessary one. The constant burning sensation is a small price to pay for normal. "Tell your sister thanks for the tip."
Aidan beams like I've just told him he's gonna be gracing the cover of Alpha Athletes magazine. Before he can respond, Coach blows his whistle, calling us back to the ice.
"Scrimmage time," he announces. "Blues versus Whites. Malloy, remember—non-contact only."
I groan inwardly. Scrimmages without contact are like pizza without cheese—missing the best part. But I'll take what I can get.
I'm assigned to the Blue team, along with Jax and Jones, and Dmitri, Zayn, and Aidan are on White, which means the rookie will be in net facing our shots. I catch his eye and make a shooting motion. His responding grin is pure challenge.
The scrimmage starts fast, both sides hungry after a week of practices without me clogging up the neutral zone. I stay disciplined, remembering my non-contact restriction, using positioning and stick work to compensate. It's not the same as being able to throw my weight around, but it's still effective.
"Outlet to Malloy!" Jax calls, retrieving a puck behind our net. I cut hard toward the boards, finding the seam for a clean breakout pass.
I take the puck in stride, scanning the ice as I cross the red line. Peterson is streaking up the opposite wing, creating a two-on-one against Dmitri. He's good, but even he can't cover two lanes at once.
I sell the shot, getting Dmitri to commit, then slide a pass across to Peterson who buries it past Aidan's outstretched glove. The kid curses colorfully, slapping his stick against the ice in frustration.
"Don't worry, rookie, I'd have saved it," I call out, skating past the net.
"In your dreams, bro!" he fires back, but there's no heat in it.
We reset for the next shift. As I pass the White bench, I catch Zayn watching me with an unreadable expression. Not quite anger, not quite concern. Somewhere in between that makes my skin crawl.
I push it aside, focusing on the next play, the next shift. One moment at a time. That's how I'll get through this, breaking it down into manageable pieces. This drill. This scrimmage. This practice. This game. Not thinking about heats or designations or the fragile future of my career.
The scrimmage continues, and I fall into the usual rhythm. Skate, defend, transition, repeat. My body feels good. Better than good, actually. There's a new fluidity to my movements, a heightened awareness of space and time that's hard to define. Is it an omega thing? Or just what I've always had, and lost since awakening as one? I guess the suppressants could be normalizing things.
I'm so caught up in the flow that I almost don't notice the subtle differences in how my teammates are playing around me. Almost.
It's small things. Jax positioning himself between me and an oncoming forechecker, even though there's no contact allowed. Dmitri pulling up on a puck battle near the boards when we both arrive at the same time.
Most telling of all is Aidan. When I find myself alone on a breakaway during the final minutes, he squares up in his net like always, competitive fire in his eyes. But when I make my move,a quick deke to the backhand I've scored on him with in practice dozens of times, he reacts a fraction of a second slower than he should.
Like he's hesitating. Like he's...lettingme.
The puck slides across the goal line, and the Blue team whoops and hollers. But the victory feels hollow as I skate past the net, catching Aidan's eye. There's a flicker of protective instinct poorly disguised there that confirms my suspicion.
He let me score.
The little shit fucking let me score.
The realization hits like a crosscheck to the kidneys. Is this what Zayn meant? Are they all going to start handling me differently? Protecting me? Making allowances?
I’m going to fucking gag.
