Chapter Text
The locker room was empty except for Dada Silva. The distant echoes of whistles and cleats had long faded from the training pitch, leaving only the rhythmic hum of the fluorescent lights overhead. He sat hunched over on the bench, one hand pressed tightly to his stomach, the other gripping a small slip of paper — the test he’d taken that morning.
Positive.
Pregnant.
The word spun in his mind with the same dizzying momentum as a ball taking a wild curve.
Dada’s heart raced. He’d always prided himself on control, on being the steady wall others could lean on, but right now he felt anything but steady. He thought of Lavinho — bright, passionate, larger than life, a man who lived like every day was the World Cup finals. How would someone like him react to something so… fragile?
Would he laugh? Would he panic? Would he leave?
A thousand scenarios burned through his thoughts. He considered ridiculous ways to break it to him — writing it on a soccer ball, cooking a meal that hinted at “family,” even blurting it out mid-training session. But every plan felt clumsy. Nothing seemed worthy of the enormity of the truth swelling inside him.
The door creaked.
“Dada?” Lavinho’s voice filled the room, warm and vibrant, like sunlight crashing through clouds. He strode in with his usual swagger, his golden hair tied back, his grin as unshakable as his faith in himself. “There you are, meu parceiro. I’ve been looking for you. Training without your rhythm is boring, eh?”
Dada quickly shoved the paper into his bag, forcing a smile. “Just… cooling down.”
Lavinho’s eyes narrowed, uncharacteristically serious for a moment. He walked closer, crouching down to meet Dada at eye level. “You’ve been strange lately. Is something wrong?”
The dam in Dada’s chest almost broke then. His instincts screamed to tell him, to lean on the one person who always made the weight of the world feel lighter. But fear kept his lips sealed.
Instead, he asked softly, “Lavinho… what would you do if… if life gave you something unexpected? Something you didn’t plan for?”
Lavinho chuckled, resting a hand over his own heart. “Unexpected? That’s football, meu querido. The ball never rolls where you think — but that’s the beauty. You dance with it, you flow with it.” His gaze softened, voice lowering. “If life gave me something new, I’d embrace it. Because what matters is who I share the pitch with.”
The words struck Dada like a perfect pass. His throat tightened, his vision blurred. All at once, the fear didn’t feel so suffocating. Maybe… maybe Lavinho wouldn’t run. Maybe he’d celebrate.
He wasn’t ready to say it tonight, but he knew he soon would. For now, he leaned into Lavinho’s shoulder, whispering just loud enough for himself to hear:
“You’ll be the first to know, I promise.”
Lavinho wrapped an arm around him without hesitation, pulling him close. “Whatever it is, Dada, we’ll score the goal together.”
And for the first time all day, Dada believed it.
The next morning, the training grounds buzzed with their usual rhythm. Cleats slapped against turf, whistles pierced the air, and the smell of fresh-cut grass mingled with sweat. But Dada Silva felt like he was moving half a step behind.
Every sprint burned more than it should. Every drill felt heavier than normal. His body was fighting to keep up, but his mind kept circling back to the truth he still hadn’t spoken aloud.
“Oi, Dada, what’s with you today?” one of the midfielders shouted as the group gathered for hydration. “You’re slower than a defender trying to dance samba.” A few teammates chuckled, but their laughter carried an edge of concern.
Dada forced a smile and waved them off. “Just didn’t sleep well. I’ll be fine.”
But the eyes on him lingered. Longer than usual. Like they could see something beyond his words.
Then came Julian.
The sharp-eyed striker strolled over, his usual smirk tugging at his lips. He circled Dada like a wolf sizing up prey before stopping dead in front of him. “Hmm. You’re hiding something, Silva.”
“I’m not,” Dada replied quickly, too quickly.
Julian’s smirk deepened. Without warning, he jabbed a finger into Dada’s stomach. Not hard, just a poke — pointed, deliberate. “The team ain’t stupid, you know. Something’s… different here.”
