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Megan Walsh sometimes likes to joke that she's a glorified babysitter for twenty-three grown men. Officially, her title is the Boston Bear's Head Dynamics Specialist. Unofficially, she's the woman responsible for preventing the MLH's collection of highly paid alpha idiots from accidentally starting an incident that ends up on SportsCenter.
She willing went to college and then paid them to spend the majority of her time around a bunch of knotheads.
Thankfully, most days are boring. A boring day is good; it's perfect, actually! Boring means nobody has challenged a teammate to a dominance contest because someone sat in the wrong stall. Boring means nobody is trying to scent-mark shared equipment. Boring means nobody has decided that a perfectly normal disagreement during practice requires "taking it outside."
Megan likes boring. No, she loves it.
The fact that half the roster thinks her job consists entirely of handing out rut calendars is a personal insult that she has, unfortunately, had to get used to.
The rut calendars are only part of it, after all.
She tracks compatibility concerns between the more aggressive team members, schedules medical evaluations, coordinates with the travel staff to manage room assignments so any alphas who are currently on poor terms don't get stuck together, reviews rutting patterns before long road trips, and keeps regular tabs on younger players who haven't yet learned how to manage themselves.
Every NHL team has someone like her because professional hockey already involves putting large, aggressive athletes into emotionally charged situations; adding dynamic instincts on top of that is a recipe for disaster.
Her entire job exists so that disasters are kept to a minimum.
A typical day for her might involve convincing Marlow that no, the rookie did not challenge him by accidentally taking the last protein shake, or explaining to an irritated Sebbin that Carmichael's scent blocker wasn't a personal attack, or maybe even spending forty minutes talking the newly drafted Cadyn through why it is inappropriate to growl at reporters. Again. Because apparently that conversation needs to happen every year with every single alpha rookie that graces the team's roster.
Boston is actually one of the easier teams she's worked with, if she's being honest. Most of the roster has matured since she started working for them six years ago, familiar with the rules that Megan has put in place. It helps that the Boston Bears' captain, Ilya Rozanov, is an exemplary example of do what I tell you.
Rozanov, despite what outsiders might assume, is one of her least troublesome players. While terrifying and difficult on the ice, Rozanov follows Dynamics Protocols without any questions. He reports rut symptoms immediately and attends every evaluation or appointment she schedules for him.
When he says he'll remain isolated during a rut, he remains isolated. If she tells him he can't travel due to the timing of it, he doesn't travel. When she says something is dangerous, he listens. The younger players are pretty quick to start following procedures because they know Rozanov does.
It's one of the reasons Boston's dynamic incident reports are among the lowest in the league. Megan is very proud of this fact.
Which is why, when her phone explodes twenty minutes before warmups should start, Megan immediately knows something is very wrong. She doesn't get a chance to answer the first or second call, medical and security flashing across her screen in quick succession, before a third call from her Assistant Dynamics Specialist pops onto her screen.
"Megan speaking." For a second, all she hears is arena noise in the background, some raised voices and a door slamming, before Caleb's voice finally pipes up.
"Coach." Caleb sounds incredibly strained and it makes Megan straighten up from her office chair immediately.
"What happened?"
"We need you in the locker room," Caleb says, causing her stomach to drop.
"Is someone hurt?"
"Not exactly," Caleb says, hesitating. There is another loud sound from his end of the call, voices getting louder.
Megan is already standing, grabbing her jacket off the back of her chair as she starts to gather any supplies she might need. "Caleb," she says firmly, nudging him to tell her what's going on.
"Something happened, I don't know what or how, but we currently have four alphas going into rut," Caleb explains in a rush, his words making Megan feeze.
"I'm sorry, what?" She asks.
"Make that five," Caleb rushes to say, another loud voice rising in the background. "Five Bears are currently entering into rut."
Megan unfreezes and runs.
Alphas don't just enter rut simultaneously like this. Megan has a meticulous schedule organized around the natural cycles of every single alpha on this team; none of them were scheduled to have a rut for at least two weeks.
Something has clearly gone wrong.
