Chapter Eight
Beau
The first thing I see when I pull into the lot is her car; that same silver crossover from last night, tucked in beside Coach’s truck.
My brow creases in irritation as I ease my own truck into a space two rows down, because of course she’s early. Of course the omega shows up before the rest of us, sliding into a new territory with something to prove.
I shut off the engine and sit there for a second, flexing my good hand on the steering wheel while my shoulder throbs in quiet protest. The sling is off today—mostly for show—but the pain is still there, a steady growl under the skin I’m learning to work around, not through.
I don’t need anyone asking if I’m okay. I already know the answer.
I step out into the cold, boots biting into packed snow with a crunch that cuts through the stillness.
The Icebox looms ahead, ugly in a way you grow fond of if you stay too long.
I walk slow, though not because of the pain: just because mornings like this make it easier to pretend everything is fine if I don’t rush it.
The doors squeal when I pull them open, and inside the air is cold enough to bite your teeth.
The guys are already here, and I hear them before I see them; their familiar voices echoing down the corridor, a mix of chirps, bullshit, and the kind of half-serious threats that pass for affection in a locker room full of alphas.
Someone shouts about duct taping Benny’s mouth shut. Sounds like Dylan.
I head for the locker room, nodding at one of the rink guys as I pass. He raises a hand back, but doesn’t try to talk. Everyone knows my routine by now.
Technically, I don’t have to be here. After all, they don’t pay us enough for heroics. Semi-pro means semi-paid: enough to keep the lights on, not enough to skip whatever day job you’ve managed to cling to.
But still—you lead by example. Even when it hurts. Especially when it hurts.
And I don’t just show up because I’m captain, although that does play a big part in it. I show up because alpha or not, you don’t just disappear when your shoulder quits mid-play and the whole team feels it.
We’re mid-season; too deep in to start over, too far from the end to slack off. We’ve got games twice this week—home Thursday, away Sunday—and everyone is running on adrenaline, tape, and caffeine. Some of them are one bad fall away from the bench, and I know what that feels like.
I’m here to support. To keep us steady.
We all have a part to play.
I step into the locker room just as Dylan launches a roll of tape at Marco's head. It misses by a mile and smacks the wall beside me.
“Seriously?” I mutter, ducking to scoop it up.
Marco grins. “Morning, Cap.”
“I was aiming for his ego,” Dylan shrugs from the bench. “It’s a bigger target than his head.”
Benny is sitting cross-legged on the opposite bench, sipping something green out of a mason jar that smells like blended spinach and a sock that’s seen god.
“Want some?” he asks, holding it out to me.
“Not unless it comes with a tetanus shot.”
I drop the tape onto the bench and unzip my jacket, keeping my face in neutral territory when the movement pulls at my joint again. My shoulder protests, but I don’t let it show. I focus on the routine instead: gear check, tape restock, locker list.
Under all of that noise, one thought keeps circling:
She’s here.
Her scent is now part of this place, threading faintly into the cold, layered over old sweat and rubber. Emery Tate, in my space, again.
Last night she was wrapped in my blanket and curled up on my couch, sitting in my living room with that hollowed-out look, messy hair and big hazel eyes that made her seem younger than twenty-four.
Too young to move like someone already tired of proving herself, and too tired to let herself be soft.
I’ve seen that kind of tired before. On my mom’s face. In the mirror.
Now it’s attached to the omega who lives in my house and works on my team.
I’m toeing out of my boots when the door bangs open again and Coach strides in. He’s got a clipboard in one hand and a coffee in the other, his jacket halfway zipped.
“Alright, let’s lock it in,” he barks. “Zip it and listen up.”
The volume around me drops instantly. Even alphas know when someone outranks them in the room.
“Madsen and Gordo better have a damn good excuse for being late. And Hayes, stop throwing shit,” Coach adds without looking. “You throw tape, I’ll make you sort it all. By brand.”
Dylan smirks, but says nothing as Coach steps into the center of the room and turns so that he’s facing us all.
“We’ve got a light skate today,” he announces.
“Full contact is off the table. Thursday night, we’re home against the Chelsea Bucks: they’ve got that new winger who thinks he’s hot shit.
We shut him down early, they crumble. We play smart, we play tight.
Sunday’s away to Saint Cloud. Don’t make me remind you what happened last season. ”
The room groans as one.
“Yeah. Exactly,” Coach says. “So maybe don’t let that happen again.”
He shifts the clipboard under his arm, scanning us with that assessing stare. He’s not just counting bodies; he’s counting injuries, exhaustion, and pride.
After all, alphas are easy to read if you know where to look.
“One more thing,” he adds. “You all knew she was coming. Now she’s here.”
The pain in my shoulder flares, dull and deep, and I lock onto it.
It’s easier than thinking about the PT room at the end of the hall, and the omega scent that wasn’t here last week.
“Emery Tate’s in the building,” Coach continues. “She’s your new PT. Strength, rehab, recovery… it all runs through her now. If something hurts, you tell her. If you lie, don’t expect sympathy.”
Around me, heads nod; some serious, some lazy. Dylan raises his brows and leans toward Benny, murmuring something about omega PTs being high risk, and I cut him a look sharp enough to draw blood.
Coach sees it and sighs.