A hush fell over the group. The others leaned in, curiosity and suspicion written across their faces. Dada’s hand instinctively flew to cover his stomach, his chest tightening as though the whole field had just frozen.
Julian arched a brow, clearly savoring the tension. “Well? You gonna keep pretending nothing’s wrong, or are you gonna tell us why you’ve been moving like you’re guarding more than a ball?”
Heat crept up Dada’s neck. His heart thundered, not from the drills, but from the sudden spotlight on the secret he hadn’t even told Lavinho yet.
He opened his mouth—then closed it.
Not yet.
With all the strength he could muster, he forced a laugh and shoved Julian’s shoulder lightly. “Maybe I’ve just been carrying the whole team on my back. That’s enough weight, isn’t it?”
The players groaned, rolling their eyes at the dodge. The tension cracked just enough for practice to continue, though glances still followed Dada’s every step. Julian, however, lingered the longest, his sharp gaze narrowing as if he’d already pieced the puzzle together.
And as Dada jogged back into formation, sweat dripping into his eyes, he knew one thing for certain: hiding this truth wouldn’t stay easy for long.
Drills went on, whistles blaring, the sun climbing higher in the sky. Dada pushed through each motion with clenched teeth. His muscles burned in ways they shouldn’t. His stomach twisted, heavier than the weights he lifted in training.
Then it hit.
A sharp wave of nausea rolled over him mid-sprint. His vision blurred. He dropped out of formation, ignoring the shouts of his teammates, and staggered toward the nearest facility door. He barely made it into the tiled bathroom before falling to his knees over the sink.
The sound of him retching echoed harshly off the walls.
“Dada!”
The voice was unmistakable — warm, concerned, frantic. Lavinho. In seconds, the striker burst into the bathroom, his usual golden aura dimmed by panic. He crouched by Dada’s side, one hand steadying him, the other brushing damp hair from his face.
“Meu amor, what’s happening? You’re burning up—” Lavinho’s voice cracked, fear replacing his usual flamboyant tone.
Dada wiped his mouth, his body trembling. He wanted to speak, to tell him everything, but the words stuck. Fear, shame, worry — all tangled into a knot. He glanced down, his eyes falling on the thin lilac leather collar snug at his throat. The mark of his designation: Omega.
Every player on the field wore one. Red for Alphas, like Lavinho — proud, bold, dominant by nature. Blue for Betas, steady and versatile. Lilac for Omegas, rare, protected, yet constantly under scrutiny.
As if the collar weren’t enough, the metal wristband on Dada’s left arm gleamed under the harsh bathroom light. The government’s seal engraved into the band reminded him of the rules he lived under. Protected class, they called it. But protection often felt like a leash.
He also felt the weight of the specialized omega water bottle tucked in his gear bag. Government-issued, sleek, high-tech, fitted with flavored cartridges meant to stabilize hormones and keep omegas balanced in high-stress environments. He hadn’t sipped enough today — maybe because his stomach had been rejecting everything. Maybe because part of him already knew why.
Lavinho’s thumb brushed over the wristband, lingering with silent frustration, before his gaze rose to meet Dada’s. His golden-brown eyes softened, worry etched deep in their corners. “You know you don’t have to hide anything from me, né? I don’t care what anyone says about collars, or bands, or rules. You’re mine. And if something’s wrong—”
Dada cut him off with a weak laugh, trying to mask the fear in his chest. “You always make everything sound so simple.”
“Because it is,” Lavinho said firmly, his Alpha collar catching the light as he lifted Dada to his feet. “If you’re hurting, I’ll fix it. If you’re scared, I’ll fight it. That’s the deal.”
But Dada’s heart thundered harder than ever. Because the truth wasn’t something Lavinho could “fix” with charm or muscle. It wasn’t just nausea. It wasn’t just fatigue. It was the quiet, pulsing life inside him.
And soon, no collar, wristband, or bottle in the world would hide that from anyone.
The bathroom door creaked open.
Lavinho’s head snapped around instantly, his Alpha instincts flaring, shoulders squared to block whoever entered. Dada, still shaky against the sink, tightened his grip on his mate’s arm.
