Chapter 2: Locker Room Static

Chapter Two: Locker Room Static

The locker room reeked of old sweat, Bengay, and panic.

Jax slumped onto the bench, elbows braced on his knees, head hanging low. The medic some kid who looked barely old enough to shave hovered like a nervous gnat, pressing a cold pack to the back of Jax’s neck as if ice could fix whatever the hell his body was doing.

“Temperature’s one-oh-two point eight,” the kid muttered, checking the thermometer again like it might rethink its life choices. “That’s not normal post-hit. You sure you didn’t take anything? Supplements? New pre-workout?”

Jax barked a laugh that turned into a cough. “Yeah. Chugged omega juice this morning. Forgot to tell Coach.”

The medic blinked.

Didn’t laugh.

Probably because Jax’s scent was flooding the room now thick, syrupy, unmistakable. Even the kid’s nostrils flared before he caught himself and looked away.

Jax scrubbed his hands over his face, pressing his palms into his eyes until sparks danced. The heat was still there. The slick between his thighs. The heavy ache curling low in his belly. His gland throbbed every time he drew a deep breath, like his body had decided tonight was the night to rewrite twenty-eight years of medical certainty.

Beta.

He’d been beta. Safe. Invisible. No heats. No ruts. No alphas circling him like sharks. Just a big guy who hit hard and kept his head down.

Now this.

The door banged open.

Coach Ramirez stormed in, face flushed, clipboard already halfway to being a weapon. “Harlan! What the fuck was that out there? You drop like a sack of bricks and leave us short-handed in the third?”

Jax didn’t lift his head. “Sorry, Coach. Must’ve eaten something bad.”

Ramirez stopped mid-rant.

Sniffed once. Then again.

The anger drained from his face, replaced by something dangerously close to horror. “Jesus Christ,” he breathed. “You’re presenting.”

Jax looked up at last. “No shit.”

“You were listed beta. Medicals said”

“Medicals were wrong.” His voice cracked on the last word. He hated it. Hated how small it sounded.

Ramirez dragged a hand down his face and paced two steps before stopping. “We need to get you to the hospital. Full panel. Suppressants if they’ll even work now. The league’s going to want”

“No hospital.” Jax pushed up too fast; the room tilted. He grabbed the locker behind him to stay upright. “I’m not a damn sideshow. Just… give me a minute. I’ll ride it out.”

“You’re leaking scent so hard the Zamboni driver probably has a boner,” Ramirez snapped. “You think you can ‘ride it out’ in the middle of a playoff push?”

Jax didn’t have an answer.

The door opened again quieter this time. An assistant coach leaned in, eyes darting. “Uh, Coach? Kane’s outside. Says he needs to talk to Harlan. League observer’s with him.”

Ramirez swore. “Tell him to fuck off.”

“He won’t leave. Says it’s… urgent.”

Jax’s stomach dropped.

Pine. Smoke. Alpha.

The memory of Kane’s scent surged back, stronger now, like it had followed him down the tunnel and seeped under the door.

“Let him in,” Jax said.

Ramirez stared at him. “You sure?”

“No,” Jax said honestly. “But if I don’t deal with this now, it’s gonna follow me home. Might as well rip the bandage off.”

A beat. Then Ramirez jerked his head. “Fine. But I’m staying. And if he breathes wrong, I throw his ass out myself.”

The door opened wider.

Ronan Kane stepped inside.

No helmet. No gloves. Sweat-dark hair falling into his eyes. His jersey still clung to him, sleeves shoved up to reveal forearms corded with muscle. His gaze locked onto Jax immediately, sharp and unyielding.

The air thickened.

Jax’s gland pulsed in response. Traitorous fucking body.

Kane stopped five feet away. Close enough for Jax to see the tension in his jaw, the way his hands flexed like he was holding himself back by force of will alone.

“You okay?” Kane asked.

Low. Rough. Nothing like his on-ice bark.

Jax snorted. “Do I look okay?”

Kane’s gaze dropped slow, deliberate taking in the damp underlayer clinging to Jax’s chest, the way his thighs pressed together, instinctively trying to hide the slick. When Kane looked back up, his pupils were blown wide.

“You smell like” He cut himself off, swallowing. “You weren’t supposed to be an omega.”

“Yeah, well.” Jax spread his hands a fraction. “Life’s full of surprises.”

Silence stretched between them. Heavy. Charged.

Kane took a step closer.

Jax didn’t retreat. Couldn’t. His instincts screamed in opposite directions run and submitvand he hated them both.

“I didn’t mean to,” Kane said. “The hit. I didn’t know.”

“Bullshit,” Jax said, but there wasn’t much bite left in it. “You smelled it the second it happened. Same as me.”

Kane nodded once. “Yeah.”

Another step. Now they were an arm’s length apart. Jax could feel the alpha’s heat rolling off him, could practically taste it.

“Don’t,” Jax warned, voice barely steady.

Kane stopped but his eyes didn’t. They stayed fixed on Jax’s neck, on the swollen gland still leaking, still begging.

“I’m not going to touch you,” Kane said quietly. “Not unless you ask.”

Jax laughed, sharp and bitter. “Never happening.”

Kane’s mouth curved not quite a smile. More like a promise. “We’ll see.”

Ramirez cleared his throat loudly. “Alright. That’s enough. Kane, out. Harlan, sit your ass down before you faceplant.”

Kane hesitated. His gaze flicked to Jax’s mouth, then back to his eyes. “This isn’t over,” he said, soft as a bruise.

Then he turned and left.

The door clicked shut.

Jax exhaled a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. His legs gave out; he dropped back onto the bench.

Ramirez watched him for a long moment. “You good?”

“No,” Jax muttered. “Not even close.”

And beneath the panic, the shame, the relentless ache, there was something worse something sharp and curious and dangerous.

A part of him already wondering what it would feel like if Ronan Kane did touch him.

That thought scared him more than the heat ever could.