Chapter Seven
Emery
The alarm on my phone had apparently gone off, been snoozed, and then fully abandoned its responsibilities; which means I’m now operating on borrowed time and caffeine fumes.
I’m up and moving in seconds, a frantic scramble across the bedroom as I yank on jeans, a thick navy sweater, and the same coat from yesterday that still smells faintly of diner grease, cold air, and desperation.
There’s no time for makeup (wonderful), so I splash cold water over my face, slap on some moisturizer, smear chapstick over my lips, and yank a brush through my hair hard enough to make it protest.
It gives in, just about, and I tug on my beanie while I pray I don’t look like someone who just lost a custody battle with her closet.
Downstairs is silent. There’s no sign of my accidental roommate at this early hour—not that I expect one. After last night’s frosty, territorial-as-hell introduction, it’s obvious Beau Wolfe is not the morning chatter and pancakes type.
It isn’t snowing anymore, but the air bites as I step outside. My car sits under a thin crust of frost. The engine coughs when I turn the key, then roars to life like it resents being awake.
Honestly? Same.
I crank the heat, tug my sleeves down over my fingers, and wait for the windshield to thaw enough to see the world in vague shapes.
The town is still dark and unmoving, with the streetlamps buzzing weakly above frostbitten sidewalks.
Porch lights flicker around, but from the looks of things, no one is out yet.
I grip the wheel, exhale, and pull away from the curb.
As I make my way through town, my brain replays last night in full HD. I don’t want to think about him, but there he is in my mind, anyway: tall, brooding, and alpha to his bones in that quiet, dangerous way some people wear like armor.
I can’t stop myself from recalling the way he stared at me, his blue eyes cold, but oh so gorgeous. He didn’t smile, or soften. In fact, he didn’t do anything except loom, acting as though the house itself had appointed him its guardian.
Naturally, I move halfway across Minnesota for a fresh start and end up sharing a home with a local legend who acts like I’ve taken over the spare room inside his ribcage.
I tighten my hands on the wheel as I drive through the town, making my way down Main Street, headlights catching on snowbanks and the remnants of a place that refuses to die quietly.
I need to get it together. I have a new job to focus on, a professional reputation to build here, and a new network to create. This is supposed to be my fresh start: I certainly don’t have time to get derailed by one alpha with a bad attitude and a jawline that probably violates building codes.
I told myself before I moved here that there would be no distractions.
That definitely includes the tall, glowering, blue-eyed kind.
*
The Icebox sits at the far end of Main Street, past a shuttered bait shop and a gas station that looks like it hasn’t updated its signage since the ‘90s.
The building is squat and square, all corrugated metal and frostbitten siding, with a faded banner that reads HOME OF THE IRON LAKE MOOSE.
It looks less like a hockey arena and more like a bunker where old tractors go to die.
I park next to a lifted truck that could easily drive through a blizzard without noticing before I kill the engine.
I sigh as I haul myself through the snow toward the dented front door, and the moment I open it, I’m hit with the unmistakable smell of hockey: ice, sweat, rubber, and industrial-strength cleaner that burns my eyelashes.
It's been a while since I've worked in an actual arena, and even though I've long since decided that high-end facilities are not for me, I've definitely not missed this, either.
The lobby is dim, lit by buzzing fluorescents, and stocked with a couple of vending machines that probably steal your money on principle. There's a mounted moose head wearing a child’s knit cap, and a large reception area that I assume serves as a box office on game days.
There are no players here yet, but the space remembers them.
Alpha scent sits heavy in the walls, even without bodies here to generate it.
It’s a static charge of testosterone and competition, and I’m starting to think that working here might end up feeling very much like walking into a wolf den with a pair of panties and a clipboard.
It’s fine, though. It will be fine. I’ve worked with plenty of alphas. I know how to navigate the ego, the instinct, the hierarchy.
I'm only rattled because I didn’t expect to live with one, too. That’s all.
I start down the hallway, following the faint murmur of voices. My boots echo just enough to make me feel like I shouldn’t be here. I pass team photos, year after year frozen behind glass.
Most faces are strangers, except three.
Rob, from the diner; younger looking, smirking at the camera with his hair much shorter.
Coach; younger, too, his arms crossed and his eyebrows already judging the world.
And then Beau. His photo is recent, placed in the middle of the group, and even in a photograph, he looks like he could silence a room without opening his mouth.
I shake my head, snapping myself out of it, and keep walking.
Finally, I spot Coach near the back hallway.
“Morning,” I say, trying not to jog the last few steps.
He nods once. “You beat the boys.”
“Good. I prefer to establish dominance before breakfast.”
He actually chuckles at that.
“You’ll fit in just fine, Emery,” he says, motioning for me to follow.
We start the tour, with Coach leading me through the chipped hallways.
“This way’s the locker room,” he says. “Don’t go in after a win. Or a loss. Or really… ever.”
“Got it.”
He shows me the broom-closet-sized office, the skate station, and the room that might be a janitor’s closet but also might be a crime scene. I nod as I take it all in, trying not to grimace. It’s a far cry away from the sleek buildings I’m used to, but I suppose I did come looking for change.
It’s then that he pushes open a set of double doors and stretches his arms wide.
“And lasts,” he says, “the rink.”
The cold is instant. The ice glitters under flickering lights, and though it’s anything but glamorous, it certainly feels alive.
“Might not look like much, but the crowd sure does pack in on game nights,” Coach explains. “‘M talkin’ shoulder to shoulder, and loud as hell.”