“And if any of you try something dumb,” he says, his tone bone-dry, “you’ll be on towel duty and skate sharpening until your next birthday. That clear?”
A ragged chorus of “yes, Coach” follows. It’s half sincere, half smart-ass, but he gets what he wants: their attention.
“She knows her shit,” he finishes. “Don’t test her. And don’t make me regret bringing her on, either.”
He gives one last nod and walks out, the door swinging behind him on a tired hinge.
For a second, the room is quieter than usual; then Marco leans toward Dylan, smirk already loaded.
“Okay, but did anyone else catch how Beau’s whole soul flinched when Coach said her name?”
I glare, hard, and Marco lifts his hands in surrender.
“Hey, I didn’t say anything about your live-in situation! Just making an observation, that’s all.”
“Didn’t need to,” Benny adds, abandoning his green concoction to shake protein powder into a bottle. “Town’s already buzzing. ‘New girl in the Wolfe house’? That headline practically wrote itself.”
“Pretty sure Ms. O’Hara at the post office thinks you’re married now,” Dylan adds, stretching his legs. “She told me, and I quote, ‘it’s about time Beau settled down.’”
That gets a few low chuckles.
“I heard she’s reorganizing your cabinets already,” Marco goes on. “Color-coded mugs. Alphabetized condiments.”
“Careful,” Benny warns. “That’s how they get you. One day it’s paprika, next day you’re shopping for bath mats together.”
“Watch it,” I growl.
Dylan leans forward, grinning as he places his elbows on his knees.
“Nah, seriously: when are you getting your own place, man?”
I don’t look at him as I grab a roll of pre-wrap from the bin.
“When they start paying me like I’m not working for exposure,” I say, tossing it into my locker with a dull thud.
Sarcastic applause breaks out.
“Guess you’re stuck with her then,” Marco laughs. “Not that I’m judging. PTs are cute. Strong hands, too—”
I glare at him again, and this time, he shuts up mid-sentence.
Benny whistles. “That right there? That’s the ‘shut the hell up before he breaks your jaw with one arm’ look.”
“I’m just saying,” Marco mutters. “Kinda hard not to notice the whole setup. New PT, new roommate, and tension so thick I could tape my ankle with it. It’s a disaster waiting to happen.”
“Maybe don’t,” I bite. “You’re already skating like a toddler in rented boots.”
“OOOHHH,” someone from the back bench supplies.
“Alright, alright,” Theo sighs. “Call off the wolves, boys. Let the man live.”
“I am living,” I say, pulling my hoodie over my head. “Very peacefully. With minimal disruption.”
Dylan snorts. “With that face? Peaceful’s a stretch.”
“Peaceful?” Benny echoes. “You’re gonna be living with an omega who can professionally diagnose what’s wrong with you. I’d be sleeping with one eye open.”
Marco's grin returns.
“Maybe he likes it. A little tension in the kitchen, a little power struggle over the shower schedule…”
I snap a towel off the bench and flick it hard in his direction.
“You want tension, keep talking.”
“Man’s probably got a decorative pillow quota now,” Marco laughs, kicking his locker door shut. “Bet she’s brought a bucket load of scented candles and emotional growth into that house.”
The groans are theatrical, but then the guys thankfully start filing out toward the rink; sticks over shoulders, skates clacking on the concrete, and alpha energy rolling ahead of them like a weather front.
My chest tightens, instinct tugging me toward the ice with them. I’m halfway through lacing up my shoes—habit, even when I’m not dressing for ice—when Coach appears again in the doorway.
“Wolfe.”
I glance up. “Yeah?”
“Where do you think you’re going?”
I pause, then look toward the guys exiting, then back at him.
“…to the ice?”
Coach lifts his eyebrows.
“Try again.”
I straighten slowly. “You said light skate.”
“And you’re not skating.”
I bristle. The instinctive I’m fine rises up before the pain even does.
“I’m cleared for—”
“You’re first on her list,” he cuts in. “You're not cleared for anything until she's seen to you.”
I stare at him in disbelief.
“You're serious?”
Coach steps further into the room, voice dropping into that deep alpha register that doesn’t leave room for argument.
“You want to play again this season?”
I say nothing.
“You want us to win again this season?” he pushes.
Still nothing.
We lock eyes. There’s no hierarchy question here: not when we both know where we stand.
I wear the C, but he built the room I lead.
“You do the damn work,” he tells me, no room for argument or push back in his tone. “Starting today. Starting with her.”
I blow out a long breath, jaw tight enough to crack a molar.
“You don't understand. She’s not—”
“She’s not the enemy,” he interrupts, his tone sharper now, frustration running through it. “She’s here to help. And if you’re smart, you’ll let her.”
The silence stretches, and I hate that he’s right. I hate that I need help at all, but I especially hate that the help comes in the form of an exhausted omega who already lives inside the few safe square feet I have left in this town.
I grab my jacket and shove my arms through the sleeves.
“Fine,” I mutter.
Coach doesn’t say anything more as I shoulder past the doorway and head down the hall. There’s no point arguing with the clipboard, especially when deep down, I know he’s right.
I can’t lead from the bench, and I can’t get back on the ice if I don’t fix what’s broken.
Even if that fix comes from someone with big eyes, sharp edges, and an apparent habit of making herself at home in places I didn’t realize were mine until she was already in them.