Chapter Six
Beau
The porch light is on.
I see it the second I pull in, and it can only mean one thing:
She’s here.
The truck idles under me, the engine ticking. I stay in the driver’s seat longer than I need to, hands still on the wheel and eyes locked on the house through a crust of frost and snow. Warm light glows behind the curtains, all soft, inviting—
And completely out of place.
This place used to be my aunt’s, before she passed away.
She died fast—the kind of fast that doesn’t give you time to brace or bargain.
There was no warning shot or gradual decline.
It felt like one minute she was standing in the doorway with a tin of muffins and a lecture about taking care of myself, the next she was a name on a chart with the kind of diagnosis that takes the ground out from under you.
I didn’t get the chance to sit beside her and memorize the shape of her laugh before it dimmed, because she didn’t fade. Instead, she dropped out of our lives like a light switch being flicked off.
Here, then gone.
It was brutal, but in a way, it was clean; a sharp, deep cut that bled out quickly. Painful as hell, especially for my mom, but simple in its cruelty.
After that, this house sat quiet in a way that felt wrong and still in a way that lingered on your skin. My mom kept saying she’d sort through her sister’s things, but it always got put off. It was always after. After the holidays, after the snow melted, after the next round of appointments…
And every time she tried, she stalled in the doorway, staring at the floorboards like they’d swallow her whole if she actually stepped further inside.
The air felt heavier here. After all, grief has this sort of gravity that you can feel in your lungs.
My dad didn’t help. He didn’t soften at all, didn’t so much as lift a fucking finger. Instead of even offering to help, he just spent his time muttering about wasted space and wasted money and left my mom alone with every echo that hurt her, acting like he was the one getting screwed by the world.
Then my mom got sick, too.
Her sickness wasn’t the fast or the clean kind, though. Hers was the slow kind—the kind that creeps in sideways and hides at first, slipping into the cracks of a life you thought you had time to prepare for.
It started with missed appointments and repeated questions: little things that didn’t seem like much on their own, until they weren’t little.
Until the pattern was something you couldn’t ignore no matter how hard you tried.
I was the one that stepped up. I took her to her appointments and sat with her as doctors ran through tests and arranged scans.
It wasn’t long after that the words that felt like a punch and a verdict at the same time came: the conclusion of her having a disease that was, ultimately, a thief; and one that worked in pieces.
A fingertip at a time. A memory, a morning routine, a name. She was still here, still breathing and smiling and laughing—
And also, still fading.
Some days she felt like my mother, others, she felt like someone wearing her face; and everyone kept saying things like, she’s still in there or some days are better than others, but I called bullshit.
The truth is meaner than people liked to admit. It's watching someone you love become someone you have to learn again, over and over, while smiling through it so they don’t fall apart faster.
That's how I ended up moving back. I said it was temporary at first: that I’d just stay for a season, play for the Moose again before I went back out to the big city to pursue my career.
But then one season turned into two, and then a couple more months after that, just until things stabilized.
No one ever tells you how easily something temporary becomes permanent, how one month folds into the next, how you blink and it’s snowing again, and you’re still running the grocery list, still paying the bills, still explaining the same calendar four different ways before breakfast.
My dad is the kind of alpha who could break a man with one hand, but couldn’t ever sit long enough to hold hers. He couldn’t soothe, or stay gentle even for thirty seconds. His temper made damn sure of it.
So, in the end, I stayed. Walking away wasn’t an option, even if staying hurt in a way I couldn’t describe.
And in all of that, this house stayed quiet.
There are no fists through walls, here. No slammed doors, or waiting for a voice to snap like a trap.
It might have the kind of stillness that holds weight and grief and long distant memories, but it doesn’t hold cruelty, and I’ve held onto this place because it’s the first roof I’d ever lived under that didn’t feel like punishment.
Other than the Icebox, it's the only place in this godforsaken town that I felt I could breathe without bracing for impact, and I’m not ready to give it up.
Certainly not for her.
I snap myself back into reality, killing the engine before I step out into the cold. Wind bites at my neck where my jacket doesn’t quite meet my hoodie, and my shoulder throbs with every movement, a relentless pain that never really shuts up, just dulls down to background noise.
