Chapter Two
Emery
“You must be Emery.”
I’m still mid-coffee, mid–Broody McShoulderpack surveillance from the booth Rob steered me toward when the voice cuts through the low diner chatter behind me.
It’s deep, gravel-edged, and one-hundred-percent belonging to someone who’s yelled over a thousand whistles in a lifetime of hockey rinks.
My instincts clock him before I fully turn: a steady, no-nonsense scent that settles in my bones instead of setting my nerves on fire.
I find exactly the alpha I would have expected. He’s tall and broad, with salt-and-pepper hair in practical need of a trim and the permanent squint of someone who’s seen every play, every mistake, every excuse… and isn’t buying any of it.
He wears a navy jacket with a blocky IRON LAKE MOOSE patch across the chest, and a moose charging through a hockey stick on the sleeve. The thing looks older than I imagine some of the players are, and though it’s faded in spots, it’s still holding strong—much like the man wearing it.
His boots are scuffed, his jaw is set, and his expression says he doesn’t have time for nonsense; but there's something about the slight twinkle in his eyes that tells me this man possibly feeds stray cats and never tells anyone about it.
That, or he's sleeping with Bev. Jury's out so far.
“Coach Phillips,” I say, standing to shake his hand.
He nods once, firm and all business.
“Emery. I'm glad you made it.”
His grip is solid, and I have to wonder whether he’s measuring more than just my handshake, and is instead reading the exhausted omega in front of him and deciding if I can handle his pack of overgrown hockey boys.
Based on how I look right now, I wouldn't be at all surprised if he didn't have much faith, if any.
“Heard you had a detour,” he comments, releasing my hand.
“If by ‘detour’ you mean a full-blown existential crisis in a snowstorm while my GPS plotted my slow, frozen death, then yeah. Little one.”
That gets the faintest twitch of a smirk.
“That’s Iron Lake for you. The snow tries to kill you, but the people usually don’t.”
“Honestly? So far, everyone’s been weirdly kind for a town that looks like it was built on top of a frozen curse.”
I lift my mug in Rob’s direction. He offers a two-finger salute without looking up from where he’s now untangling what appears to be a very minor, very ridiculous syrup-related incident, and Coach grunts before he slides into the stool across from me.
Once seated, he gives me another once-over., and I know what I look like: I’ve seen gas station security footage with more glamour.
“You settle in yet?” he asks.
“Not unless you count this booth and the heated seat setting in my car.”
He hums under his breath.
“Let me guess: you're running on coffee, adrenaline, and the clothes in your trunk?”
“Right on the nose,” I confirm. “I’ve got a place lined up, though. I just haven’t seen it yet. I literally rolled into town, parked up here, and went straight into crisis mode.”
“Hell of a welcome,” he mutters, but there’s something softer under the gruff.
A flicker of understanding.
“You nervous?” he adds. “First time in a town this small? First time being the only omega on staff?”
“A little,” I admit. “I’ve worked with all sorts of people so far in my career: college athletes, some minor league guys, pros who didn’t want to listen, and rookies who thought foam rolling was witchcraft.
But moving to a town this small, where everyone knows each other’s cholesterol levels, and probably my designation by dessert? Yeah: that’s new.”
“You’ll be fine.” Coach actually cracks a smile. “And the Moose could use someone who knows what the hell they’re doing.”
“That’s the plan.” I pause. “And hey, I survived the Iron Lake Triangle, so I assume that gets me some kind of honorary badge. Maybe a punch card. Ten loops and you get a free coffee, or something?”
“We’ll count it as your initiation,” he says. “Tomorrow, I’ll walk you through the Icebox before practice and show you your space. It’s nothing fancy, but it’s yours.”
“The Icebox,” I repeat. “Is that the rink, or a cry for help?”
“Bit of both.”
I think on it for a moment, then shrug.
“I’m almost certain I’ll have worked in worse.”
He nods. “We’ve got a solid crew. Local guys, mostly, and some ex-college players. A few still work day jobs. Teacher, construction, one guy’s trying to be a social media chef—don’t ask. But they’re good players. They’re loyal, and tough.”
“Any particular personalities I should prep for? Or, you know: any alphas I should be warned about before they set off my flight reflex?”
Coach exhales through his nose, clearly deciding whether to answer honestly or diplomatically.
“Dylan Hayes thinks stretching is a government scam. Benny Carver blends beef jerky into smoothies. And if you hear someone shout ‘I’ve got goat balm in my locker,’ don’t ask follow-ups. Just walk away.”
