Chapter 205: He Needs Medical Attention

A sudden, violent wave of heat erupted from the base of my spine, washing over my core like a wildfire.

My chest seized, my gasping breaths turning into shallow, ragged pants as my scent glands flared wide open, violently unleashing ten years of repressed biology in a single, uncontrollable burst.

It didn’t seep out slowly—it exploded off me like a biological smoke bomb.

A heavy, suffocating, insanely powerful wave of Omega pheromones rolled across the ice, thick as fog, smelling of rich, sweet, intoxicating orchids laced with the sharp, metallic tang of distress and agony.

And then, the entire arena seemed to freeze.

Players from both teams stopped dead in their tracks, their jaws dropping in absolute, stunned horror as the sweet, overwhelming scent filled the freezing air of the rink. The medical staff who were sprinting onto the ice suddenly stumbled back, their eyes wide, completely paralyzed by the sheer, unnatural potency of the scent cloud radiating off the fallen Captain.

"What... what is that?" Gerald gasped from the bench, his voice cracking with pure disbelief. "Is that... an Omega?"

I lay on the ice, my leg screaming in agony, my body burning up from the inside out, completely helpless as my darkest, most dangerous secret hung thick in the air for twenty thousand people to smell.

The arena, usually a roaring cauldron of thousands of screaming fans, fell into a suffocating, terrifying quiet.

The heavy, sweet fog of sweet orchids rolled over the boards, suffocating the cold air of the rink. In the stands, the smell reached the first few rows, and a ripple of total, paralyzed shock spread upward like a wave.

Whispers turned into gasps, then into a chaotic, rising roar of confusion. Camera flashes rained down from the upper decks as sports journalists scrambled, throwing their headsets on and shouting frantically into their microphones.

On the ice, total anarchy was seconds away from breaking out.

Alpha players on the Wolves’ bench shifted, their eyes turning dark and clouded as the raw, distressed Omega pheromones triggered a primal, dangerous instinct. Two Wolves defensemen began taking slow, predatory steps toward me, their jawlines rigid, drawn toward the sheer distress of the scent.

"STAY THE FUCK BACK!"

Reid’s voice shattered the air like an explosion.

He didn’t care about the cameras. He didn’t care about the League, the referees, or the Stanley Cup. His pine scent spiked—dark, lethal, and suffocatingly dominant—forming an absolute physical and territorial wall around my trembling body.

Reid dropped to his knees beside me, his massive frame shielding me from every lens in the arena. He ripped off his heavy team shirt and threw it over my torso, tucking it tightly around my neck to smother the plume of sweet orchids rising off my skin.

"Don’t touch him! Nobody fucking touch him!" Reid snarled, turning his head toward the approaching medics, his grey eyes flashing with a wild, terrifying territorial rage that made two grown paramedics freeze dead in their tracks.

"McCoy, let us through! He needs medical attention!" the head team doctor yelled, stepping forward with his hands raised, but even he was visibly sweating under the sheer density of the pheromones flooding the zone.

"Miller! Russo! Box us in!" Reid roared over his shoulder, his voice frantic as he looked down at my face.

Russo and Miller didn’t hesitate. Recognizing the absolute, catastrophic danger of the situation, the two senior players skated over, using their broad bodies and heavy pads to form a tight, impenetrable physical wall around Reid and me, blocking the sightlines of the press box and the lower bowl cameras.

"Get the stretcher out here!" Russo barked at the arena security, his voice sharp enough to snap the frozen staff back to reality but they were still frozen like stickmen. "Clear the tunnel! Clear the fucking tunnel!"

Down on the ice, I was barely conscious. The world was a blinding haze of white light and agonizing, sharp screaming coming from my left leg. Every nerve in my core was on fire, the biological shock threatening to tear my mind apart as I choked on the sheer potency of my own scent.

"Kain... Kain, look at me," Reid whispered, his voice suddenly dropping into a low, desperate plea as he leaned his head under the jacket, his face inches from mine.

His large hands held my helmet with painstaking gentleness, keeping my head steady. "I’m right here. I’ve got you. Breathe my scent, Cap. Just focus on me."

I squeezed my eyes shut, my gloved fingers clawing desperately into the fabric of his jersey as the warm, grounding scent of frozen pine cut through the burning cloud of orchids, giving me a single, fragile lifeline to hold onto amid the chaos.

"It hurts," I whispered, my forehead crinkling in pain.

"I know, Cap. I know," Reid choked out, his voice cracking with a raw, terrifying desperation as his broad hands held my head steady against the freezing ice. "I’m so sorry. I’ve got you."

​He shifted his body, using his broad shoulders to completely shield my writhing frame from the glaring stadium lights and the frantic arena cameras.

His pine scent flared warm and suffocatingly thick, wrapping around me like a heavy blanket to drown out the burning scent of orchids and soothe the frantic, agonizing chaos in my blood.

​"Where’s that stretcher?!" Russo roared at the medical staff, stepping closer to lock his heavy pads against Miller’s, completely blocking the lower bowl’s sightline. "Clear the tunnel and turn off those fucking cameras!"

​The medical crew finally broke through their shock, rolling the stretcher onto the ice with frantic, trembling hands.

​Reid didn’t let them lift me. He slid his broad arms under my back and my good leg, lifting my weight off the cold surface with painstaking, delicate precision to avoid jarring my broken leg.

A ragged, helpless gasp tore from my throat at the slightest movement, and Reid buried his face briefly into my neck, his heavy chest heaving.

​"Kain, just hold onto me," he rasped into my skin, his grip unyielding as he laid me down onto the stretcher.

​The medical team threw a heavy thermal blanket over my body, tucking it up to my chin to trap the heavy pheromones and hide my face as they began wheeling the stretcher toward the player tunnel at a full sprint.

Reid walked right beside it, his large, gloved hand tightly locked around mine, refusing to let go for even a single second as we left the roaring, stunned arena behind in total chaos.