Chapter Text
The Houston Vipers were much better than the team that drafted Namjoon Kim, both on the ice and in the locker room.
Here, he was 'Kims.' It was a basic nickname, though infinitely better than the 'Nam' he'd been dubbed back in Miami. He never could tell if they called him that because it was an abbreviation of his first name or because the guys genuinely thought he was Vietnamese rather than Korean. That uncertainty, along with a host of other things, made him feel uncomfortable for the entirety of the seven seasons he spent there.
He was pretty sure Miami only took a chance on drafting an alpha because they were at the bottom of the standings several years in a row and Namjoon put up record-breaking numbers in Juniors. He was one of the few alphas who kept playing after presenting and by far the best behaved, so they took a huge chance and drafted the first alpha in League history.
But once Namjoon was there, management capitalized on the spotlight brought by breaking the designation barrier more than they celebrated the points he put up. They used him for promo after promo, flaunting their alpha left winger like lion tamers who had domesticated a beast. It was degrading. It was frustrating. It was enough to make him accept the first offer made to him in free agency.
So, Namjoon went to the Houston Vipers. There, 'Kims' was said with fondness and ease. With his addition to the roster, the Vipers were no longer tied with the Kansas City Comets for most Korean players on one team. That wasn’t the only reason he liked it there. The guys were genuinely nice. They didn't seem to care what his designation was if it meant he played as well there as he did Miami, and he did. He was great. The best, actually, in both seasons as a Viper. So good that nobody even seemed to care anymore that he was an alpha.
Then a rookie brat had to go and ruin everything.
"97's such a fucking bitch," Jay groused during the TV timeout.
Namjoon squirted some water in his mouth instead of answering. Everybody talked trash, even the coaches, but he knew words like that sounded different coming from an alpha's mouth.
"Mr. Worldwide Handsome will sort him out before someone on another team has to," Suga assured, confident and steady as always.
(Vipers Captain Yoongi Min earned his name years and years ago, during his first season when a vet dumped twenty packets of sugar in his black coffee for a classic rookie ribbing. Yoongi had drunk the sugary sludge down without screwing up his face once, and that was that: Yoongi became Suga, and Suga became one of the guys. Namjoon really liked him.)
(Namjoon did not know or care how Comets Captain Seokjin Kim earned his nickname. Calling yourself ‘Worldwide Handsome’ was a little too vain, he thought, even if Seokjin was a pretty good looking guy.)
"Mister Worldwide," V sung from down the bench like he did every time Seokjin’s nickname was mentioned.
Namjoon smiled at the joke even if it had long since grown old. V's Pitbull impression wasn't very good, but V beamed at Namjoon so he was glad to have done it anyway.
"Try and correct their rookie," Suga continued, "and the Comets will send out Park. Unless any of you want to answer that challenge, let it go. He'll learn how to act soon enough."
A few guys mumbled about not being scared of Jimin Park, but no one volunteered to drop gloves with the Comets' enforcer. He made up for being small with excess ferocity, so much that he led the League in penalty minutes last year and seemed to be going for a repeat this season.
Namjoon still said nothing, of course. He just listened in as Coach started complaining about their turnovers and waited impatiently for the game to resume.
It did resume eventually, and Namjoon played well until it all went to absolute shit halfway through the third.
Namjoon couldn't see the guy's number, but he barreled into him like a freight train. His own body hurt from how hard he checked the guy, which was the sign of a good hit; his man would go down, and they'd play five on four for a few seconds. Nice. The contact was rough, but he knew it was a clean hit that plastered him against the boards so Namjoon skated off without anticipating a whistle.
That's why confusion cut through the mental scramble of 'puck where? faster. get open' when the shrill referee's whistle rang in his ears. Namjoon glanced over and saw Stripes had his eyes on something behind Namjoon, so he twisted to look.
The guy he just checked — the infamous number 97, it seemed — had gotten to his feet faster than Namjoon anticipated and slung his gloves onto the ice. He was skating toward Namjoon with his fists raised.
What.
The.
Fuck.
Namjoon had no clue who this rookie punk was, but the kid needed to learn who he was, like, yesterday.
"Pick up your fucking mitts, kid," Namjoon barked over the rushing in his ears.
Command was heavy on his voice like he never ever allowed it to be. 97 needed to know, though. He needed to get it through his underdeveloped rookie dome that he was squaring up with an alpha — the alpha — and that however mortified his pride would be at abandoning the challenge, it was worth keeping all his teeth.
97 kept skating toward him.
