Chapter 59: McCoy-Always the headache on the Cap

​When I finally unlocked my apartment door, a profound, absolute silence greeted me first.

​The rooms were dark, cold, and completely empty. There was no obnoxious rookie lounging on my leather couch, no snarky remarks cutting through the air, and no heavy, overwhelming presence demanding my attention.

The quiet was exactly what I had been begging for all weekend. I was free. I had survived the mandatory bonding trip, the locker room, and the ultimate disaster of a seven-sibling dinner. The monster was finally out of my hair.

​I shed my damp jacket, kicked off my shoes, and walked blindly into the bedroom. I didn’t even bother changing out of the thick black sweater; my body was entirely heavy with exhaustion.

​The moment I hit the mattress, collapsing face-first into the dark space, the thick, unmistakable scent of frozen pine met me the second my face pressed into the fabric of the sheets.

It was everywhere.

It was woven directly into the linen, a lingering, heavy broadcast from where Reid had been lying comfortably just twenty-four hours ago. It was the raw, dominant signature of the Alpha who had claimed this bed—and claimed my body.

​My inner Omega instantly flared to life, a shameful, desperate ache settling deep into my core at the sudden biological recognition.

​I froze, my jaw clenching against the pillow. I didn’t want to. I hated myself for it. Every logical, self-preserving bone in my body told me to get up, strip the bed, and throw the linens into the wash until every single trace of Reid McCoy was completely eradicated from my sight.

​But my hand moved on its own.

​My fingers tightened around the edge of the sheet, pulling the fabric up to my nose. I took a slow, deep breath, sniffing it in, letting the cool, heavy scent of frozen pine flood my senses and blanket the frantic, hyper-vigilant static in my brain.

​A heavy, defeated sigh left my lips as my muscles finally, completely relaxed against the mattress. I was glad he was gone. I was glad I didn’t have to watch my back or guard my dignity for the next twelve hours. But as the dark, biological warmth of his scent cradled my aching body to sleep, the terrifying truth settled deep into my chest.

​I had gotten so reliant on his pheromones. My body didn’t care about the blackmail, the arrogance, or the danger. It just wanted the Alpha. And tomorrow morning, I was going to have to look that exact same Alpha in the eye on the ice.

The harsh, fluorescent lights of the Serpents’ locker room felt entirely too bright the next morning.

The familiar, comforting cacophony of hockey tape tearing, skates hitting the floor, and loud locker-room banter swirled around me as I pulled on my practice jersey.

​The moment I sat down on the bench, a handful of teammates immediately crowded my stall.

​"Hey, Cap! How’s the rib working out?" Russo called out, leaning against the neighboring locker with a look of genuine concern.

​"I’m doing fine," I said, keeping my voice level and reassuring as the rest of the guys turned to listen. I tapped the left side of my torso beneath the jersey. "There’s a high-grade pain patch directly over it, so it’s like the pain isn’t even there anymore. I won’t be a liability."

​"Good to hear, Cap," Miller nodded, letting out a breath of relief. Then, a sly, teasing grin broke across his face as he stepped closer. "So... Come on, spill it. How did McCoy do as a nursemaid this weekend? Did the rookie actually manage to take care of you, or did he just complain the whole time?"

​A heavy, involuntary sigh left my lips before I could stop it. The mental image of Reid lounging shamelessly on my couch, breaking into my shower, and aggressively pushing his knee against mine at my family’s dinner table flashed behind my eyes.

​"He did his part with the heavy lifting," I muttered, fixing my expression into a tired, long-suffering mask. "But he was still a complete headache."

​The entire corner of the locker room instantly burst out laughing. Russo slapped his knee, while Miller shook his head with a booming chuckle.

​"That’s McCoy, alright!" someone shouted from the back. "Always the headache on the Cap!"

​"Hey, at least he didn’t burn your apartment down, Evans!" Peter joked, and they all burst out laughing.

​I forced a faint, cynical smirk to match their energy, keeping the raw, suffocating reality of why he was a headache locked behind my teeth.

They thought it was just a spoiled rookie being annoying; they had no idea the ’headache’ involved a dominant Alpha mark hidden beneath my gear.

​"Evans! In my office, right now," Coach Devin’s sharp, authoritative voice cut through the laughter from the doorway.

​I nodded, standing up carefully and walking across the locker room into the coach’s private office. He was sitting behind his desk, reviewing the morning’s drill schedule, but he looked up the moment the door clicked shut behind me.

​"Sit down, Kain," Devin said, his expression serious. "Give it to me straight. How’s the rib?"

​"I’m functional, Coach," I replied, standing straight instead of taking the seat to prove my point. "I might not participate in the physical morning drills today, but I can still bark orders from the bench. The team won’t slack off on my watch."

​Devin studied me for a long beat, evaluating the steady line of my shoulders before a small, approving nod touched his face.

"Fair enough. I need your voice out there today. Go get ’em, Captain."

I nodded and was about to turn around, my hand already reaching for the door handle, but Coach Devin’s voice called me back.

​"Right, Evans, one more thing," he said, tapping a pen against his desk. "There’s a media shoot coming up soon. The production crew called this morning to check if you’re able to stand for it, and seeing you now, I think the answer is yes."

​I stopped, a faint, instinctual knot forming in my stomach as I turned back to face him. "Another shoot, Coach? We’re right in the middle of the season layout."

​"I know, but the front office is pushing hard on marketing," Devin explained, leaning back in his chair with a pragmatic shrug. "You and McCoy are the face of the team now. The dynamic between the veteran captain and the rogue prodigy is gold for the PR department. We’re going to have your faces up a lot more in the future, so put on your happy face and give the fans a big grin."

​The face of the team.

​The words felt like a lead weight dropping straight into my gut. It wasn’t enough that I had to manage his dominant, suffocating presence in the locker room, under the cover of my own apartment sheets, or across my family’s dinner table.

Now, the league wanted to plaster our faces together on giant billboards, promotional banners, and social media campaigns for thousands of fans to dissect.

Every forced smile, every staged shoulder-to-shoulder posture would be captured under blinding high-definition studio lights.

​If Reid was a menace behind closed doors, a public media shoot where we were explicitly ordered to look close and connected was a playground for his brand of torture.

​"Understood, Coach," I forced out, keeping my expression an untouchable, professional mask. "We’ll deliver."

​"Good. Get out there," Devin nodded, turning his attention back to his paperwork.