Mikhail's whispered question echoed loudly inside my helmet, and a sudden wave of absolute terror crashed heavily against my ribs because he accurately identified the exact physiological reaction I was desperately trying to hide.
I almost wanted to scream at his face and tell him that, yes, I was a fucking omega and that all his alpha bullshit was messing with my fucking brain.
But, I couldn't without risking.
I could not allow him to realize I was experiencing a genuine biological panic response, so I forcefully clenched my jaw and summoned every single ounce of defensive anger I possessed to mask my physical vulnerability. I pressed my heavy hockey gloves directly against his chest protector, and I pushed back against his massive frame with a sudden and violent shove.
"My heart is currently pounding because I just spent the last forty-five seconds skating at my maximum speed to avoid your massive weight, Volkov, and then you unnecessarily slammed me into a concrete wall after the whistle already blew," I spat back at him, ensuring my voice carried a harsh and incredibly resentful tone. "I am reacting exactly how an angry hockey player reacts when he gets boarded during a standard practice drill, and you need to back off before I actually lose my temper."
Mikhail did not immediately step backward, and his pale gray eyes narrowed slightly while he intensely scrutinized my flushed face through the clear plastic visor of my helmet. He shifted his weight marginally, yet he kept his thick forearm securely pressed against my chest to maintain the physical trap.
The heavy and dominant scent of pine and dark musk continued to suffocate my senses, and the harsh chemical suppressants flowing through my bloodstream severely struggled to suppress the natural submissive urges rising in my lower abdomen. Heavy sweat rolled down my neck and soaked into the high collar of my base layer shirt, and I felt the sticky adhesive of my medical patch dangerously loosen against my heated skin.
Since I absolutely could not afford to remain in his suffocating proximity for another second, I dropped my shoulder and aggressively twisted my torso to break his physical leverage. Mikhail finally released his tight hold and took a half-step backward, although he kept his intense gaze locked entirely on my face while I dragged several deep breaths of the freezing arena air into my burning lungs. I bent down quickly to retrieve my dropped hockey stick from the ice, and I deliberately avoided looking at him so he could not analyze my trembling hands.
Before Mikhail could issue another demanding question or push me back against the heavy glass, the sound of skate blades carving sharply into the ice approached our isolated corner. Jonathan coasted to a smooth stop right beside us, and he carried a relaxed posture that sharply contrasted with the incredibly aggressive tension suffocating our immediate space.
"Coach is currently waiting for you two to return to the center circle so he can evaluate the drill, and you are holding up the entire morning schedule with your intense staring contest," Jonathan stated with a light and easygoing tone, and he gestured toward the group of waiting players with his thick hockey stick. "You successfully proved that you can hit him against the boards, Volkov, so you should probably let the rookie go get some water before he completely passes out from exhaustion."
"Moretti is perfectly fine, Clark, and we were simply having a quiet conversation regarding his defensive positioning," Mikhail replied smoothly, and he finally turned his massive head away from me to look at his co-captain. "He needs to learn how to properly brace his core when he gets cornered, because the rival teams in this league will hit him significantly harder than I just did."
"I know exactly how to brace my core, and I would have easily slipped past you if you had not resorted to a blind tackle," I argued stubbornly, gripping the carbon fiber shaft of my stick until my knuckles turned completely white inside my padded gloves. "You intentionally blocked my path because you knew you could not actually catch me if we remained in open ice."
Mikhail scoffed quietly at my defensive excuse, and he skated away from the corner without offering another word of advice. I waited until he was several yards ahead of me before I finally moved, and I followed Jonathan back toward the center circle where the rest of the team stood waiting.
My leg muscles physically burned with severe lactic acid buildup, and I desperately pressed my gloved hand against the side of my neck under the guise of wiping away sweat so I could secretly push the peeling medical patch back onto my skin.
We rejoined the large group, and I immediately skated over to the open bench door so I could grab a plastic water bottle from the metal rack. I squirted the freezing water directly into my mouth, and I purposefully let some of the cold liquid spill down my chin and onto my high collar to help lower my dangerously high core body temperature.
