Knot On Your Pucking Life (Snowvale Howlers Omegaverse)

Chapter 1

Chapter

One

WREN

There were three unspoken rules in the Snowvale Howlers’ locker room.

One: Don’t touch the gear if you don’t want to lose a hand.

Two: Don’t mention the 2019 playoff choke. Ever.

Three: Don’t flirt with the PR manager unless you're ready to get roasted in front of your teammates.

Guess which rule they broke the most.

“Foster,” Rhett called out from where he was slouched on a bench, sweat-damp hair curling at the ends, pads half-off like he was auditioning for a thirst trap. “You ever get tired of pretending you don’t wanna climb me like a tree?”

I didn’t even pause my stride. “Only on days ending in ‘never,’ Navarro.”

The guys hollered. Rhett clutched his chest like I’d mortally wounded him. "Cold. Ice-cold."

“That’s the brand,” I shot back, tossing a stack of media schedules onto the table by the fridge. “Try reading sometime, it builds character.”

Across the room, Jay Kim didn’t even look up from where he was taping his stick with surgical precision. “Navarro doesn’t have character. He’s just noise in a nice jawline.”

“As opposed to all your jealousy in a pair of too-tight compression shorts,” Rhett countered.

“Jealous of what?” Jay asked dryly. “Your save percentage or your IQ?”

“Both,” Rhett grinned. “You wish you could make a crowd scream the way I do.”

Roan Whitaker snorted from where he was stretching out on the floor, foam roller under his back. “They’re screaming because you can’t stop dropping your stick mid-game.”

Rhett flipped him off. Roan didn’t flinch—he just looked at me. Quiet, steady.

“You okay?” he asked, voice low and private despite the chaos around us.

I gave him the same answer I always did. “Always.”

And it was always a lie.

Because here’s the thing about working this job as an omega: no one’s supposed to know.

Suppressants made it easier—at least, they used to. My scent stayed muted, my cycle flatlined, and my body mine. No glowing skin, no come-hither hormones, no pheromones curling through the air like invisible snares. I was just Wren. Smart mouth. Sharp boots. Full control.

But keeping up that illusion meant knowing how to read the room.

And the Howlers locker room was a jungle. Sweaty pads, damp towels, leather tape, pine-scented body wash and alpha musk all stewing in a low-grade haze. I’d learned to walk through it like a minefield: don’t linger too close, don’t lock eyes too long, and never—never—breathe too deep.

Especially not around Roan.

Or Rhett, when he was laughing.

Or Jay, when he got that look in his eyes like he saw something you didn’t even know you were hiding.

“Team meeting in five!” Coach Morrissey’s voice boomed from the hallway. “If you’re late, you run.”

A chorus of groans followed. Helmets thunked back into cubbies. Sticks got propped up. Someone cursed about missing their protein shake.

I didn’t even make it a step before the Coach eyed me with a nod and asked, “You joining us, Foster?”

“I’ll brief you after,” I said. “Owner’s upstairs. Wants to talk playoff strategy—media coverage, not defensive lines. Sorry to disappoint.”

“Don’t be,” he said, already distracted as he barked at Apa to tuck in his damn jersey. “You do your job better than half my rookies do theirs.”

“That’s because I don’t get concussed weekly.”

He chuckled as he walked off, and I headed toward the elevator, smoothing the front of my blazer. As much as the guys joked around, the real pressure came from up top. I didn’t even make it another step before Roan stepped into my path.

Roan rolled his shoulders as he rose, the motion smooth and measured like everything he did—controlled. Deliberate. He stepped closer, eyes briefly scanning my face, then the small tension in my hands I didn’t know I’d been clenching.

“You sure you’re okay?” he asked again, voice lower this time. Closer. Something warmer flickered underneath the usual stoicism.

I shrugged like it didn’t matter. “Just tired.”

His gaze lingered on me, too perceptive for comfort.

“Then maybe take your own advice for once and rest,” he said, dry as ever but softer now. “You’re always on. Even wolves sleep.”

I huffed out a quiet laugh, surprised. “Was that a poetic metaphor, Whitaker?”

“It was a threat to make you nap, actually.”

He turned to leave, but paused mid-step. “We notice when you don’t take care of yourself, you know.”

Then he was gone, following Coach down the hallway with that long, steady stride.

I stood there for a second too long, but when I turned, Jay was watching me.

He was leaning against the locker just to the side, stick still in hand, tape dangling from his fingers. Calm. Unreadable. But his eyes—dark and sharp and cutting right through me—locked with mine. Not challenging. Not accusing.

Just knowing.

I maintained my professional mask, a faint smile with a hint of certainty that refused to be dislodged even by his silent, if intense, accusation. Didn’t matter in the long run, though, I looked away before I strode out of the locker room.

Strode.

Not fled.

Yes, I was very good at lying to myself.

The Howlers’ owner, Adrien Marchand, was exactly the kind of wealthy, sharp-eyed alpha who made people instinctively nervous—and he liked it that way. His suits were always immaculate, his words sparse, and his presence unsettling in that power-play, boardroom-heat sort of way.

“I hope they’re not giving you too much trouble,” he said as I stepped into his office. The view of the snow-drenched rink below looked like something out of a postcard, if the postcard came with a scent warning and bloodstains on the ice.

“They’re puppies in pads,” I replied, cool and crisp. “Loud, slightly untrainable, but manageable.”

His mouth twitched. “Good. Keep them focused. This playoff run could make or break the franchise.”