“I like loud,” I tell him. “Loud means they care.”
He nods in approval as though that comment passes some invisible test, and we keep moving until we reach a door with a hand-painted sign that reads PT / STRENGTH.
“Here’s your space.”
He opens the door, and I step in behind him.
It’s smaller than what I’m used to, but still usable. There’s a treatment table and a mini fridge, along with an array of towels, foam rollers, and bands. There’s a squat rack and a wobbly stool, and even a speaker—though that looks like it retired in 2007.
Coach watches me take it all in with his arms folded across his chest, and I swallow thickly as I look around.
“It’s… perfect,” I tell him.
He grunts. “Most of the boys will roll in around nine. Some have jobs. Others just have a bad relationship with punctuality.”
He hands me a clipboard, and I smile as I take it from him.
“Here's a short list of players. Start with these.”
I sit on the stool and start reading names while he gives me the rundown.
Dylan Hayes. Connor Madsen. Benny Carver.
Walking red flags. Walking injury reports. Walking alpha problems.
“Manageable chaos,” I say.
“Exactly.”
“And Wolfe?”
Coach’s mouth twitches, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. He leans back, arms folded, studying me in a way that tells me he’s weighing more than just words.
“He’s… complicated,” Coach says.
No kidding.
I shift my weight, then decide to say it outright before it turns into something awkward.
“I guess you know we’re… sharing a house.”
Coach winces, hard.
Wonderful.
“Yeah,” he mutters. “I know.”
“Wasn’t exactly in the welcome packet,” I add dryly.
“No,” he agrees. “And it wasn’t my doing. Wasn’t my place to tell you either, even if I’d wanted to.” His jaw tightens. “That one’s on the rental agency. And on his father.”
“Oh, don’t worry,” I roll my eyes. “Ken gave me the warm and fuzzy experience of talking to a snowplow with opinions.”
That earns me a huff of amusement, but it fades quickly. Coach straightens, his tone shifting—less joking now, more careful.
“Just… keep your head down,” he says. “Beau’s got a lot on his plate.”
“I noticed,” I reply quietly.
“He’s been carrying things since he was too young to be carrying them,” he continues. “He learned early not to ask for help. Learned to lock it all down instead. Instincts and emotions included.”
Something in my chest tightens at that.
“That... probably explains a lot.”
Coach nods.
“He’s not the enemy,” he adds, slower now. Not a threat—more like a boundary being gently but firmly drawn. “Even when he comes off like one.”
I look at him for a long, drawn-out moment.
“I didn’t say he was,” I say evenly.
“Good.” His shoulders ease just a fraction. “Because he’s got enough people in his life who’ve mistaken control for care.”
That lands harder than I expect, and we sit in the quiet for a beat before he sighs and shakes his head.
“Besides: if you two end up killing each other, I’m not filling out the paperwork.”
I snort despite myself.
“I’ll try not to bury him under the foam rollers.”
“I appreciate that.” He pushes off the doorframe, already slipping back into work mode. “Anyway—best I get ready before the guys come down. Feel free to make the space yours. As much as it ever can be around here.”
As he makes leave, he pauses, then glances back at me.
“And Emery?”
“...Yeah?”
“Just… be kind with him,” he says with a heavy exhale. “He doesn’t always know how to be with himself.”
Moments later, he’s gone, the door swinging to a close behind him, and I stand alone, staring at my new kingdom of concrete, dust, peeling tape, and possibility.
“Well,” I sigh, “may as well get started.”
I unpack my bag piece by piece, laying everything out on the tiny counter like a ritual.
My clipboard.
Teal kinesiology tape.
Lucky pen with the chewed cap.
Taping scissors.
Gum.
Hand sanitizer.
Stupid little things, really, but they feel like anchors. Familiar shapes in unfamiliar rooms, and my control in the chaos.
I start arranging them where I want them, moving the scissors to the right side of the treatment table, setting the tape in neat rows, wiping down a corner of the counter that isn’t technically dirty, just…
unloved. The instinct kicks in before I realize it: adjusting things by height, by color, by how soothing the layout feels when my eyes drift over it.
It’s not nesting, exactly, but it scratches at the same part of me that once made me line my pillows in a circle around myself like a fort. That was during my first real heat before suppressants: a soft, instinctive need to carve out safety in a world that felt too big.
This space is cold and bare, practical and functional; so, I do what omegas do best:
I soften it.
There’s a huge whiteboard on one wall, half-stained from years of marker fights.
I grab a marker, then notice there are color options, and something warm flares low in my chest. I write my name across the top of the board in big letters, then outline it with teal.
I add a shadow in purple as well as some stars that I absolutely shouldn’t spend so much time perfecting, but do anyway.
By the time I step back, the room still looks rough. It’s still concrete and duct tape and half-broken equipment, but now it also looks claimed; shifted just a little toward something that feels familiar and safe.
My stomach growls loudly, but I ignore it. The guys will be here soon: a whole crowd of alphas with bruises, injuries, swagger, and too much energy. I need to focus.
My instincts hum uneasily. I tell myself I’m not nervous, just tired; and tired won't ever stop me from showing up.
I press my palm to the treatment table, grounding myself in the cool surface before I switch off the harsh overhead light.
Only the warm orange glow of the space heater remains, filling the corners with the faintest illusion of comfort, and I pull my coat tighter around myself as I look around the dim room.
This place isn’t shiny, but neither am I.
And maybe...
Maybe that’s the point.