Chapter 2

To assure him, he adds, "Could be the flu or something.

I'll have some extra Vitamin C with dinner, stay on top of it.

Luckily it's a few days until our next game, so I'll be good by then."

To avoid any further conversation, Felix pretends to sleep, through the remainder of the flight resisting the urge to flag down a flight attendant for a blanket to curl up under in his plane seat.

He doesn't think it would do much to alleviate the chill settling in under his skin, anyway.

Felix stays shut up in his Kingsport apartment for the next few days.

The flu excuse is easy, and feels physically similar enough to how cold and tired and

aching

he is in reality that he even convinces himself it's the truth.

Not that he's ever felt any ache quite like this before.

There's no cramping, and his body isn't in

pain

exactly, because he doesn't really

anywhere.

But at the same time it's like he hurts

everywhere

, not to an insurmountable degree, but maybe only a few steps removed from that.

He's too nauseous to eat much unless he forces himself, can't puke the feeling away even when he forces himself to do that, too.

worst

of all, the scant hours of restless sleep he's able to get over the course of the nights and fitful naps during the days are haunted by a Vardenian accent and smoky-cinnamon-warm alpha scent.

The dreams Felix usually has of Sorokin leave him hot and flushed all over - as well as sticky between his legs.

Now he's waking up with his eyes red and pillowcase soaked with tears.

When the day of their next game arrives and Felix's flu is nowhere close to resolving itself, he realizes he has two choices.

The first is to show up and play through whatever is ailing him.

Wouldn't be the first time he's played through illness, probably won't be the last.

Maybe his playing will be embarrassing and terrible and cause the team to lose, but it doesn't have to be the end of the world, he tells himself.

Sometimes people are sick and lose games.

The second option is to tell the team and everyone else that he's too sick to play, truly take the time to rest and ride it out off the ice.

He can

see a doctor

- not just one but two of them, the team doctor and the omega specialist Felix sees at a fancy, discreet clinic on the other side of the city as the need arises.

He knows they share his medical file - the team doctor is well-aware of Felix's status even if he lacks the expertise to deal with it.

They'll find out whatever is wrong with him - maybe they'll even be able to fix it.

He'll be pulled from however many games it takes until it's resolved.

His coach and the head of the PHA, at a minimum, will be given access to his full medical assessment, of course, so they can use it to make an informed determination regarding the rest of Felix's season.

Maybe the rest of his career.

As much as he's been trying to avoid acknowledging it, Felix is beginning to suspect he knows what the doctors will determine is wrong with him.

He's Cortexd his symptoms.

Obviously

Spent one fraught evening scrolling through MediScan pages and various omega forums, shivering beneath a quilt on his couch.

Rejection sickness.

A condition in upset omegas which can encompass the following symptoms: chills, vomiting, loss of appetite, loss of energy, anxiety, depression, mood swings, migraines, etc., typically exhibited by omegas whose experiencing a hormone imbalance, most frequently triggered by the lack and/or loss of an alpha's affection.

Sensitive alpha noses may detect the shift in the omega's pheromones intended to signal distress, thus triggering the alpha's instinct to "reassure and protect."

my boyfriend broke up with me and now my body thinks i'm dying. when does it stop?

Gotta get him back or get over him (or maybe under someone else, but honestly I've heard that doesn't always fix it).

Maybe ask your doctor if you can try a different birth control to see if that helps re-balance your hormones?

Good luck, give us an update once it resolves!

[The thread ended there.]

And that was only the beginning.

Finally, Felix took a deep breath in, exited out of the several tabs open on his phone, and erased the entire week's worth of search history.

He closed his eyes and exhaled, trying to focus on counting out his yoga breathing exercises instead of doing something ridiculous like throwing his phone across the room.

So Felix is pretty sure he has the flu, and he's perfectly capable of playing through it.

When Leonid plays in a western time zone and Felix Ward is a few hours ahead of him back east, it's his post-game routine, now, to go out of his way to catch the Ironclad highlights on his hotel television.

He can get them through his phone, of course, but he prefers to watch his rival in high-definition, on a screen bigger than a few inches, and text him at the same time.

Makes it easier to stroke his cock at the same time if the mood strikes him, too.

Not an uncommon mood for Leonid to be in, when it comes to Ward.

Not just since they've been fucking whenever the convenient opportunity arises, but before then.

Leonid blames the two of them in the gym, after the draft.

Sweat-soaked bodies trembling in the aftermath of another competition, this one even more pointless than usual, between them on the treadmills.

Heart pounding, blood pumping.

Even drenched in his own sweat and outside the layers of hockey gear, Ward's underlying scent was beta crisp with just a trace of artificial spearmint.

Then, watching him pant, Leonid shared his water bottle.

As Ward passed it back to him, Leonid was vaguely aware of his own mouth beginning to water with anticipation he couldn't describe.

But then, as he put his mouth where his rival's had just been, gulping down cool, clean gulps of water - Leonid tasted it.

The faintest lingering hint of something soft and floral and honey-like against his tongue.

It made his cock twitch in his gym shorts as he drained the rest of the metal tumbler in a final swallow, pupils dilated as he refused to break eye contact with the other boy.

It wasn't that he

Ward was an omega, after that, not until later, though it was when Leonid's initial suspicion developed.

Not that anyone's designation mattered all that much to him.

More importantly, now that he'd gotten a tease of the other player's underlying, bashful sweetness, it was another chemical like nicotine in Leonid's system, and he had little restraint when it came to indulging himself.

The fact that no one else seemed to be capable of detecting it only served to inflame Leonid's alpha instincts, as if Ward's hidden sweet scent was meant for him alone.

The allure of a candy bowl shut away in a cupboard up high, that only Leonid knows about and is tall enough to reach.

It all sort of...

.escalated from there, as each of them launched into their parallel professional careers.

And started fucking when they could.

Word of Kingsport's 4-1 loss to Bridgewood earlier that evening was already a hot topic in the locker room after Westfield's own win.

No one got too far into the finer details, but fingers are already being pointed at Ward, apparently, for his team's unexpected loss at home.

Leonid follows his first impulse, which is to send a shit-talking text.

Did I dickmatize you Ward?

Is that why you play like shit?

Too busy thinking about my knot

Lose to old man in your own city

Loser Ward doesn't make Leonid's dick as hard as winner Ward - unless Ward is being beaten directly at Leonid's hands, that is - but it's a place for Leonid to get started fantasizing as he settles onto his hotel bed, switching on the television with the remote.

He doesn't have his cock out yet, though his mind is already drifting in that direction.

The fact that he hasn't gotten any response to his texts isn't a deterrent - good boy Ward is probably sleeping, at this hour in Kingsport.

He's envisioning the omega flushed in embarassment, and pouting at the cameras after a night of shitty hockey.