A mouth guard flew onto the ice along with some spit, then —
"Drop yours, you dirty fucking bitch!"
Namjoon slung his gloves off and swung a right.
That's all it took: one punch. He caught 97 under the jaw just as intended with all the force he could muster, and the rookie went down like a marionette with the strings cut. 97 fell with his limbs all skewed out and did not move.
Namjoon skated to the penalty box on his own volition before a referee even had time to guide him there.
It was over just like that.
By the time his ass was shut up in the sin bin, that brief flare of alpha fire had already ebbed from his body like it was never even there. But it had been there, oh yes, and the world had seen. The rocking of the stadium confirmed as much.
He was dimly aware that the clear dividers separating the penalty box from the stands were dangerously bowed, fans leaning heavily on them. The scents were absolutely dizzying. Beer and fury and sweat and excitement. All Namjoon heard was deafening noise all around, one constant roar. Whether the fans were screaming in animal approval of the violent show or screaming for him to be put down, he wasn't sure. Maybe they would break down the dividers and end him before the League had a chance to. Before the Comets had a chance to.
Fuck, the Comets. They would literally kill him.
Looking onto the ice would clue him into how both teams were reacting, but Namjoon couldn't seem to pick his head up enough to peek. Shame had it bowed almost to his chest. He didn't really need to look, anyway. Usually there would be a commotion after a fight, but this was different. This was an alpha — the one alpha deemed stable enough to put on the ice — punching the lights out of a rookie omega. He was surprised his own team hadn't joined up with the Comets to tear open the box and skin him alive with their skate blades.
Whatever.
Whatever.
This was a pipe dream anyway, Namjoon thought bitterly. For all his temperance, even he couldn't resist meeting that kid's challenge. Alphas weren't meant to play professional sports because they were too volatile, too dangerous. He should be working on an alpha-run oil rig or self sustaining in the Alaskan wilds, somewhere far from society like most alphas do. He had no business risking the safety of all these omegas just to play some stupid game.
(Namjoon would not consider that it was 97's insult that had gotten under his skin more than the challenge had. He was not a dirty player. He was the cleanest player in the entire fucking League because he had to be, because he played by a stricter set of rules than any other man on the ice. Namjoon was a good player. He was a good player despite being an alpha. He was fair, he was calm, he was —
Whatever. He was not upset about this. Admitting he cared about his reputation was admitting he cared about hockey, and he didn't. Really. Not at all. Namjoon was too rational to care about a pipe dream. This was a long time coming, and he'd been emotionally prepared for it. So. It was the challenge that had rankled him. Yeah. Sure. Fucking totally.)
Namjoon stared at his skates and wondered if he'd ever lace them up again after this.
He stared at his skates as the referee announced the game misconduct, and he kept staring at them as he skated across the ice toward the tunnel.
And he was still staring at his skates when his team joined him in the locker room sometime later.
Misery seeped from his pores and stunk worse than everyone's sweat combined. Maybe if they knew how ashamed he was they wouldn't tear into him too badly. His friendship with all of them was over, of course, but the memory of it might keep them from throwing fresh dirt on the grave. He could handle the media's claws and the pain of a terminated contract. He could live with losing hockey. But please don't let them hate me as much as I hate myself, Namjoon thought.
"Kims?"
The Vipers really were his family, his pack. They meant everything to him. He respected Suga like no one else in the world and wished everyday to be more like Jay. He loved V like a little brother. The other guys were just as great, every one of them kind to him despite Namjoon being what he was. Despite his defect.
"Uh, hey, Kims?"
And now he'd shown them all -- the League, the Vipers, the world -- that their trust was misplaced. They’d thought too highly of him. He really was an animal. He didn't belong here or anywhere. He was violent and uncontrolled. He was an alpha, and that meant he was monstrous, loathsome, beastly, fucking evil --
"Namjoon?"
It was his real name that startled Namjoon out of his spiral. The sound of it spoken in the locker room was strange. First names were for the uninitiated, the outsiders. Yet it was Jay's voice saying it, and he was saying it right in front of Namjoon's face. Literally. He had leaned in so close Namjoon could feel his breath.
Namjoon blinked a few times before answering the alternate captain with a confused "huh?"
Jay leaned back and grinned, a dazzling thing.
"Fuck do you look so down for, man? That was a killer swing. It'll definitely make it in those Youtube fight compilations. Just what 97 deserved, if you ask me."
Namjoon stared at Jay for what felt like forever. Had he heard him correctly? Was he hallucinating? Did Park come to his teammate's defense and put Namjoon in a coma? What was happening?
