Chapter Ten
Emery
The door clicks shut behind him, and I stare at the spot where Beau Wolfe was sitting not sixty seconds ago, letting my pulse even out while my brain tries to recalibrate.
Okay. So.
He’s hot.
I know that. Everyone in this town probably knows that. Hell, I already clocked it last night when he walked into our shared living room like a six-foot-two complication wrapped in tension and Moose hoodie; but being close to him, touching him…
That was different.
The man is built like he’s been carved out of spite and blue-collar gym memberships. He’s all solid muscle; thick around the delts and traps, core tight, posture rigid even at rest. His whole body screams control, except for that shoulder.
That shoulder is a whole other story.
The joint moves as though it’s made of rusted parts and duct tape, and still, he barely flinches. He doesn’t whine or complain; just breathes harder through the pain as though this isn’t his first time playing hurt.
And I’ve had my bare hands on him. Alpha under my palms, the scrape of stubble along his jaw when he gritted his teeth, his scent cutting through the cold air…
I blow out a long breath before I forcibly drop onto the rolling stool and swivel toward the supply cart, grabbing my clipboard. My fingers hover over the page for a beat before I continue writing.
His shoulder is worse than I initially thought.
The restriction is deep; the kind that builds over time, chronic and neglected.
The muscles around it are pulling double duty to keep everything stable; his pec is overfiring, his traps feel like piano wire, and don’t even get me started on the tightness through the scapula.
I can still feel the way the scap stuck when I tried to move it, how he held his breath like someone bracing for impact.
And I didn’t get his full history first.
What. The actual. Hell.
I can't quite believe it.
I click my pen hard enough to threaten the paper and scrawl across the page:
→ GET HISTORY. ASAP.
PT 101: patient history first, hands second. Day one, and I’m already skipping fundamentals.
I blame those baby-blue eyes. That’s my defense. Those eyes could derail a train of thought faster than a hamstring snap. Add alpha scent and a highly stressed omega trying to make herself at home in a new, strange environment, and it’s a wonder I remember my own name.
Still. It's not a good enough excuse.
I lean forward and scribble more notes. Pain scale, compensation patterns, inflammation markers.
At this rate, I’m going to need a dedicated spreadsheet just to track his dysfunction.
The worst part is that none of this is new. He’s been skating on that shoulder, working through it then icing after games and calling it recovery. He’s acting like a rookie, but I know his type well.
Play through it, shake it off, and push harder.
Idiots, all of them. Especially alphas; they treat their bodies like disposable gear until something finally snaps and then blink at you like how could this happen.
I press the heel of my hand to my forehead and exhale through my nose, willing myself to focus.
I jot down a quick rehab arc to build off: scapular stability work, soft tissue release, eventual isometrics, progressive loading if his alpha ego doesn’t sabotage the plan.
I’ll build it out more later—maybe even bring in my laptop tomorrow.
This clipboard crap isn’t going to cut it long-term.
Another note:
→ Bring laptop. Make chart. Put on a real playlist.
→ R.e. Wolfe: ask about mechanism, previous injuries, any pack-level docs from college.
I’m halfway through chewing the cap of my pen when there’s a knock at the door. I drop the pen into the tray and stand, rolling my neck out as I call out.
“Come in.”
The door creaks open, and a tall, broad-shouldered player with shaggy blond curls sticks his head inside. He looks to be late twenties, and is grinning widely. Everything about his face is friendly and open, and his scent hits a second later: bright, warm, and big.
He’s an alpha alright, though he’s less glacier and more golden retriever: all sunshine, sweat, and something like citrus-and-cedar body wash.
“You Emery?” he asks.
“Unless someone else took over my job in the last five minutes…”
His grin widens, dimples and everything.
“Coach said I should swing by. Took a puck to the ribs on Friday. It’s not bad—just kinda feels like I got drop-kicked by a moose.”
“Lucky for you, that’s on-brand.” I point at the table. “Shirt off. Let’s take a look.”
He steps in, all easy alpha confidence, but not sharp like Beau’s. He’s much more open; every inch the pack-animal in a good mood.
I reach for a fresh pair of gloves out of habit, then hesitate, remembering the way it felt to actually feel what was happening in Beau’s shoulder.
At the thought of Beau, I set the gloves down slowly and pick up my clipboard instead, clicking my pen.
I never make mistakes, ever, so I’m sure as hell not making the same one twice.
“Before we do anything, I need your history first,” I tell him, nodding at the table. “Sit: don’t lie down yet. And talk to me.”
He obeys with zero argument, hopping up onto the edge of the table. His long legs dangle over the side.