But it was only Julian.
He leaned lazily in the doorway, arms crossed over his chest, his red Alpha collar gleaming like a warning light. His eyes, sharp and unreadable, slid from Dada’s pale face to the trembling hand that clutched Lavinho’s sleeve.
“Well, well,” Julian drawled, one brow arching. “I figured you weren’t just ‘tired.’” His gaze flicked lower — to the lilac collar at Dada’s throat, then to the glint of the metal wristband. “And now, watching you puke your guts out? Things are adding up.”
Lavinho growled low in his throat, the sound instinctive. “Not the time, Julian.”
“Relax, Captain Charisma,” Julian shot back, though his tone wasn’t mocking — it was edged with something sharper, calculating. He stepped into the room, and the air grew heavier. “I’m not here to fight. Just… to point out the obvious.”
His eyes locked on Dada’s. “You’re not sick. Not like that.”
Dada’s heart stopped cold. His hands instinctively brushed over his stomach, a tiny gesture — too tiny, but enough. Julian’s keen eyes narrowed, catching it in an instant.
“Oh.” His smirk returned, slow and wolfish, but not unkind. “So that’s it.”
“Julian—” Lavinho’s voice thundered warning, but Julian only held up his hands.
“Hey, don’t bite my head off. I’m not gonna say anything. Not my secret to spill.” His gaze softened just a fraction as he looked back at Dada. “But you do know you can’t keep this quiet forever, right? Collars, bands, bottles — all of that? It makes people watch you even closer.”
Dada’s throat tightened. The words stung because they were true. Omegas had no room for error; one slip and the world would make their lives everyone’s business.
Julian gave a short nod, his voice lower now. “Tell him,” he said, jerking his chin toward Lavinho. “Before the rest of us put it together.”
With that, he turned and left, the door clicking shut behind him.
The silence he left behind felt louder than the retching had. Lavinho’s hands were still firm on Dada’s shoulders, but his eyes — wide, burning, desperate — demanded answers.
“Dada…” His voice was quiet now, barely above a whisper. “Is what he thinks… true?”
And in that moment, Dada realized there was no more hiding.
Lavinho’s voice was raw, heavy with unspoken fear.
“Dada… is what he thinks true?”
The omega’s stomach twisted harder than any cramp. His throat felt lined with glass. He saw the storm in Lavinho’s golden-brown eyes — Alpha protectiveness sparking with a desperate need to know.
But the words wouldn’t come. Couldn’t.
Dada forced a weak laugh, shakier than he meant it to be. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and shook his head. “I’m fine, Lavinho. It’s just stress. Training, pressure, you know how it is. You worry too much.”
Lavinho’s jaw tightened, unconvinced. His red collar gleamed under the fluorescent bathroom light, a stark reminder of the hierarchy that chained them both in its grip. Alphas were expected to know. To sense. And yet here he was, left in the dark by the one person who mattered most.
“Stress doesn’t make you run off mid-drill to puke,” Lavinho muttered, his tone half-plea, half-accusation.
“I’ll go see the team doctor,” Dada said quickly, fumbling for his Cirkul-like water bottle with its flavored cartridge already clipped inside. He took a sip, letting the chill fruit flavor coat his mouth, anything to distract from the truth bubbling under his skin. The metal wristband on his arm felt heavier than ever, burning like a brand. Protected class, the government called it. Protected, yet exposed at every turn.
Lavinho exhaled hard through his nose, staring at him like he wanted to demand the truth — to drag it out of him by sheer force of love and instinct. But after a moment, he only brushed his thumb along Dada’s jaw, gentle, tender. “You promise me, Silva. If something’s wrong… you’ll tell me.”
Dada smiled faintly, but it was thin, brittle. “I promise.”
It was a lie.
Lavinho pulled him close anyway, pressing a kiss against his temple before leading him out of the bathroom. But Dada could feel it: Julian’s words still hung in the air between them, poisoning the silence.
And deep inside, the secret in his belly burned like a second heartbeat.