Chapter Text
Over the past few months, Macklin had felt like he was living in a completely different world from the one he had been used to his entire life — or at least for his first nineteen years. Everything felt more intense, more vivid. Colors seemed more saturated, almost unnaturally bright, sounds clearer and more defined, like he was finally hearing everything properly, and the smells… the smells were, by far, the hardest change to ignore. Stronger, closer, invading his space without permission. And, more than anything, he could now feel the pheromones people gave off, even when they tried to hide them.
It was expected that Mack would present close to his nineteenth birthday; everyone had seen it coming from a mile away. Over the past few weeks, he had been more restless, more irritable — even if he still came off more like a grumpy puppy than anything truly threatening — and he always found a way to sneak in physical affection, even if that wasn’t exactly new behavior for him. Mack had always been like that, in the end, just now it felt… more intense, more urgent.
So when he woke up a few days after turning nineteen, covered in sweat, sheets clinging to his skin like an uncomfortable second layer, his body running too hot and his mind wrapped in a thick haze, like his brain had been stuffed with cotton, not to mention the obvious situation in his pants that he chose not to examine too closely, it wasn’t exactly a surprise. Not entirely. Not for him, and not for his family, who had been expecting this moment for years.
Since he was a kid, everyone knew Mack would present as an Alpha. It showed in small details that, taken together, formed something impossible to ignore. In his baby scent, for example — that milky smell all pups seemed to have, except his always carried something stronger underneath, something heavier just below the surface. It also showed in the way he competed with Aiden over absolutely everything: hockey, soccer, video games, even completely stupid things like who could eat faster or talk louder.
On top of that, there was the way he reacted when he saw someone being treated unfairly. Mack would get tense, visibly bothered when some idiot decided to pick on his smaller or quieter friends. It often ended in fights, arguments, and a few warnings he never really took seriously. And, honestly, never regretted.
Despite all that, there was another side to him that almost felt contradictory. Mack had always been an extremely affectionate kid, but in a very specific, slightly clumsy, almost silly way that somehow never felt forced. On bad days, he would go straight to his mom, slip into her arms without much thought and nudge against her until she gave in and paid attention to him. And then came that mischievous little smile, paired with eyes far too soft for someone who was clearly going to grow into someone who took up too much space in the world.
But now, his scent wasn’t soft and sweet anymore. It was overwhelming. Dense, warm, impossible to ignore — amber and rain, like the heavy air before a storm that hasn’t started yet, but clearly will any second.
It was obvious he still hadn’t learned how to control it. His pheromones reacted to everything, no matter how small: anxiety, embarrassment, frustration, even a simple conversation was enough to make them shift. It made him smile awkwardly more often than he’d like, flush all the way up to his ears, and apologize almost automatically, in that very Canadian way.
Which was pretty much the situation he found himself in right now.
The season had just started, and the atmosphere in the locker room reflected that perfectly. Everyone was restless, carrying leftover energy from the offseason, talking too loud, laughing too much, moving around constantly. The room was a chaotic mix of overlapping voices and clashing pheromones, creating an atmosphere thick enough to feel — especially for someone who still didn’t know how to deal with any of it.
“Mack, I swear to God, if you keep putting out that much scent I’m gonna have to drop you,” Will Smith said, clearly joking, even as he waved a hand in front of his nose.
“Sorry, Willy!” Macklin shot back immediately, already feeling his face heat up.
He tried, once again, to “pull” his pheromones back, as if they were something physical, something he could just gather and shove back into place if he tried hard enough. It didn’t work. It was like trying to hold water in a sieve — pointless and a little frustrating. Instead of fading, the scent of rain seemed to react to his nerves, growing heavier, more present, like the thick air before a summer storm.
“I just— I don’t know where the off switch is, okay?”
“Well, you better find it before we hit the ice,” Eklund shot back, also grinning. “You smell like a full-on storm rolled through here. If Toff catches that, he’s gonna think you’re going into rut mid-game.”
Macklin let out an awkward laugh, running a hand through his slightly damp hair. He felt like a clumsy giant in his own skin. Being an Alpha, in theory, was simple — leadership, strength, protection, all of it fit perfectly into the context of the sport, into the kind of player he already was. But in practice, dealing with a biology this loud, this instinctive, this impossible to ignore was far more exhausting than he liked to admit out loud.
They were already in the second period against the Chicago Blackhawks, with the score at 1–0 for the Sharks, and Macklin had been pushing himself harder every shift, trying to make up for his lack of focus with pure physical effort.
But then he feels it.
The scent isn’t strong, not even close to the intensity of everything else around him. In fact, it’s almost completely muffled by a thick layer of something chemical, too artificial to be natural. Blockers, probably. Patches. Whatever someone would use to hide their scent.
Still, something slips through. And it’s enough. Vanilla — soft and controlled, not overly sweet — mixed with something cleaner underneath, something almost ethereal, like white tea.
Macklin freezes for a moment longer than he should. His body reacts before he can organize his thoughts, as if something inside him had been triggered without warning. A strange, immediate pull tightens in his chest in a way he doesn’t fully understand yet.
He could easily stop the game right there just to find the source of that scent and bury his face in the person’s neck, dragging it into his lungs until there was nothing left.
The thought comes fast. And he shuts it down just as quickly.
At center ice, lining up for the faceoff, he finally realizes where it’s coming from. Connor Fucking Bedard. Of course. Of course it had to be him.
It wasn’t a secret around the league that Connor was an Omega — if anything, it was the opposite. Fans, media, even some players loved to talk about it. But Connor never seemed to care. If anything, he avoided it as much as possible, said as little as he could about his secondary gender, ignored questions from reporters, and walked away whenever anyone brought it up, which only made people more curious.
And of course Macklin knew. Mack and Bedsy could probably be called acquaintances, at least that’s what Mack liked to think. They’d run into each other plenty of times in North Vancouver tournaments, always exchanging a word or two. And Mack definitely hadn’t had a crush on him back then. Obviously not. It was just Connor’s whole untouchable aura, the cold look he gave everyone, those smiles that felt so forced they almost made you want to laugh. Or the fact that he’d always been a bit shorter than Celebrini, especially after Mack’s growth spurt around fifteen. Or the way his face would tighten during faceoffs, all focus and tension. Not that teenage Macklin had noticed any of that.
But now, it was almost impossible for Mack to look down, to focus on the puck in the referee’s hand, when all he could think about — all he could feel — was Bedard’s damn scent. Connor was already in position, skates digging into the ice with precise control. He didn’t look up. He never did. His eyes stayed fixed on the ice, his expression cold and professional, almost like it had been carved out of stone.
“You good there, Celebrini?” Connor asked, glancing up briefly, a faint, almost teasing smile on his face.
Mack didn’t answer, just let out a quiet huff, somewhere between amused and irritated.
The puck dropped, and Macklin, lost in that ridiculous, overwhelming mental fog, lost the faceoff cleanly. And honestly, it wasn’t even his fault — it was inevitable. And, if he was being honest with himself, he knew there wasn’t much he could’ve done about it.
Fuck.
He was screwed.