His captain's smooth voice cut in before Namjoon's head could explode.
"97 dropped 'em first, Kims," Suga said tiredly from his stall. "You did what anyone would do. Stop freaking out."
Namjoon watched Suga as he peeled off the top half of his gear, even though there was an unspoken 'no staring' rule in the locker room. His captain didn't bother to even look at Namjoon. That's how unimportant this conversation was to him. Suga wasn't a jerk; Namjoon knew that. So for him to be this casual... Maybe, just maybe... Maybe the world wasn't ending.
"I'm not just saying it," Suga added. "The kid thought it, too. When me and Worldwide were talking to the refs, he was there, too, kicking up a fuss. I've never heard someone bitch like that in favor of the guy who just knocked him on his ass."
"Wait, so I didn't knock him out?" Namjoon asked, his heart lifting a little bit. Perhaps he hadn't hurt the kid so bad after all.
"Oh yeah, he was totally knocked out," V chimed in from the stall next to Namjoon's. "Like Jay said: killer fucking swing. He was out like a light, but just for a couple seconds. Tough cookie, Kookie."
Namjoon didn't know what that last bit meant, but he wasn't about to ask. It was beyond belief that the guys were still cool with him. The ones who hadn't spoken were busy peeling off their sweat soaked gear and guzzling electrolytes, not caring a bit about his crisis. It was like it truly didn't matter to them.
He'd never been so grateful to be ignored.
Nothing changed when the coaches came in and talked about the game. That was all they talked about: too many turnovers and a mediocre powerplay, the playoffs coming up and all the work they still had to do. When the recap was over, Coach said 'good game, boys,' and then he was gone. He didn't pull Namjoon out into the hall and ask him to give up his uniform. He didn't end Namjoon's world.
On his way to the showers, Suga reached an arm out to thump Namjoon's shoulder hard. It was a friendly gesture, one done easy as breathing, and nothing seemed to be changed. Just like that, the world was alright.
Namjoon breathed.
And smelled the stink of the game on him. Phew, was he ripe. He hit the showers just like he had a thousand times before and would just maybe get to a thousand times more.
✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* + *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ + ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* + *:
Like always, Namjoon was one of the first to leave the locker room and head toward the bus. His buzzcut didn't require any maintenance, unlike most of the other guys. V, for example, would be the last out because he refused to let any of the media snap a picture of his mullet in disarray. That meant the seat beside Namjoon on the bus would be empty and he could stretch out for a few minutes, blessedly alone.
Except Namjoon couldn't find the bus because this was their first time visiting the Comets' brand new stadium.
Did he take a wrong turn because he misremembered or because his head was still jumbled? Either way, he was totally lost in the bowels of the biggest stadium in America. Could this day get any worse?
Of course it could!
Namjoon was wandering down another empty hallway when he passed a screen playing coverage of the Comets' postgame presser. He decided he wasn't going to watch them make a villain out of him and vowed to keep walking.
Then he saw who was speaking and came to an abrupt stop.
"Honestly? It would've been worse if he hadn't hit me. That would be messed up," Jungkook Jeon, the banner edited onto the screen read, was saying to a reporter. "Like, I don't care who he is, what his designation is. When we're on the ice, there's rules. For everyone. Without, like, discrimination. So if I want to box somebody because they got an admittedly clean hit on me and it pissed me off, they should be able to fight back. You know? Yeah."
The kid was really wound up, so after nodding and taking a breath, he continued on.
"It would've been one," he counted with a tattooed finger, "unfair for him not to be able to fight back, and two, unfair to me. Just because I'm an omega, I can't take a lick? Even when I ask for it, when I open myself up for it? C'mon. That's not hockey. That's some, I don't know, messed up, politicized, vaguely, like, alphaphobic game I don't wanna play. Yeah. Yeah. That's what I think about what happened in the third, Jackie."
Namjoon had punched 97 so hard the poor kid was concussed, and Comets PR was so bad they didn't even keep him away from a mic. What a shitty thing to do. Now, this Jungkook Jeon had babbled to the press like a radical theorist and challenged a universal truth: alphas have to be held on a tight leash. Give one slack, and they'll bite the hand the holds it. He sounded delusional, going on about Namjoon having a right — no, a duty! — to drop gloves like any other player.
Just because Namjoon's team was alright with his actions didn't mean the rest of the world would be. They might not terminate his contract, but there would be a lot of heat over what he did. Now, because Jeon went and opened his idiot mouth, two careers were probably ruined tonight. He couldn't wait to get on the plane and pass out. The sooner this night ended, the better.