She arrives to chaos, an actual genuine emergency that puts the kind they practice for during league seminars, but secretly hope never happens, to shame. Hammersmith is being forced away from a cowering St-Simon, pulled and pushed by two members of security. Carmichael is backed into one of the corners, shifty eyes watching all of his teammates like they're threats. Marlow is actively snarling at Connors who, as a beta, is one of the only teammates in the room who can approach him without immediately getting his throat cut open.
There is a lot of shouting.
"We need to get them quarantined now," Megan tells Caleb, taking in their situation as fast as she can. "Start escorting them to different conference rooms, get security to lock each of them in."
Caleb nods, jogging over to the staff still struggling with Hammersmith, helping them force the snarling alpha out of the locker room and towards the hallway where the series of conference rooms sit.
The league has a protocol for this kind of thing, but Megan is very aware that it was set up with only one rutting alpha in mind. They apparently have five.
Coach LeClaire is grimacing in the corner of the room, the surly beta looking pissed as he takes in the chaos. His assistant coach, Reilly, is not so subtly hiding behind him, the omega man wary of the growing aggression in the room.
"Do we know what the hell happened?" She asks them, her brow furrowing. She idly notices how tense Rozanov is, the muscles in his neck bulging as he sits tensely in front of his cubby.
"No fucking clue," LeClaire mutters, shaking his head. "Don't know what the hell could be affecting only certain guys; Sebbin and Feller seem perfectly fine."
She glances at the two alphas, noting they seemed tense from the aggression shown from the affected alphas, but otherwise unaffected in the way the rutting alphas seemed to be.
When the security team and Caleb return, she jogs over to them, catching Caleb by the arm. He looks exhausted already, the beta a little shaky. She needs him clear headed and ready for whatever else might happen. "I need you to go notify the rest of medical to get more clear heads down here. I'll help them get Carmichael out," she instructs, hoping to give him a moment to get his head on straight before throwing him at any other rutting alphas.
She helps them coax a suspicious Carmichael out of the corner, boxing him in between all of them while leading him to an empty room. They're approaching one of the rooms when the door is shoved open, a frantic looking woman rushing out and closing it behind her. She spots security and waves them over.
"Lock this door, please, lock it right now," she orders, her Quebecois accent thick in her panic.
One of the guards rushes forward, doing as she asks, and the woman let's out a sigh of relief. The lanyard around her neck indicates that she is Dr. Bergeron, the Montreal Metros Head Dynamics Specialist.
Megan's stomach drops. She doesn't want to even consider the possibility, but with how stressed Dr. Bergeron looks, she fears her sudden suspicions might have some merit. "Please tell me you're not having the same problem," Dr. Bergeron says when she finally looks over and sees the stiff Carmichael.
Megan barks out a laugh. "Rut?"
Dr. Bergeron closes her eyes, inhaling sharply, and then nods. "Rut.
"Oh, you've got to be kidding me," Megan says. She waves the guards forward. "Go to the next room and leave him there."
Dr. Bergeron rubs both hands over her face as security leaves with Carmichael, giving the harried beta woman a wide berth as they pass her.
"We've got four confirmed," she says.
"Five for us," Megan replies, bitter.
Dr. Bergeron stares. "Five?"
"Five."
"Ostie de criss," the dynamics doctor spits, starting to rub her temples as if to ward off an oncoming headache.
For a moment, neither of them speaks. Megan lets the implication settle as she crosses her arms and thinks. Both the teams, same arena, seemingly the same timeline. What would they have had in common?
The realization seems to hit both of them at the same time.
"Someone dosed the food," they say in almost perfect unison.
Dr. Bergeron sighs again, finally offering Megan a hand for a brief shake. "Dr. Amelie Bergeron. Head dynamics specialist."
Megan shakes it immediately. "Megan Walsh. Boston."
"Well," Amelie states, "I guess we're coworkers now." A crash sounds from somewhere behind Amelie, making both of them jump, each taking several steps away from the locked door. There is a shout from inside, followed by another crash.
Amelie straightens after there are no subsequent sounds, turning her attention back to Megan. "How many secure rooms do you have?"
"We've secured two so far, yours makes three," Megan replies. "Let's coordinate.
