Chapter 163: Reid In A Rut

​By seven-forty-five, the private garage of the Serpents’ training facility came into view. The parking lot was already starting to fill with the cars of our teammates and staff, a clear sign that the quiet sanctuary of the morning was officially over.

​"Distance," I reminded him quietly as the car came to a smooth stop near the private entrance.

​Reid let out a disgruntled huff, but he let go of my hand, his posture instantly shifting back into his broad, intimidating stance as we gathered our gear bags. "Yeah, yeah. Captain Evans."

​We stepped out of the car, side-by-side, maintaining that clean, professional space between us as we pushed through the heavy glass doors of the facility. The familiar, sterile scent of fresh ice, hockey wax, and damp leather washed over me, completely sweeping away the lingering, heavy air of the McCoy estate.

​The locker room was already buzzing with high-energy chaos. Laughter, the sharp thud of gear bags hitting wooden benches, and the metallic clatter of skates filled the space.

​"Look who finally decided to show up!" Marcus yelled from across the room, tossing a rolled-up tape ball directly at Reid’s chest. Reid caught it effortlessly in one palm, throwing him a glare that held zero actual malice. "We thought your sister held you both hostage after that press statement, Cap!"

​"We were clearing up logistics," I replied smoothly, setting my bag down at my stall and unzipping it with calm, practiced efficiency.

I looked around the room, meeting the eyes of my teammates—men who relied on me to lead them, oblivious to the mountain of chaos we had just barely navigated over the weekend. "The alleyway photos were spun as standard friction. Management has it handled. Our focus is entirely on the Stars this Friday."

​A collective murmur of approval went through the room. The team was hungry for a win, and the distraction of the media was already fading into the background where it belonged.

​"Alright, gather round!" Coach Devin’s loud, booming voice echoed from the doorway, clapping his thick hands together to draw everyone’s attention.

He stepped into the center of the room, a tablet tucked under his arm. "We’ve got four days to refine our power plays before the Stars land on our home ice. Evans, I want you running the first line drills today. McCoy, you’re on enforcer duty—keep their defense off Evans’ hip."

​"Got it, Coach," Reid said, his voice dropping into that deep, lethal tone he saved exclusively for the ice. He caught my eye across the crowded locker room for a split second, a fierce, unspoken promise passing between us.

​I’ve got your back.

​"Gear up, gentlemen," Coach ordered, tapping his clipboard. "Ice in ten."

​As the locker room erupted into a flurry of activity, I pulled my jersey over my head, smoothing down the fabric with the crest of the Serpents resting over my chest. We had buried Edward’s threats, survived Reid’s mother, and kept my secret safe for another day.

The ice was waiting, and for the first time in a long time, the ground beneath my feet felt entirely unbreakable.

For the next three weeks, life moved at a comfortable, rhythmic pace. On the surface, nothing had changed.

To the media, the league, and our teammates, we were still the dynamic, high-performing duo leading the Serpents—a stern, analytical Beta captain and his hot-headed Alpha star winger.

We kept our professional distance in the locker room, exchanged sharp, tactical nods on the ice, and let Marcus handle the lingering press regarding the alleyway photos until the media cycle moved on entirely.

​But behind the locked doors of Reid’s penthouse, our daily life was an entirely different story.

​It was warm. It was domestic. It was a secret world built entirely for the two of us.

​Our routines became seamless. On non-game days, we lounged around in oversized hoodies, eating heavy takeout off the coffee table while rewatching game film or screaming at video games on the big screen.

Reid was surprisingly a very attentive domestic partner—always making sure the fridge was stocked with my favorite snacks, pulling me onto his lap the second I sat on the couch, and randomly pressing lingering, soft kisses to the top of my head while I reviewed line stats.

​And of course, being two athletic men locked away in a private apartment, we spent a staggering amount of time tangled up in his sheets.

It was frequent, passionate, and completely unhurried—a sweet, horny routine that felt less like a desperate struggle for survival and more like two people deeply, hopelessly devoted to each other.