But when Namjoon turned to head back the way he came, he saw he wasn't alone. A man leaned against the wall about ten feet away.
"I don't know how you put up with that bullshit," Jeon said with a friendly smile, all teeth.
"It's my life," Namjoon heard himself say. It was like he was having an out of body experience.
Whatthefuckwhatthefuckwhatthefuck.
Jeon made a face.
"Well that's depressing," he said. "I know you being drafted caused a buzz, but I thought the hype had died down over the years. You've been really boring outside of the sick goal-scoring, you know."
Namjoon stared.
And stared.
And stared.
Jungkook Jeon, the Comets' rookie, the omega he'd sucker punched an hour ago, really was standing right in front of him. He looked totally different in baggy black sweats and with wet, slightly curling hair dripping onto his hoodie, but there was no mistaking it. The violent violet bloom on the side of his face confirmed that this was the same guy.
"You're concussed," Namjoon said when it became apparent that Jeon wasn't going to break the silence. "I'm surprised PR let you babble for that long to the media, but I don't want to hear it."
"Psh, it was just a stunner," Jeon dismissed, waving that tattooed hand. "Barely even a graze, really. Don't flatter yourself. My noggin's never been better. Passed concussion testing with flying colors. Worry about your knuckles instead, Rocky."
He said the nickname like Namjoon was meant to take offense, but he didn't see the insult in being compared to an iconic boxer by a guy he literally just one-punch-KO'd. Besides, his knuckles carried only a dull ache, no sign of redness even though he had obviously made hard contact with the kid's jaw.
Jeon must've seen Namjoon's disbelief because he added, "really, it's cool. More than cool, actually."
Jeon's friendly smile stretched into something Namjoon did not like the look of. He much preferred Jeon mean-mugging him on the ice. This was trouble. Trouble, trouble, trouble. For the first time in his life, Namjoon felt the urge to flee.
"It was actually kinda hot," Jeon drawled, gaze heavy on Namjoon's. "Got me thinkin' about whether your stick game really is the best in the League."
Namjoon blinked once. Twice. Then blandly said, "there's tape you can watch for that."
Jeon blinked back in surprise and maybe disappointment, if Namjoon was reading it right. His grin dropped for just a moment before turning into a full blown smirk.
"Not the right kind of a tape, old man," he practically purred. "I could help you out there, though. If you're into that. My body's made for the movies, after all."
Namjoon had walked into that one, but he couldn't be blamed. Never in a million years did he imagine Jungkook Jeon would be suggesting they make a fucking sex tape less than an hour after Namjoon punched him in the face.
"You have a concussion," he repeated. Jeon started to argue, but Namjoon added a little alpha force to his voice and cut him off. He tried very hard not to notice the dilation of Jeon's pupils and scent of sweetcleanomega on the air when he did.
"Have your trainer check you again. If you really aren't concussed, then..."
Namjoon's voice dried up all at once.
Then what? Then he'd give this absolute stranger – this rival hockey player – what he was so brazenly, so absurdly asking for? Namjoon allowed himself to consider it for only the briefest of moments. Jeon was fucking hot, there was no denying it. Big and strong and beautiful. Namjoon could make him cry so prettily, only the best, most tasty tears of wanting. He could get his mouth around Jeon's cock and drink him dry, drain him til the kid shook like a storm. Namjoon could stuff his hole til he was in his goddamn guts, fat cock in Jungkook's belly—
Spice twinged Namjoon's nose and mortification burned in his cheeks at the realization. Before Jungkook could realize what that scent meant, Namjoon blurted out, "see you next time our teams meet okay bye s-sorry I hit you bye."
He turned on his heel and ran, actually ran, down the hallway and around the corner. Namjoon ran from that damned rookie, that shameless omega. He ran until he stopped smelling his own want, and he ran hard enough to forget the very faint scent that rose in a perfect answer to his own. He ran through several more hallways and around a few more corners until running quite literally into their equipment manager. He'd never been so glad to see the old man in his life.
Before he knew it, the Vipers were thirty thousand feet in the air flying home to Houston. Namjoon was asleep before they even left the runway. The one mercy he'd been given on that night was that he didn't dream.
But when he shuffled into his apartment a couple hours later, Namjoon was wide awake. He dropped his bag by the front door and went straight to the kitchen. Magnetized to his refrigerator was the team's calendar. He paged through it for only a few moments before uncapping a red marker. March 20 was then circled in a bold, careful ring.
Comets vs. Vipers
He couldn't fucking wait. Namjoon would be ready for the rematch.