Amelie immediately nods, no hesitation. "Agreed."
Megan takes a few minutes to guide her to the arena's operation offices, getting confirmation from her that setting up a sort of command spot here is fine. Megan feels a little less alone in this as they quickly start sorting things rapidly, agreeing on getting alphas to a room as quickly as possible and then contacting the other via walkie to let the other know the room is occupied. It might be simpler to just assign rooms, but each alpha is going to be unpredictable in how far they would be willing to travel before getting locked up. If they would be willing at all remains to be seen.
"Someone intentionally exposed NHL players to rut inducers," Amelie says as they get ready to go their separate ways. The implications are staggering: someone managed to get them past security, into the dining area, and then into food and drink being prepared for the players. Rut inducers typically take a few hours to circulate throughout the body before any signs appear, so the affected alphas have basically been ticking time bombs.
It's horrifying to think about. Someone is going to go to prison for this.
Megan returns to the locker room to see Marlow has been calmed slightly by Connors presence and that Rozanov has grown worse, audible rumbles leaving his chest as he glares daggers at the security trying to approach him.
"Captain," Megan says in her firmest voice, "we need you out of this locker room. Now."
He turns his gaze on her, eyes narrowed. Megan stays firmly standing, but she does lower her head just slightly. Rozanov has always had excellent control, but she doesn't want to challenge him if she doesn't need to. He eventually stands, slowly making his way out of the room. He seems rather docile compared to the others, so she only takes one of the security team, letting the other three approach Marlow.
Rozanov willingly enters conference room 105 will no fuss besides the consistent rumble from his chest. Megan feels a brief moment of relief before she is startled by a vicious growling coming from down the hall. She winces when she sees Marlow being physically escorted down the hallway, the alpha almost completely lost to his rut. She ushers the guard she took with her over to the struggling team, helping them tug an uncooperative alpha into the conference room two doors down.
She wipes at her forehead, the feeling of building sweat making her wince, before she shoots off a quick message to let the Montreal team know to avoid room 107.
She heads back to the locker room to find Caleb speaking with another Montreal staff member. They both turn when she enters the room, the Montreal staffer giving her a respectful nod.
"We took Cadyn to 111," Caleb tells her, marking the final alpha that had been affected by the spiked food.
"Dr. Bergeron should be back at base camp; she was escorting Hollander to a room and then heading there," the Montreal staffer adds.
"Thanks," she replies, heading to the operation offices.
She makes it back before Amelie does, managing to take a seat with a long, exhausted sigh, before the doctor walks in carrying two coffees.
"Found these," Amelie says, sitting one down in front of Megan.
Megan eyes them. "Are you sure they aren't spiked?" she says, only mostly joking.
Amelie seems to consider it before shrugging, taking a sip of her own cup. "Statistically?"
"Not helping," Megan replies with a chuckle, picking it up and taking a sip. It's sweeter than she usually drinks it, but she grateful for the boost it will give her. Besides, she's going to be facing an adrenaline crash soon and she'd probably drink gasoline if it contained caffeine in order to keep moving.
The Montreal specialist collapses into the chair opposite her, silence following for several blissful seconds.
Then, Amelie sighs. "Well."
Megan nods. "Well."
Amelie points toward the hallway. "One of ours challenged a vending machine."
Megan snorts.
"The vending machine won."
Megan actually laughs at that, the sound feeling strange after the last hour they've had.
"What happened?" she asks.
"He punched it."
"Naturally."
"Broke two fingers."
"No!" Megan gasps, a smile forming on her face. "Thoughts and prayers."
"Thank you." Amelie says as she reaches for a clipboard, Megan doing the exact same, as they switch into a more serious discussion.
They begin comparing information, Megan listing off the symptoms she had observed while wrangling the alphas. Amelie shares her own observations and Megan finds herself nodding along. It's very routine for a rut emergency, even if the amount of those affected is unprecedented for this type of situation.
"What room is Marlow in?" Amelie asks.
"107."
Amelie makes a note. "Any issues?"
"I heard him threaten a chair when we first shoved him in."