Every touch, every kiss, and every quiet night spent buried in his heavy, frozen pine scent reinforced the foundation beneath us. No one from the league or his family knew about us. No one suspected a thing. Evans’ identity as an Omega remained airtight, locked away behind our quiet, shared glances across the locker room.

​Life was good. We were winning. And before we even had time to catch our breath, we had fought our way all the way to the Semifinals.

​Game 1 against the Vipers was high-octane from the moment the puck dropped. The arena was a deafening sea of blue and white, the energy suffocatingly intense.

​Everything was going smoothly on the scoreboard, but by the middle of the first period, an uneasy, prickling heat began to settle at the back of my neck.

​It wasn’t just the physical exertion of the game. It was Reid.

​He had been running slightly warm for the last two days, his mood edgier than usual. He had brushed it off as pre-game adrenaline, but sitting next to him on the bench during line changes, I could smell the subtle, dangerous shift in his body chemistry.

His usual crisp frozen pine scent was turning heavy, dark, and thick with a territorial edge. I tried my absolute best not to react to it, swallowing down the quiet, instinctive urge in my own body to lean into his heat, keeping my face a stone-cold mask.

​Then came the horn signaling the end of the first period. We filed down the narrow tunnel toward the locker room, our skates clicking heavily on the rubber matting.

​The moment the heavy doors shut behind the team, sealing us inside, Reid suddenly stumbled.

​He slammed his arm against a row of metal lockers to catch himself, his broad shoulders heaving as a violent, suffocating wave of heat exploded off his body. The sterile air of the room was instantly obliterated, replaced by a dense, crushing wall of pure, unadulterated Alpha pheromones.

​"What the hell..." Russo gagged, taking a sharp step back as his eyes widened in shock.

​The entire locker room went dead silent and the players froze as one thing came to everybody’s mind.

​Reid was going into a rut.

​And not just a mild, manageable one—a sudden, aggressive, out-of-control rut, triggered by the intense exertion, high stakes, and built-up fever.

His grey eyes were blown wide, bloodshot, and burning with a terrifying, primal haze. His throat worked as a low, feral growl vibrated deep in his chest.

​Shit. My heart slammed against my ribs like a trapped bird.

​Because of the mark on my shoulder, the sudden spike in his Alphan drive hit me like a physical blow.

I stepped backward toward the heavy metal door, forcing every muscle in my face to lock into a stone-cold, unbothered mask. The air in the room was growing impossibly dense, turning thick and suffocating, but I kept my posture rigid, acting as though it were nothing more than a sudden spike in room temperature.

​"Why is the air so heavy all of a sudden?" I demanded, my voice even and clinical as I looked around the room, mimicking the mild confusion of a Beta completely immune to Alpha chemistry.

​Gerald, sitting on the bench opposite Reid, suddenly pulled his jersey over his nose, his eyes widening in alarm. "Shit, Cap... it’s Reid. It feels like he’s going into a rut."

​My pulse hammered violently against my ribs, but before I could speak, Reid’s head snapped up.

​Through the fevered, dangerous fog consuming his mind, his grey eyes locked directly onto mine. The sheer, possessive intensity in his gaze was so raw it made my entire body go rigid. The mark on my shoulder throbbed with a sudden, searing heat, my fingers twitching as my hold on my gym bag tightened to a white-knuckled grip.

​Reid swallowed hard, his jaw clenching as he fought against his own wild instincts, his voice dropping into a rough, gravelly rasp. "I’m fine. I can manage."

​"Like hell you can," I muttered under my breath, watching his knuckles turn white against the bench.

​I turned toward Marcus who had just stepped into the doorway with a stack of game sheets. He immediately recoiled, his hand flying to his nose as the crushing wall of Reid’s pheromones hit the hallway.

​"Marcus," I called out, keeping my voice urgent yet strictly professional, relying on him as the manager. "Can you help get him out of here? He can’t stay in this environment, and he certainly can’t go back out on the ice like this. We need to get him home before the media catches wind of it."