Coach stepped forward and blew his silver whistle once to demand absolute silence from the roster. "That drill was entirely too sloppy, and I expect significantly better physical control from my starting line," Coach barked loudly, pointing his digital clipboard directly at Mikhail.
"You successfully trapped him in the corner, Volkov, but you completely abandoned the puck to focus entirely on hitting the player. If this was a regulation game, the trailing offensive forward would have easily scooped up the loose puck and scored on our net while you were busy trying to put your own teammate through the glass."
Mikhail clamped his jaw tightly and nodded once to acknowledge the stern reprimand, although he did not offer any verbal excuses for his aggressive behavior.
Coach then shifted his intense glare directly onto me, and I stood perfectly straight to receive his incoming criticism. "You rely entirely too much on your raw speed, Moretti, and you completely panicked the second you ran out of open ice. You cannot simply try to squeeze through a tiny gap when a massive defenseman is closing in on you, because you will get severely injured. You have to lower your shoulder, protect the puck with your body, and take the hit while maintaining possession."
"I understand, Coach, and I will adjust my positioning for the next drill," I replied respectfully, knowing that arguing with the head coach in front of the veteran players would only create more unnecessary hostility.
Dylan leaned against the wooden boards near the back of the group, and he offered a very smug and condescending smile when Coach publicly criticized my performance.
I deliberately ignored his arrogant expression, and I focused my attention on regulating my erratic breathing while the medical suppressants slowly regained control over my internal physiological systems. The nausea in my stomach gradually subsided, yet the underlying fear of discovery remained a heavy weight pressing against my chest.
Coach called out the next pair of players to run the corner checking drill, and he ordered the rest of us to skate laps around the perimeter of the rink to maintain our cardiovascular conditioning. I stepped back onto the ice and joined the long line of skating players, and I deliberately positioned myself near the back of the pack so I could maintain a safe physical distance from Mikhail.
We skated laps for the next twenty minutes, and the repetitive physical motion eventually allowed my mind to calm down slightly. I focused entirely on the literal mechanics of my stride, ensuring my skate blades dug deeply into the frozen surface with every single push.
However, I could constantly feel Mikhail's heavy gaze burning into my back whenever we rounded the sharp corners of the rink. He skated effortlessly near the front of the group, and he frequently turned his head to observe my posture and my breathing patterns.
He was incredibly observant, and he clearly noticed that my physical reactions during the heavy board battle did not align with standard athletic biology. I knew I had to be significantly more careful during our future interactions, because he would undoubtedly continue testing my boundaries until he uncovered the actual truth about my heavily medicated state.
Coach finally blew his whistle to end the grueling morning practice session, and he ordered everyone to return to the locker room to shower and change before the mandatory video review meeting. I skated toward the bench door with immense relief, desperately wanting to escape the freezing arena so I could apply a fresh layer of strong chemical blockers to my skin. The physical exhaustion made my limbs feel incredibly heavy, and I trudged off the ice onto the thick rubber mats covering the concrete floor.
I walked slowly down the dim corridor alongside the rest of the exhausted team, and I kept my head down to avoid any unnecessary conversations with the veteran players. The hallway smelled strongly of wet equipment and melting ice, and I mentally counted the remaining steps to the sanctuary of the locker room showers.
Before I could reach the heavy wooden entrance door, a massive hand suddenly grabbed the back collar of my white practice jersey and forcefully yanked me backward. The unexpected physical force pulled me entirely out of the main hallway, and someone shoved me aggressively into a dark and empty equipment closet just outside the main locker room.
Mikhail slammed the heavy wooden door shut behind us, and he immediately pushed my shoulders against a tall metal shelving unit in the complete darkness.
"You are going to tell me exactly what kind of illegal performance medication you are taking to survive my practice drills, Moretti, or I am walking directly into Coach's office right now to demand a mandatory blood test."