Twin Aces: Claimed by the Alpha Captain (MM Romance)

Lucian POV

They say Omegas don’t belong on the ice, and they are right. I learned that long before I ever stepped onto a rink like this. The rule was never written down, but it didn’t need to be. It lived in every lingering glance, every quiet rejection, every door that closed just before I could reach it.

Omegas were distractions. They are weak, unstable, and unfit. So I learned how to disappear.

The locker room was already crowded when I entered. The scent hit first—sweat, leather, something instinctive. It pressed into my lungs, sharp and unwelcome. I didn’t let it show. I breathed through it, slow, controlled, quiet, as if I didn’t exist. As if I belonged.

My grip tightened around my gear bag as I moved past rows of open lockers. Conversations dipped slightly, enough to be noticed but not enough to draw suspicion. Heads didn’t turn fully, but awareness shifted. I am new, different, and unfamiliar. I avoided their eyes.

I took the last open locker near the corner, neither hidden nor exposed. Always balanced. I sat and carefully laced my skates, my fingers steady. My pulse was under control.

The suppressant burns faintly at the back of my throat, too strong. My body feels off, dull in some places, and sharp in others. But it’s enough. It has to be.

“New?” The voice came from my left.

I glanced up just enough to acknowledge him. An Alpha, broad and relaxed, his presence filling the space effortlessly.

“Yes,” I replied.

“Didn’t see you in the prelims.”

“I wasn’t there.”

A small chuckle. “Must’ve had connections.”

I didn’t respond. I finished tying my laces, stood, tested my balance, steady, controlled. My hand closed around my stick. Time to leave before the questions sharpened. I walked out.

The corridor was cooler, quieter. The air was easier to breathe, but the tension wasn’t. Ahead, the rink doors were slightly open, light spilling through. I paused. Then I pushed them open.

The ice stretched wide under bright lights, untouched and pristine. The sound of blades cutting across it echoed sharply, filling the space with crisp clarity. Something inside me settled, a calm I couldn’t explain. The ice didn’t care what I was.

“Line up!”

The command sliced through the air. Players moved swiftly toward center ice, forming loose rows. I stepped forward with them, slipping into formation without hesitation. Always blend first. I kept my gaze fixed ahead, aware of the energy around me, quiet competition, sharp ambition, almost violent in everyone’s desire to succeed. So do I.

The whistle blew.

We started the drills: speed, control, and edges. I held back just enough. fast enough not to fall behind, controlled enough not to stand out.

Precision. Efficiency. Nothing else.

Then the second drill shifted, pucks, defenders, pressure. This was where they started to break. I didn’t.

The puck slid toward me. I moved smoothly, taking it without hesitation. A defender closed in, slightly off balance. I saw it instantly, quick shift left, then right, small, efficient movements. I slipped past, momentum carrying me forward. The net was open for a fraction of a second. I didn’t hesitate. The shot left my stick with a sharp crack, striking the net.

I exhaled briefly, releasing tension and feeling clean. I turned away before anyone could focus on me, skating back into position at a steady, measured pace. But I felt it, the shift.

Attention.

“Again!”

The pace increased, faster, rougher, more aggressive. Players pushed themselves, instincts taking over. I adjusted, giving just enough to stay ahead. For a moment, it worked.

Then something changed.

Not on the ice, but around it. I felt it before I saw it, a subtle pressure, heavy and unavoidable. I looked up and saw him.

Orion Kael stood beyond the glass, above the rink. Not in uniform, yet his presence commanded more authority than anyone else on the ice. He didn’t need to move; everything around him seemed still.

Orion wasn’t just the team captain; he was the standard. And right now, he was watching me.

I forced myself to look away, refocusing as the puck re-entered play. My grip tightened slightly on my stick.

Being seen was dangerous. Being seen by Orion Kael was worse.

The drill reset, faster and more aggressive. I moved instinctively, shifting my weight, breaking the angle, accelerating forward. The ice responded instantly, every movement precise, every turn controlled.

A defender moved to block me. Too slow. I slipped past and took the shot before anyone could react. Another goal.

This time, there was no hiding it. I slowed, forcing my breathing steady as awareness spread across the rink. Eyes turned, conversations paused. And above it all, Orion was still watching.

The drills ended sooner than expected.

***

Locker rooms. Results in ten.

Players drifted off the ice in groups, some confident, some quiet. I said nothing. I left.

The hallway felt colder now. Quieter. I leaned briefly against the wall, closing my eyes for a moment. I had done enough. maybe too much.

Footsteps approached. I straightened.

“Virek.”

A coach appeared nearby, clipboard in hand.

“You’re in.”

The words hit harder than I expected. I nodded once. “Understood.”

I walked away, only allowing myself a breath once I reached an empty stretch of hallway. I had made it. the first step. It didn’t feel like victory. It felt unstable.

“You don’t look surprised.”

The voice behind me was low and controlled.

I turned. Orion Kael stood there, closer now, no glass, no distance.

Everything about him felt deliberate, measured. I met his gaze.

“I don’t see a reason to be,” I said.

He studied me silently for a moment.

“You stood out.”

Not praise, just fact.

“I wasn’t trying to.”

A faint smile touched his lips, not quite a smile but something quieter, more dangerous.

He stepped closer, and the space between us vanished.

The suppressant barely held. I felt it, the shift in the air, focused and deliberate. He tilted his head slightly, considering me, then leaned in, close enough that I could feel his heat.

I didn’t move. I couldn’t.

Silence settled between us.

Then he spoke.

“Funny.”

A pause.

“You don’t smell like a Beta.”

The words settled with quiet certainty.

I held his gaze, and for the first time since stepping onto the ice, my control threatened to slip just enough to matter. Because he already knew. And that meant this was never just a tryout.