I nodded, did the PR dance, promised press coverage, coordinated talking points, and got out of there before his scent started digging claws into the back of my throat.

Because lately?

Everything was getting harder to ignore.

My skin had started to buzz in crowds.

A heavy-bass hum just beneath the surface of my bones, like I was a radio tuned half a frequency off. I’d found myself leaning in when Roan spoke, breathing slower when Rhett laughed near me, reacting—viscerally—to things that shouldn’t have touched me.

Certain voices made my stomach twist. My balance slipped around stronger scents. I was waking up flushed and aching, mouth dry, sheets tangled like I’d been chasing something in my sleep and never caught it.

The worst part? I couldn’t even tell if it was them, or me.

The locker room—don’t even get me started on that place—used to be just sweat, banter, and chaos.

But now it felt like a live wire. A sauna of unwashed gear, testosterone, and temptation I couldn’t afford to want.

Like my instincts were starting to hear a frequency I’d spent over a decade pretending didn’t exist.

I was slipping. The act was fraying at the edges.

That was before I ended up sitting in a too-white, too-bright medical office, arms crossed, stomach knotted, while my doctor gave me news I hadn’t wanted to hear three weeks earlier.

Dr. Maida clicked her pen. “Your readings are unstable. The suppressants aren’t binding the way they used to.”

I stared at her. “Then increase the dosage.”

“We’ve already pushed past the safe threshold, Wren.” Her tone softened, but it didn’t help. “Your liver enzymes are elevated. You’ve developed a tolerance, maybe even a dependency. Your body’s trying to override the meds.”

My throat dried. “There’s got to be something else.”

“There is. Stop taking them.” She leaned forward, gentle but firm. “Let your system reset. Let your body regulate.”

“No,” I said flatly. “You don’t get it. I can’t—”

“You don’t have a choice. If you keep going like this, you could trigger a crash. Organ damage. Full burnout. You’d be hospitalized.”

I looked away, jaw tight. Through the window, snow was starting to fall again—soft, quiet flakes spiraling against the glass. First storm of the season. I used to love snow.

Now it just made everything feel like it was closing in.

“Wren,” she said, voice low. “Who are you hiding from?”

I didn’t answer.

Because I wasn’t hiding from someone.

I was hiding from everyone.

From two alphas whose scents were starting to pull something dangerous out of me.

From one beta who noticed too much.

From a life I didn’t want—no matter how badly my body was starting to whisper otherwise.

I’d done the math, then waited another few days to stop taking the suppressants.

It would take time to let them cycle out of my system.

They had a half-life. The doctor had walked me through all of it.

She even had brochures and recommendations for services that could help me once they were out of my system and my first heat in over a decade hit.

That wasn’t today, though. I still had time. Time to get everything ready for the playoffs before I took a few days off. I only hoped it would be enough.

A message buzzed on my phone. Marchand’s assistant asking for another thirty before I came up. Fine. I’d get other work done until then.

The lobby was empty, the ice behind the glass rink walls freshly resurfaced, gleaming like a frozen promise.

Upstairs, the media suite was quiet, mercifully.

I didn’t think I could handle small talk or caffeine-laced gossip from the junior marketing assistant who was perpetually tracking the team’s Instagram engagement like it was the stock market.

I pushed open the door to my office and froze.

Rhett was already inside.

Well—had been inside. The room was empty now except for the faint trace of his scent hanging in the air—cool eucalyptus, warm spice, and just a hint of something wild that didn’t belong in a business setting.

Of course he wasn’t in here, he was with the team.

I shook off the visceral reaction that had my skin pebbling.

There was a folded note on my desk, held down by a puck he'd swiped from media day. My name scrawled across it in a messy black sharpie.

Wren.

If you’re not okay, you know you can tell me, right?

—R

No joke. No flirt. Just… that.

I stared at it longer than I should have.

For someone who made everything a performance, Rhett had a nasty habit of slipping sincerity in when I least expected. It was a side of him he didn’t show on purpose. And that? That was harder to shake off than the usual locker room crap.

I folded the note in half and tucked it into the drawer with my backup comms and a handful of granola bars I hadn’t eaten since the preseason road trip.

Then I sat down, powered up my monitor, and braced myself.

Because the doctor hadn’t given me a choice.

You need to stop taking the suppressants, Wren. Let your body regulate. When it’s time, take a few days. Let it pass.

Right. Just “a few days.” Like I was coming down with the flu and not about to fall into hormonal hell surrounded by two alphas and a beta who already watched me too closely.

But she was right, at least based on my bloodwork.

If I didn’t stop now, the crash wouldn’t be optional. It would be catastrophic.

I should have had a full three weeks, at least, but the window was closing on me far more swiftly than I expected. Particularly with my enhanced reactions. I had maybe forty-eight hours—tops—to get everything in order. Then I’d need to go.

Coordinate next week’s playoff media push. Schedule Roan and Jay for post-practice interviews. Prep the owner's talking points. Update the fan engagement calendar. Answer twenty unread emails. Put out whatever dumb fire Rhett started next.

And—if I had time—bury my rising panic in a neat little email auto-reply that read: “Taking a few personal days. No, I haven’t been kidnapped. Please contact Head of Comms for urgent requests.”

I took a slow breath. Then another.

No more suppressants. No more pretending my body wasn’t circling the edge of something dangerous.

I just had to survive long enough to outrun the fallout.

Easy.