Playing Hurt (The SportsVerse #2)

Chapter One

Emery

I swear I’ve passed that same dead Christmas wreath three times.

My breath fogs up the inside of the windshield as I squint through the snow, the defroster wheezing as it dies a slow, dramatic death.

I might’ve been on the same road for five minutes or fifty: I honestly can’t tell anymore.

Everything is white, silent, and vaguely threatening.

Even the trees seem judgmental, and not in the normal “wow, you’re bad at driving in winter” way.

No, this is the omega-specific type of judgment: the kind where my instincts crawl beneath my skin, muttering turn around, bad idea, even though I’ve been choking them down with suppressants.

Not. Working.

Outside, the world looks like an apocalyptic snow globe that some unhinged child shook too hard before yeeting it off a balcony, and I zip past a mailbox sporting a sad, frostbitten bow that clings on with the stubbornness of pure spite.

I haven’t seen another car in twenty minutes—well, not unless you count the snowplow I may or may not have flipped off when it blasted me with a tidal wave of slush—and my phone has committed a total betrayal by losing battery, which means I have officially have no service, no GPS, and no civilization.

“Come to Iron Lake, Emery. It’ll be charming, Emery. A fresh start, Emery,” I mutter, thwacking the screen. “Nobody mentions being eaten by snow wolves on day one.”

I take a random right turn, and either the universe finally pities me, or it’s setting me up for a dramatic plot twist, because the storm actually eases. It’s as dramatic as it sounds, as if someone cracks open a window in the sky, and there it is:

With old-timey storefronts, chimney smoke curling into the air, and real string lights overhead.

Main Street.

The string lights sway in the breeze, and I have to admit that they look kind of pretty. It's almost like the town itself is trying to say, see? We’re not that bad once you get past the frostbite.

I keep on driving, and finally stumble upon the diner I’ve been looking for.

The Rusty Spoon.

It had been spelled out to me in the ‘Welcome to Iron Lake’ email I’d received from Coach Phillips.

Meet at The Rusty Spoon, he’d said. Can’t miss it.

Pfft. Tell that to my cracked windshield and whatever nightmare is happening with my left taillight.

I yank the wheel into a parking spot that’s more snowbank than pavement and kill the engine. After three and a half days of driving, four gas station burritos, and one emotional breakdown outside Milwaukee, I’m exhausted.

But at least I’m here.

I shove the door open and immediately skid on a patch of traitorous ice, flailing like a baby deer in combat boots. My thermos goes flying, though by some miracle (and one death-grip on a nearby streetlight), I stay upright.

Small victories.

I stand rooted to the spot for a moment, the wind biting my cheeks as I breathe in air so cold it might slap my lungs. My scent—usually calm vanilla with a citrus edge when I’m not panicking—is basically frozen solid, but somehow, it’s not all bad.

There’s something about this place: something scrappy and sturdy and stubborn. It looks like the kind of town where people leave their boots outside and their grudges inside, where diners have laminated menus and gossip networks stronger than the WiFi.

The kind of town where an city girl with a busted car, questionable suppressants, and an even more questionable life plan can figure her shit out.

I square my shoulders, yank my beanie down over my head, and trudge toward the Rusty Spoon. The neon fork above the door blinks, essentially winking at me.

“Alright, Iron Lake,” I mutter. “Show me what you’ve got.”

Violent heat rushes over my body as I enter, and wind slams the door closed behind me. I stand there, panting and snow-drenched, heavily aware that I look every inch the omega who has lost a fistfight with nature.

The diner smells like burnt coffee, over-buttered toast and fryer grease, with a hint of judgment for good measure.

(Quintessential Iron Lake, apparently.)

The booths are full of locals, laughing and chatting and indulging in pancakes and meatloaf and gossip—

Until the room notices me.

Heads turn, forks pause, and someone actually mutters, “she’s not from here.”

There’s nothing quite like the feeling of walking into a snow-glazed diner in a town of nine-thousand where the welcome committee doubles as a jury.

I feel heavy under the pressure of so many strangers, but I ignore that feeling as I yank off my beanie, run a hand through my dark hair that frizzed into chaos somewhere around Wisconsin, and give the room a dry, yep-I-look-like-this smile.

“Don’t mind me,” I say to nobody in particular. “Just your average half-frozen outsider trying not to die.”

A few people chuckle, and their attention returns slowly to their food.

Now that the ice has been broken, (no pun intended), I start to peel off layers: gloves first, then my scarf, then my coat. Behind the counter, a guy in a gray fleece zip-up grins at me, and I wonder whether he’s already decided I’m today’s entertainment.