The key sticks in the lock again, and I shove the door open with my hip, teeth clenched as the warm air rushes to meet me.
Snow melts off my coat and puddles onto the wood floor as I kick my boots against the mat, harder than necessary.
I hang my car keys on the hook by the door, and the sound echoes.
I turn, and there she is.
Emery Tate.
She’s the new PT for the team, and the omega who is indefinitely going to be living with me in this fragile balance I’ve built out of silence and structure.
She’s curled on the long couch as though she’s been dropped there by the storm.
The fleece blanket is tucked up under her chin, and her head is sunk deep into the pillow I usually lean on when my shoulder gets bad.
One of her hands is tucked beneath her cheek, the other dangling loosely off the edge of the cushion, and her beanie is resting on the armchair directly across.
She has brown hair that falls in soft, uneven waves, her lips are plump and parted slightly in sleep, and I…
Well.
I didn’t expect her to look like that.
Her scent is clearer now: vanilla, with a little citrus underneath the cold. It’s dampened by suppressants, but unmistakably omega anyway.
My instincts tighten, then lock down out of habit.
Her breath is slow and steady, and I haven’t been caught off guard by the fact of her so much as by the presence of her.
She’s supposed to be temporary—a logistical solution in the shape of a person.
The house itself technically isn’t even mine; it passed to my mother as my aunt’s closest living relative when she died childless, and when my parents stayed married, my father stepped in and did what he always does best: turned it into an opportunity.
The spare room’s been listed for nearly two years, untouched, because no one comes to Iron Lake unless they’re born here or stuck here.
Until now.
My father—always generous with his warnings—mentioned her a few days ago, but Coach gave me more to go on when he brought her up in passing.
He said she seems sharp and grounded, that she knows her stuff, and that she doesn’t strike him as the kind who’d be rattled by a locker room full of taped-up knees and oversized alpha egos.
“She's got grit,” he told us all just yesterday, reminding everyone that she'd be arriving soon. “The Moose could use someone like her. So behave yourselves, and don't go scarin' her off.”
Right now, she doesn’t look gritty. She looks tired.
The kind of tired you carry for miles before it finally lets you drop.
There are duffel bags slumped at the base of the stairs, one gaping open and another tipped sideways, while her phone is facedown on the coffee table, the charging cable half-knotted as though it was abandoned mid-movement.
I exhale through my nose. It isn’t her fault, I know that.
She probably doesn’t realize how strange this setup really is.
She’s moved to a new town and is starting a new job where she’s been dropped in halfway through a broken season, surrounded by bruised bodies and bruised pride and more alphas than any sane omega should willingly orbit.
Still, this house has rules; a rhythm and routine I’ve built with quiet hands and a need for control, and now she’s here, sound asleep on my couch.
The floor creaks under my weight as I step further inside, but she doesn’t stir. Instead, she breathes evenly, looking every inch of someone who has finally found somewhere to land.
That thought makes me angrier than it should.
I don't know why.
My fingers twitch like they want something to hold, to anchor me. A puck. A stick.
A reason not to feel this off-balance.
I should go upstairs and let her sleep, let it go; but the thing about pain—when it’s chronic, when it’s yours—is that it eats at everything, including your patience and your tolerance for surprise.
So, I don’t give it more thought as I reach out and nudge the coffee table with my foot. Not enough to knock anything over, just enough to send a small, intentional thud through the wood.
She startles. Her hazel eyes snap open, bleary and wide before she sits up, blinking slowly.
“Shit,” she mutters, dragging a hand across her face. “You scared the hell out of me.”
Her gaze tracks up to mine before her eyes narrow slightly. Her shoulders tense, then ease when I don’t move closer.
“You’re—”
“Beau.”
A pause.
Then:
“...You live here?”
I nod.
She looks at the couch, then at the blanket wrapped around her, then back at me with a slow-building frown.
“That would’ve been great information to have about three hours ago. Or, you know, three weeks ago.”
I cross my arms, shoulder complaining in protest.
