Next time. Two simple words that shouldn't feel like such a victory, but they do. I'm already looking forward to it more thanI probably should be, considering there's still a good chance the others will run her off.
Now I just have to get the rest of the pack on the same page.
Chapter
Fourteen
JAX
Islump deeper into the leather couch, staring at the half-empty tumbler of bourbon in my hand. After an emergency meeting with the team owner about ticket sales, since apparently a one-percent drop is the end of the world, I need the drink.
I take another sip, letting the burn coat my throat. The bourbon doesn't taste as good as it usually does. Nothing really has since that night on the ice when Darren's scent changed everything.
The memory replays for what must be the thousandth time. Darren crumpled on the ice, that woodsmoke scent suddenly filling the arena, the shock on everyone's faces. The way my own body responded instantly, some primal part of me recognizingpack omegabefore my brain could catch up.
God, what a mess.
I set the glass down and rub my temples. Darren is right about one thing—if word gets out, the media circus will be unbearable. Male omegas are rare enough, but a professional athlete presenting at twenty-seven? They'll descend likevultures. And that's before the league office gets involved with their "safety concerns" and "biological suitability assessments."
The worst part is, I'm not entirely sure they'd be wrong. Every time Darren takes a hit on the ice now, my chest seizes up. Every instinct screaming to protect, to shield, to pull him off the ice entirely. It's getting harder to ignore, even with the suppressants masking his scent.
And if I'm struggling—me, who prides himself on control—then what chance do the others have? Zayn's already a loose cannon on his best days. Dmitri nearly took a guy's head off last game for a routine check on Darren. And Aidan’s so obviously mooning over Darren, it's painful to watch.
But if Darren gets benched, or worse, cut loose because of his designation... I don't think he'll stay with the pack. And why would he? We're teammates first, pack second. Always have been. Without hockey binding us together, what's to stop him from finding another pack? Especially if he associates us with his awakening.
The thought sends a cold spike through my chest that has nothing to do with the ice we skate on. Darren leaving. Walking away from the pack bond we've built over years. From me.
And I'm still trying to untangle how much of that dread comes from losing a packmate versus losing our suddenly-omega packmate. The distinction shouldn't matter, but it does. It matters in ways I don't want to examine too closely.
The front door slams with enough force to rattle the windows, jerking me from my thoughts. I look up to find Darren standing in the entryway looking like he's about to murder someone. Preferably me.
And he's wearing a suit. An actual tailored navy suit that fits his broad shoulders perfectly, with a crisp white shirt open at the collar. No tie, but still more dressed up than I've seen him... maybe ever. Even at mandatory press events, getting Darreninto anything more formal than a team-issued polo is like trying to bathe a feral cat.
My brain short circuits.
He looks good.Toogood. The kind of good that makes my mouth go dry and my thoughts scatter in directions they have no business going. I force my eyes up to his face, which is currently setting a new record for "if looks could kill."
"What's wrong?" I ask, knowing damn well what's wrong.
"What's wrong?" he echoes, voice dangerously calm. "The restaurant. Ring any bells?"
My heart drops to somewhere around my ankles. Fuck. The date. His blind date that we were all supposed to attend. The one he told us about in no uncertain terms after the last game.
"Oh," I manage. "Right. The date."
"Yeah," he says, the word dripping with venom. "The date. The one you all promised to show up for."
I set my glass down and stand, guilt washing over me in a wave. "Darren, I'm so sorry. I completely forgot." It's the truth, which only makes it worse. "The owner called me in for an emergency meeting and it completely slipped my mind."
His eyes narrow, suspicion replacing some of the anger. "What did he want?"
"Just playoff ticket strategies," I answer, not wanting him to worry. Even that would probably piss him off. "Wants to make sure we're maximizing revenue with the right seat allocations."
Darren studies me, and I know he doesn't fully believe me. Seven years as teammates gives you a pretty good bullshit detector. But he lets it go, jaw still tight.
"And the others?" he asks.
"I don't know," I admit. "I didn't talk to them. Like I said, I completely forgot until now."