He looks to be late twenties, maybe thirty at a push, with fair curls and scruff that screams forgot to shave but still hot.

“You look like you just escaped a hostage situation with the blizzard,” he says.

“I did. Only lost one limb,” I reply. “Snow wolves got the rest. Tell my story.”

“Watch out for the pack near the post office,” he laughs. “They’re territorial.”

“I knew that blacked-out wreath was an omen.”

“You’re not wrong.” He sticks out his hand. “Name’s Rob: emergency diner staff.”

I take his hand.

“Emery,” I tell him. “New in town, and probably going to need a space heater surgically attached to my spine.”

Recognition sparks, and his grin tips sideways.

“Wait—Emery? As in, Emery Tate, the new PT for the Moose?”

“Uh... that’s me,” I nod. “I was supposed to meet Coach Phillips here a while ago, but GPS abandoned me somewhere near hell, and my phone died, so I’m more than just running late.”

Rob whistles.

“Driving in during a Nor’easter that’s got most of town holed up and two cars already in the lake is a bold move.”

“There are cars in the lake?”

“Mmhm. One of them’s a tradition. The other one… might be Gary.”

“Poor Gary.”

“I’m surprised you didn’t get swallowed by the Iron Lake Triangle,” he continues. “That’s a real thing, by the way.”

“Oh, it got me,” I say. “I did three identical loops around a creepy ass mailbox with a fake reindeer head. This town’s cursed, I swear.”

“Nah: that just means you’re officially local. It’s our mildly traumatic rite of passage.”

“Well, I’m honored,” I deadpan.

“Come on.” Rob gestures to the counter. “I've got Coach's number, so I'll let him know you're here, and Bev’s legally required to revive storm victims.”

As if on cue, an older woman with aggressively spiked short pink hair and a bedazzled nametag reading BEV appears. She’s holding a mug of coffee with fuzzy moose earrings dangling from her ears that jingle every time she moves.

She takes one look at me and frowns.

“Sit. Eat. Warm up,” she orders. “You’ve got that big-city, omega-in-regret energy.”

I slide onto the stool at the counter, still half-frozen and entirely too tired to argue.

“Wow. Do you offer that level of emotional readjustment to everyone?”

“Only the cute ones,” she winks, then vanishes into the kitchen again.

“She likes you,” Rob says, disbelief in his voice as he pockets his phone. “That’s rare. Usually she makes new people cry first, then decides if they’re worth feeding.”

“Good to know,” I laugh. “I feel very seen. Deeply judged, but seen.”

I lift the mug and take a sip of the coffee. It’s too hot, slightly bitter, and probably older than my last relationship, but it’s also the best thing that has happened to me in the last two hundred miles.

“You’ll get used to it,” Rob nods as he leans his elbows on the counter. “Iron Lake’s got its quirks. It’s a little rough around the edges, a little too invested in the Moose’s third line, and you will definitely get called ‘hon’ by strangers twice your age, but... it grows on you.”

I smile into my mug.

“I hope so,” I tell him.

He gives me that soft, amused look again.

“Well, Emery Tate: welcome to Iron Lake. You’re officially the most exciting thing to happen here since we ran outta wings on game night and nearly started a town riot.”

I’m mid-sip again when I feel it: a low hum of instinct deep in my chest.

My senses sharpen, and then, I see him.

He steps through the door, then makes his way across the diner toward one of the corner booths in the back left, hidden in shadows.

I watch with narrowed eyes as he slouches deep into the vinyl seat with one arm folded across his chest. I can't help it: I squint at the sling over his shoulder, unable to hide my natural interest as his alpha-heavy scent hits me.

Pine. Smoke. Cold metal.

His hair falls in thick, dark waves that brush his shoulders, slightly tousled in that effortless way that means he’s either raked a hand through it too many times or hasn’t touched it all day. Either way, it suits him.

The rough stubble shadowing his jaw definitely isn’t the curated kind, though: it’s pure neglect, and the overall effect is the kind of ruggedness that suggests he could fix your truck, build you a cabin, and ruin your peace of mind; all without saying a word.

Everything about him tugs at my instincts, but he doesn’t move, or even seem to notice my presence. Instead, he simply stares across the table, locked in a silent, simmering focus, as if sheer will alone can make the ketchup bottle in the center combust.

He’s wearing a dark, oversized hoodie, worn in the way that says he wanted to disappear; and judging by the sharp set of his jaw, the furrow of his brow, and the sheer volume of don’t talk to me radiating off him, he’s succeeding.

Still, something about him pulls at me: a loose thread I know better than to touch, but can’t stop myself from reaching for.