“Name?” I ask, pen poised.
“Connor Madsen,” he says. “Fastest skater on the Moose, best hair—”
“You guys all get a script for that?” I cut in. “Or do you improvise your delusions?”
He laughs, the sound easy and full-bodied.
“Very funny,” he says. “But seriously: I am actually the fastest. The fans call me Rocket for a reason.”
“Of course they do,” I mutter, jotting it down anyway. “Shooting side?”
“Right-handed.”
“Alright, Rocket.” I look up at him. “How did this happen?”
He straightens his posture like he’s bracing for inspection, shoulders rolling back a little too deliberately. It’s a tell—and not a subtle one.
“Uh… a fight.”
“O-kay,” I draw out, already unimpressed. “With who, and why?”
He scratches the back of his head, suddenly sheepish.
“Other team’s defenseman. Big guy. Dumb face.”
“Connor.”
He sighs, long and put-upon. “Yes?”
“Details.”
He shifts again, the weight rocking from heel to toe. It’s almost funny: this from a man who just moments ago was more than happy to boast about his speed and ability.
“He, uh…” Connor clears his throat. “He chirped.”
I slowly look up at him, more curious than before.
“...About?”
He waves a hand, too quick. “Doesn’t matter.”
“It does,” I say calmly. “Especially if you want me to assess whether you’re dealing with a bruised rib or something worse. Were you provoked? Did you throw first? Did he?”
Another pause. Another shift.
And then—resignation.
“He made a comment,” Connor says, voice lower now. “About my sister.”
Something sharp twists in my chest.
“What kind of comment?”
“About her scent.” His jaw tightens. “And about what omegas are ‘good for.’”
My grip on the pen tightens until I’m pretty sure it’s going to snap.
“So,” I say evenly, “you started it.”
“Oh, yeah,” he says immediately, like that part at least isn’t up for debate. “Dropped him like a sack of potatoes.”
Despite myself, I snort.
“But,” he continues, the bravado dimming just a notch, “his buddy came in from the side before the refs could get between us. Caught me right here.”
He taps his ribs with two fingers.
“Didn’t see it coming.”
I note it down, though I don't write everything that I think of him so far, including noble idiot.
“So—direct punch to the right ribs. Friday night. Continued playing?”
“I mean… yeah? It’s hockey. Also he deserved it.”
“I'm definitely not debating that,” I say, flipping to a new section of the chart. “Any trouble breathing since then? Pain on inhalation? Sharp, stabbing pain when twisting?”
“Breathing’s fine,” he says. “Hurts like hell when I sneeze. Or laugh. Or get told I have to do laundry duty.”
“No dizziness? No coughing up blood?”
“Nope.”
I jot a few more bullet points. “Previous rib fractures?”
“Left side in college,” he says. “Freshman year dogpile in front of the net. It cracked like bubble wrap.”
“Charming,” I mutter. “Any surgeries?”
“Nope. I’m a temple.”
“More like a slightly cursed amusement park,” I say, clicking my pen closed. “Alright. Shirt off.”
He grins and peels off his hoodie, then the t-shirt beneath it, stretching lazily.
He’s got a solid chest, defined abs, and a criminally smug V; but all of that gets overshadowed by the bruising.
It’s all huge blooms of purple, green, and yellow, swirls of trauma spreading across one side of his ribs, enough to make even seasoned PTs wince.
I do my best to keep my face neutral as I step up close.
“Lie back.”
He does, folding his hands behind his head as I hover my hand over the worst of the bruising.
“Observation first, then palpation, then breathing.”
“Sexy,” he says.
“Watch it, Rocket. I will tape your mouth shut.”
He laughs—and immediately winces, hissing.
“Okay. Maybe not laughing.”
“Good.” I press lightly along the ribs. “Deep breath for me.”
He inhales. His ribs expand as the muscle shifts under my fingers, the bruising spreading wider than I want it to.
“Pain?”
“Like a five,” he says. “An eight if you poke any harder. A nine when I got hit. A ten when Coach chewed me out.”
“And on a scale of one to ten,” I say, pressing a little more firmly, “how stupid was fighting in the first place?”
“Eleven.”
“At least you know.”
He tilts his head, then inhales again; his nostrils flaring slightly.
“You smell… different,” he comments.
Here we go.
My shoulders tighten for half a heartbeat, but I keep my tone even as I respond.
“Different how?”
“I don’t know how to explain it. It’s just… clean. Calm. Like someone who actually folds their laundry.”
I raise an eyebrow.
“And here I was, hoping my scent blocker was doing something.”