“Solid advice,” I say. “I'll make sure to add that to my survival guide.”
“We’re short a few players right now, since we’ve got a couple nagging injuries. One guy’s suspended for… reasons.” A beat. “And Beau’s situation has thrown everything out of rhythm.”
My eyes drift, uninvited, back to the corner booth where Beau sits like a storm cloud in a hoodie, with that same glower, same jawline carved out of pure resentment, and same alpha pull that hums against my nerves whether I want it to or not.
Coach follows my gaze, then sighs, apparently tired of explaining the inevitable.
“Been leading the Moose for five seasons now,” he comments.
“He doesn’t exactly scream team spirit from over there,” I mutter.
“Hmm.” Coach’s voice is tight with that specific tone men reserve for someone they respect and want to strangle in equal measure.
“He was born and raised here, and is Iron Lake to the bone. Kid’s been skating since he could walk—hell, maybe before.
Played D-I, had scouts sniffing around him all through college, and even got a couple of invites to NHL training camps. ”
My eyebrows lift.
“So what the hell is he doing here? Don’t tell me he just loves the vibe. Or the weather. Or the distinct lack of professional heat protocols.”
“Family stuff.” Coach’s mouth twists. “His mom got sick during senior year, and he came home to take care of her. He never left again.”
He shrugs, but it’s heavy; the motion doesn’t quite sit right on his frame.
“Some people say he blew his shot, but Beau? He’ll tell you this is exactly where he’s meant to be.”
I glance over at him again, where he’s still projecting all the emotional availability of a brick wall. His alpha scent is dampened by pain and ice, but it’s still there; dark and stubborn at the edge of the room.
“A guy who gives up the NHL for a little place like Iron Lake?” I murmur. “That’s not just hometown loyalty. That’s borderline martyrdom.”
“Now that’s Beau,” Coach huffs. “Loyal to a fault, and stubborn enough to drive a snowplow uphill just to prove it can be done.”
I try not to frown as I watch Beau shift slightly in his seat. He winces, but continues to sit in silence as if pain is a thing he owes someone.
As though this is just what alphas do: absorb, endure, and shut up.
“How bad is it?” I ask.
“Dislocated shoulder, possible rotator cuff tear. We were just waiting on the MRI to confirm. But he’s pushing himself harder than he should—pretending he’s fine, like that’ll make it true.” Coach leans back, arms crossed. “Which is exactly why we called you.”
I blink.
“I thought I was replacing your strength coach.”
“You are,” he says, then adds, “but Beau needs someone who knows what they’re doing, and who won’t back down when he inevitably tries to take over his own rehab and drive it straight into a wall.”
“So, basically… you need someone who can out-stubborn a six-foot-something glacier with a martyr complex, an alpha ego, and a god-tier pain tolerance?”
Coach cracks a smile, dry and knowing.
“That’s one way to put it.”
I exhale through my nose, watching Beau’s profile. That carved-from-granite jaw, the rigid set of his shoulders, the way he hasn’t looked over even once… He’s the kind of patient that comes wrapped in warning labels.
The golden boy who can’t stand to be sidelined.
“Sounds like a fun challenge,” I say finally, even as my body screams for a nap—and maybe a life where I don’t keep taking on broken things like I can fix them.
Coach raises an eyebrow. “You up for it?”
I wrap both hands around my mug, letting the heat bleed into my fingers.
“I’ve worked with worse,” I say, though I’m not so sure it’s the truth. “At least this one doesn’t seem like the type to hit on his therapist.”
“Probably not. Well: unless you show up on the ice holding a pair of skates and a six-pack,” Coach snorts.
“Noted,” I say. “Guess we’ll find out.”
Before Coach can respond to that, Bev reappears in the way only women who’ve run small-town diners and entire lives can manage: sliding a plate full of food right in front of me without so much as a word of warning.
“There,” she says. “You look like you could use some starch, and a little hope.”
I blink at the plate. It’s filled with pancakes the size of snow tires, scrambled eggs, hash browns so golden they look cursed, and two strips of bacon arranged in a slightly deranged smiley face.
It’s nearly five p.m., but apparently Iron Lake operates on the sacred rule that breakfast is a feeling, not a time slot.
“I… didn’t order this,” I say.
She gives me a flat look.
“You didn’t have to. I’ve got eyes. You’ve got new-in-town, frozen-to-your-soul omega energy, and that”—she taps the plate with one sparkly fingernail—“is the cure.”