"Physical altercation?"
"The chair backed down."
Amelie snorts.
Megan continues, "Cadyn is secure in 101. Hammersmith is secure in 103. Rozanov didn't put up much of a fight and Carmichael you saw get quarantined."
"Good."
"What about yours?"
Amelie checks her paperwork. "Comeau is isolated in 108, Miitka in 109," she starts, her finger dragging along the paper. Megan can't help but wince a little at the thought of having to wrangle an alpha like Comeau; he seemed like one of the stereotypical knotheads Megan hated having around. "J.J. Boiziau was a little handsy, but settled right down once we got him in room 111," Amelie continues, "and Shane was basically an angel about the whole thing."
"He seems like the kind of guy who would rather die than give into instinct," Megan observes, eliciting a hum from Amelie.
"He's big on scent blockers," Amelie says with a shrug, glancing back down at her papers. "Oh, we put him in 105, by the way.”
Megan's world stops for a brief second. She doesn't quite register why her stomach drops and her heartbeat picks up, unsure why room 105 echoed in her head.
Megan frowns. Room 105, she thinks to herself, the words slow. Room 105.
"Oh," Megan whispers when her eyes catch something on her own list.
Amelie notices her tight expression immediately. "What?"
Megan stares at her clipboard, wishing that the numbers in front of her would suddenly transform into something else, that if she just wanted it enough, it would be magically fixed.
Unsurprisingly, the room number stays the same
Across from her, Amelie slowly straightens. "Megan?"
Megan checks the assignments again, because wishing isn't working, but maybe if she flips the page once or twice it will suddenly work itself out.
Her pulse begins hammering, sweat forming on her brow, as dread slowly starts to climb, cold and unforgiving, up her spine. Room 105, where Amelie has Hollander occupying, already has a resident: Ilya Rozanov.
So, if Megan can assume that Amelie is correct and didn't misremember the room number, there are currently two alphas in rut, known for their heated rivalry, locked into the same enclosed space, with no way of getting out.
"Oh my God," Megan whispers, her hands starting to shake.
"What?"
Megan finally looks up. "Ilya Rozanov."
"What about him?" Amelie asks hesitantly.
"We put Ilya Rozanov in room 105."
Neither woman moves, both of them staring at the other.
"No," Amelie says, turning to denial.
Megan nods once, unable to say it again. Amelie immediately grabs her paperwork, starting to shift it around, rustling them violently as she looks once more at the rooms she assigned. She must find it again because her face drains of color, her eyes glassy and wide as she stares at the room number in front of her.
Megan is frozen where she sits, every case study she ever had to learn in school flashing through her mind. This is one of the worst nightmares that any dynamics specialist could encounter.
You simply do not put two rutting alphas together. Ever. It is dynamics basics 101 and they both somehow fucked it up. Megan feels physically ill.
"We have to go."
Amelie is already standing.
Coffee forgotten and clipboards abandoned, they both rush to leave the room, Amelie almost knocking her chair over in her haste. The door slams open, Caleb and a few others Megan assumes are Montreal's dynamics staff all jump at the loud bang.
Caleb meets Megan's frantic gaze and pales. "Megan?" he asks. "What's wrong now?"
"105," she calls out, following Amelie as they both break out into a sprint. "Hollander and Rozanov are both in 105! Get security, now!"
They are really moving as they rush to the hallway that holds the conference rooms. Megan can hear them running behind her, some of the Montreal staffers yelling to each other, but Megan doesn't stop, can't stop.
As they round the corner toward the secured hallway, Megan's heart pounds harder and harder. They could lose their jobs over this, depending on how bad the scene they find them in. If they're both just injured, Megan can probably swing the incident in such a way that doesn't end in her termination, but if one of them is dead, Megan is fired and responsible for someone else's death.
There is no immediately noticeable sounds when they reach room 105. There are no screams or snarls. Megan takes in a few deep breaths before she pushes herself to really listen.
"Ah, ah, ah," she hears faintly.
Megan winces. One of them is clearly being put through it, injured and likely being carved bloody by an enraged alpha. She nods to security who unlocks the door, quickly pushing forward so she rushes in right behind Amelie.
