What are your must-haves?
I leave that blank, because I don't even know anymore.
What are your hard nos?
I check only two boxes. Packs with an omega. Packs seeking an omega.
After signing for consent, I close the app and pour myself another glass of wine. Time to get back to the one area of my life that isn't a complete disaster.
Work.
Chapter
Ten
DMITRI
Iwrap the tape around my wrist one more time, making sure it's tight enough to stay but not so tight it cuts my circulation. Game nights have their own pattern, a comfort when everything else feels uncertain. Tonight especially.
The locker room buzzes with pre-game energy, but underneath it all, there's a current of anxiety that doesn't belong. Eyes that dart too often to one stall. Conversations that pause when a certain defenseman walks past. Nobody wants to acknowledge the elephant in the room.
Darren sits in his stall across the room, focused entirely on his own pre-game routine. Methodical. Competent. Same as always. But nothing is truly the same anymore, is it?
I can still remember the woodsmoke scent that flooded the ice when he went down. The way it changed everything in an instant. But tonight, I smell nothing from him. The blockers work well, maybe a little too well. It's unsettling, like looking at a familiar face with the eyes photoshopped out.
"You good?" Jax asks, dropping onto the bench beside me. He keeps his voice low, for my ears only.
I nod once. "Fine."
He studies me for a moment longer than necessary. Jax has always been perceptive. It's what makes him a good captain. "Just remember, nothing's changed on the ice."
But that's a lie, and we both know it. Everything has changed. We just haven't figured out what it means yet.
I finish with my tape and flex my fingers, watching Darren from the corner of my eye. He moves with the confidence he's always had, but there's a new awareness in how he holds himself. Like he expects an attack from any direction.
The truth is, I'm not worried about Darren performing the way he always has. I'm worried about how I'll react if someone takes a run at him. If I'll be able to do my job instead of giving in to the new, insistent impulse to protect.
Part of the problem is that, blockers or not, we all know Darren is an omega.Ouromega, even if he wants to be anything else. The other part of the problem is that the other team doesn't.
Coach strides into the room, clipboard in hand, and the usual pre-game hush falls. He reads out line assignments, no surprises there. I'll be on Jax's right wing, Zayn on his left. Peterson sits tonight with Darren back in the lineup, paired with Jones on defense.
"Kings are coming in hot off a three-game win streak," Coach says, his voice gravelly from years of shouting behind benches. "Their top line's been connecting like they share a brain. Malloy, Jones, I need you two locked in tonight. No space, no time."
Darren nods, face set in determination. He's been waiting for this, his chance to prove nothing's changed. I know what that feels like. When I first came to America, every shift was about proving I belonged. That I wasn't just an outsider with a mean check.
"Vinogradov," Coach continues, turning to me. "I want you hounding their transition game. Force them to make mistakes."
"Understood," I say simply. Force mistakes. Create havoc. This is what I do.
Coach goes through the rest of the strategy, but my mind drifts. I find myself observing the room, noting the subtle shifts in our pack dynamic. Zayn keeps glancing at Darren with something between curiosity and challenge. Aidan's attention keeps returning to him as well, though his expression holds nothing but earnest concern. And Jax, our captain, is working overtime to pretend everything is normal while simultaneously monitoring everyone's reactions. Especially Darren's.
We are a pack trying to find new balance. Like wolves adjusting when rankings shift.
Twenty minutes later, we're in the tunnel, the roar of the crowd vibrating through the concrete beneath our feet. I roll my shoulders, settling my gear more comfortably. The calm before violence.
Darren stands ahead of me in line, his broad shoulders squared beneath his pads. From behind, there's no sign of what's changed. Same number 47. Same stance. Same ritual of tapping his stick blade three times against the floor before stepping onto the ice.
Then we're moving, skating out into the bright lights and wall of noise. The home crowd roars its welcome as we circle the ice. Aidan leads us, rookie goalie taking his position in the crease early to settle his nerves. Smart kid. He's learned fast.