“What: the rental agency didn’t tell you?”
“They said I’d be renting a place with character,” she deadpans. “They didn't say it came with a brooding hockey player. I'd definitely remember that.”
I raise an eyebrow.
“What gave it away?” My eyes scan the room, then land on the back of the couch. “Was it the hoodie?”
She rolls her eyes.
“Yeah. That, and it's kinda hard to miss the Moose logos everywhere.” She sighs, looking thoughtful for a moment. “It’s like a cult, but with more concussions.”
“Right,” I huff. “Well, congratulations. You’ve officially met your first small-town cliché.”
“Yeah, well. If I’d known I’d be sharing square footage with a Moose, I might’ve asked for hazard pay,” she mutters.
I narrow my eyes, not quite sure I like her tone, or her attitude.
“You don’t know anything about me.”
She meets my stare evenly.
“Not yet.”
Alright: I definitely don't like her attitude.
She’s a little more wary now, I think, and her scent tightens, but she's still not backing down. Instead, she leans back on the couch, casually reclaiming the space.
I don’t smile, but my eyes flick down to the blanket around her, the one clutched tight in her fists.
“See you’ve made yourself comfortable,” I comment before I can stop myself.
She scoffs under her breath. It would seem I've displeased her already.
“I dragged a ridiculous amount of bags through a blizzard, nearly broke my ass on your front steps, and found a mystery hoodie and a toothbrush in the bathroom when I thought I’d be living here alone. What did you want me to do: sleep standing up?”
A corner of my jaw twitches. I'm just about to bite back when another thought crosses my mind, and my eyes scan her face quickly.
“Wait: how old are you?”
Her eyebrows shoot up. “Excuse me?”
The question came out harsher than I intended it to, but there's no going back now. I figure I may as well commit to it.
“You look... young.”
“Wow. Great opener.”
“I didn’t mean…” I scrub a hand across the back of my neck. “You just don’t look like someone who’s worked with athletes.”
“And you don’t look like someone who uses words longer than five syllables. Should we both keep making assumptions?”
That gets me, and my brows raise again.
She keeps holding my gaze, clearly not sorry about her attitude.
“I’m twenty-four,” she finally adds.
Huh. Only three years younger than I am, but something about her makes her seem younger. Maybe it’s just her omega scent, or her plump cheeks and smooth skin, or how small she looks curled up on the couch. Not fragile, exactly, just… worn out.
Not that I’m in any shape to judge.
I lean my good shoulder against the stair rail, watching her.
“So, you from the city?” I ask, not really sure why I'm even asking. It's not as if I care.
“Minneapolis,” she says. “Born and raised. You?”
“Iron Lake.”
“Figures.”
“What, because of the boots?”
“No: because you’ve got that small-town glare. Like everyone’s already on thin ice and you’re just waiting for it to crack.”
“It’s not a glare,” I say after a second. “It’s a face.”
She huffs out a breath, not quite a laugh.
“Charming.”
I straighten a little, crossing my arms and ignoring the dull throb in my shoulder.
“Anyway, your room’s upstairs. First door on the right.”
She looks up at me like I’ve just offered her a weather report.
“I know,” she says. “I’ve already unpacked, made the bed, and claimed the drawers. You’re a little late.”
“Fine.” I shrug, then turn toward the stairs.
“You’ve got a real welcoming energy, by the way,” she calls after me.
My shoulders tense, and I hover over the bottom step.
“You’re the one who moved in unannounced.”
“I was told this place was mine,” she fires back.
I shake my head, irritated now.
I thought omegas were supposed to be quiet and timid, submissive, but this one's anything but. She's got real snark, and bite, and I definitely can't imagine her taking any shit from the guys at the Icebox.
“Then I guess we were both misled.”
She doesn’t answer that, and I begin to make my way up the stairs to my own bedroom.
“You can stay,” I say over my shoulder. “Just don’t touch the thermostat.”
“Fascist,” she mutters.
I pause, just briefly. “You say something?”
She looks right at me, her expression completely neutral.
“Yeah: sleep well, roomie.”
I don’t answer, and I don’t look back again, either.