I stare.
“Is this the regular special?”
“No,” she says, her expression completely deadpan. “This is the Bev special. It comes with unsolicited advice and absolutely no room for complaints.”
“Just eat it, Emery,” Coach grins. “She gets offended if you don’t.”
“Damn right I do.” Bev points at him without even looking. “You need anything else, sugar, you holler. And if that one over there,” she jerks her chin toward Beau’s corner of doom, “gives you trouble, tell him I said to behave, or I’ll start slipping decaf into his coffee.”
She winks, then leaves us again.
I look at the plate, then at Coach.
“Does she come with the benefits package?”
“She is the benefits package,” he says. “Her and Marlene, anyway.”
“Marlene?”
“Mmhm. The cook.”
I take a bite of the pancake and feel myself really exhale for the first time in hours.
“Well, looks like the storm’s easing.” Coach says, peering out of the windows. “I need to head back to the rink, but we’ll reconnect first thing tomorrow.”
“Seven a.m.,” I say, feigning optimism through a mouthful of pancake. “Because nothing says fresh start like frostbite and soft tissue assessments.”
“That’s the spirit,” he says. “I’ll give you the full Icebox tour, introduce you to the staff, and then we’ll ease you into the rotation.”
I raise an eyebrow.
“And by ‘ease,’ you mean shove me headfirst into a pile of overconfident, under-stretched hockey players and see who taps out first.”
His mouth twitches.
“Something like that.”
I keep eating while Coach tugs on his gloves, clearly in no rush to bolt.
“That being said, you’ll be working with most of the roster at some point,” he says.
“My plan was to send 'em to you one by one, let you meet them all and do some assessments.
That sort of thing. It's been a little while since the last PT left, and they've gone too long without being checked up on. Some guys need basic rehab, some need maintenance, and some just need to be told to sit their asses down and stop pretending they’re invincible.”
“So, the usual,” I mumble around a mouthful of hash browns.
“You’ve got full run of the PT room. We’ve got a small gym setup too—nothing fancy, but it gets the job done.”
I nod, chasing it all down with the last of my coffee.
“Honestly, that sounds perfect. I’ve spent enough time in high-end clinics: the ones with the fancy glass walls and hydro beds and massage chairs that cost more than my car. Know what I get out of it?”
He blinks at me.
“Burnout,” I finish. “Well: that, and a steady rotation of guys who thought protein powder cured everything except their egos.”
Coach raises his brows, looking somewhat amused.
“You’ll fit in just fine, then. Moose don’t have time for pampered. Beta, alpha, omega—it doesn’t matter here. Everyone pulls their weight.”
“Good,” I say, wiping my hands on a napkin. “Because I’m all out of patience for guys who pull a hamstring and act like it’s a near-death experience.”
He gives a low chuckle, then finally stands and zips his jacket.
“Then you're in perfect company, Emery. Now: finish your food, go get your keys, get some rest, and be ready to hit the ground running.”
I'm stuffed, not able to eat another bite anyway, so I reach for my coat.
“Speaking of keys—the place I’m renting is on the other side of town. I was told they left them at Wolf’s Hardware?”
“Yep.” Coach nods as he tugs on one glove. “Just head down Main, hang a right at the post office, and it’s three blocks down on the left. Big faded sign. You can’t miss it.”
“Right at the post office, then three blocks down on the left,” I echo, shoving my arms into my sleeves.
“That’s right. It’s a family business,” he says. He hesitates, as if he's unsure whether to clarify, before he speaks again. “It's actually Beau’s dad who runs it.”
I freeze mid-button.
My omega instincts do a weird little static-hiss at the name.
“Ah. So Wolf as in… Wolfe.”
“The very same.”
Coach’s expression doesn’t shift, showing that he’s not giving away more than necessary.
“Ken Wolfe’s… got a presence. Bit of a throwback, and old-school alpha mindset. Just… don’t mention anything that plugs in. Or beeps.”
“So I should avoid saying words like Wi-Fi or ergonomic?”
“Unless you want a lecture about how real tools don’t require software updates, yeah.”
“Fantastic,” I mutter, slinging my bag over my shoulder. “Day one and I’m already on the Wolfe radar. Love that for me.”
Coach claps a firm hand on my shoulder before pulling the door open, and the cold air hits immediately.
“Just remember,” he says, his voice a notch quieter. “You’re here to help.”
A beat passes.
Then, dry as dust:
“And god help us… they’re gonna need it.”