Chapter 3: Aftershocks

Chapter Three: Aftershocks

Ronan didn’t go back to the bench.

When the whistle blew, he skated straight for the tunnel, ignoring the assistant coach shouting his name and the ref waving him toward the penalty box like two minutes mattered worth a damn. The crowd buzzed behind him cheers and boos bleeding together but it all sounded distant, smothered beneath the roar in his head.

That scent.

It clung to his jersey, his gloves, the padding inside his helmet like it had been burned there. Sweet and sharp. Dangerous. He could still taste it on the back of his tongue honey over cedar, threaded with something raw and green, like fresh-cut grass after a storm.

Omega.

Late bloomer.

Jax fucking Harlan.

Ronan ripped off his helmet and slammed it into the concrete wall. The clang echoed down the tunnel. A couple of equipment guys flinched. Nobody said a word.

Smart.

He braced one forearm against the cool block wall and dropped his forehead onto it, breathing through his mouth like that would help.

It didn’t.

The scent was already inside him, coiling low in his gut. His cock twitched traitor and he clenched his jaw hard enough to ache.

Get it together, Kane.

He’d scented omegas before. Locker rooms. Bars. Hotel lobbies on road trips. Most dulled by suppressants, all of them forgettable.

This wasn’t.

This felt personal. Invasive. Like his body had recognized something his brain hadn’t caught up to yet.

And the way Harlan had looked at him in the locker room eyes wide, furious, terrified only made it worse. All that fight wrapped around a flush that begged to be broken. The way his thighs had pressed together, like he was trying to hide how wet he was.

Ronan had wanted to drop to his knees right there, bury his face in Harlan’s neck, and

No.

He shoved off the wall and paced three steps before stopping again.

His father’s voice slid into his head, unwanted and familiar.

Alphas don’t lose control, Ronan. They take it.

Yeah, Dad. And look where that got you.

Banned.

Broke.

Alone.

Ronan dragged both hands through his damp hair, pulling hard. He wasn’t his father. He wasn’t going to let instinct turn him into a headline or a monster who ruined lives just to feed a biological itch.

But fuck if Harlan’s scent wasn’t testing every ounce of control he had.

The door at the end of the tunnel opened. A league observer stepped through clipboard, suit, permanent frown flanked by security.

“Captain Kane,” the suit said. “A word.”

Ronan straightened. “About what?”

“The incident on the ice. Harlan’s… condition.” The pen tapped against the clipboard. “We’ll need statements. Medical reports. Possible suppressant violations.”

Ronan’s stomach tightened. “Violation? He didn’t do anything.”

“We’re not accusing,” the suit said evenly. “Yet. But a late presentation mid-game raises questions. Especially when the triggering contact was you.”

Ronan let out a short, humorless laugh. “You think I scented him on purpose? Threw a hit to force a heat?”

“I think the league has rules about pheromone interference,” the suit replied. “And your family has history.”

There it was. The quiet blade slid between the ribs.

Ronan stepped closer, slow and deliberate. The security guard tensed, hand hovering near his belt. Ronan ignored him.

“My father fixed games,” Ronan said calmly. “He didn’t force presentations. If you want someone to look at, check whoever’s been messing with the suppressant supply chain. Harlan’s tests were clean for years.”

The suit didn’t blink. “We’ll investigate. In the meantime, you’re suspended pending review. One game. Minimum.”

Ronan’s hands curled into fists. “That’s bullshit.”

“Policy.”

They stared at each other for a long second. Then Ronan nodded once and turned away. No point wasting breath.

He headed for the visitors’ locker room, stripping gear as he walked. Jersey. Pads. Dropped them in a heap like shed skin. By the time he reached his stall, he was down to his base layers, skin prickling in the cold air.

His phone buzzed on the shelf.

He ignored it. Agent. Sister. Press. Didn’t matter.

He sat, elbows on knees, head in his hands.

The scent lingered fainter now, but stubborn. It made his ruff want to rise, his teeth ache with the need to bite down on something soft and yielding.

Jax Harlan.

He’d hated the guy for three seasons. Big, mouthy enforcer who never backed down, always chirping just loud enough to get under Ronan’s skin. Ronan had told himself it was rivalry. Simple. Clean.

Now it felt anything but.

A knock sounded against the partition. Marek, his alternate captain, leaned in.

“You good, Cap?”

Ronan didn’t look up. “No.”

Marek hesitated. “They’re saying Harlan presented. Full omega. Right after your hit.”

“Yeah.”

“You… smell him?”

Ronan exhaled through his nose. “Yeah.”

Marek whistled softly. “Shit. You want me to—”

“No.” Ronan stood and grabbed a towel, scrubbing his face. “I want to go home. Shower. Sleep. Forget this happened.”

Marek studied him. “You think you can?”

Ronan met his gaze. “I have to.”

Even as he said it, he knew it was a lie.

Because somewhere across the city, in a different locker room, Jax Harlan was probably curled around the same ache, breathing in the same ghost of Ronan’s scent, fighting the same pull.

And neither of them was winning.