She runs right into the doctor, surprised when she abruptly stops after taking a few steps into the room. Megan frowns, confused, before her eyes finally register what she's seeing.
Ilya Rozanov, captain of the Boston Bears, has Shan Hollander pinned to the wall, his hands wrapped tightly around Hollander's thighs as he hikes him up. His arms are periodically tensing as he grips the other alpha, his movements smooth and brutal as he fucks up into Hollander with abandon.
Hollander looks drunk as he takes it, drool spilling from his mouth as his arms wrap around Rozanov's neck. They are flush against one and other, wet slapping sounds echoing around the room and no longer muffled by the closed door.
"Ah, ah, ah," Shane moans with each thrust. His head tilts back and Megan almost gasps out loud when she sees the bloody mating bite that graces his neck, fresh and still oozing blood.
"Get off of him!" one of the Montreal staffers snaps from behind her, pushing past both Amelie and Megan to rush the two alphas.
Megan opens her mouth to chastise him, to tell him to get the hell away from the two rutting alphas, but it's too late. As soon as he is within striking distance, twin snarls of rage come from the alpha pair, both of them taking their sharp claws and swiping at the man. It is a little fascinating to watch happen, Rozanov's strokes barely stuttering as they draw blood together, still attached.
The man stumbles back and Megan reaches forward to pull him the rest of the way to them, pushing him out of the room with unrestrained urgency. She turns back just in time to watch Shane lean forward and lick an obscene stripe along Rozanov's neck, sucking at his inflamed mating gland with deep pulls.
The alpha musk is so heavy in the air that even Megan, a beta, can taste it on her tongue.
Rozanov groans, his cock pulling out of Hollander as the alpha in his arms lavishes his neck with attention. He growls something in Russian, an alpha huff coming from him when Shane answer him with a whining moan. Megan needs to look away, but she can't make her eyes look anywhere else as Hollander opens his mouth and flashes his fangs. He digs them into Rozanov's mating gland in a lunging motion, sealing an irreversible bond between the two rivals. Rozanov practically howls, his arms shaking as he fucks up into Hollander twice more before shoving himself as deeply as he can go. Hollander lets out a cry of his own, his teeth still buried in Rozanov's neck. Megan can't see it, but she would bet money that Rozanov just sealed their new bond with his knot.
"Out," Amelie mumbles, turning around and pushing at Megan. She allows the doctor to push her out, not putting up a fight as everyone is forced out of the door way. The door shuts behind them and Amelie takes the keys from one of the security team and locks the door herself.
"Well," Megan says, standing and staring blankly at the closed door.
"Not what I expected to see, I'll give them that," Amelie states, a lost look on her face.
"What are we gonna tell management?" Caleb mutters to himself, wringing his hands.
Megan does not want to be the one that has to sit down with Boston's management team and then explain that their star center and captain was spiked, forced into a rut, left alone in a room with another rutting alpha, and then instead of being killed or killing, came out of it bonded.
So much for Rozanov being her least difficult player. God, she could use a drink right about now.
"You three stay here and guard the door. No one goes in. Caleb, go get him checked out, those cuts looks nasty," Megan instructs, nodding toward the wounded man. They follow her orders without question. Megan turns and walks back to the offices, Amelie by her side.
Megan settles herself in her chair once more, numb exhaustion hitting her hard.
"I don't think I've ever seen this happen before," Amelie says after a moment of silence.
"I mean, it's statistically possible," Megan says in reply. "I think there was a case study where two alphas that were married were able to spend their ruts together because their alphas saw each other as potential mates?"
"So...," Amelies says, pausing for a moment, "are you implying they saw each other as mates before this?"
Megan thinks about the question, her mind sluggish. "I want to say no, that's ridiculous, but what do I fucking know anymore? At this point, you could tell me they were already fucking and I'd believe you."
Amelie says nothing in reply, both of them sitting in silence as they sit with what they saw.
"Was kind of hot though," Amelie says.
"Was totally hot," Megan nods, sitting forward to pull her clipboard out again. "Let's discuss potential lawsuits."