Chapter Ten #2
“Yeah: good luck with that in a building full of alphas,” he says, his tone completely unapologetic. “Half the team probably clocked you before you hit the parking lot. Not a bad thing.” His grin softens just a fraction. “Most of us can act civilized.”
“Most?” I echo.
He scratches the back of his neck, curls bouncing.
“You met Benny yet?”
“I’ve heard about the raw eggs,” I say dryly.
“Yeah. Him and Gordo barely count as civilized,” Connor admits. “But the rest of us? We’re not gonna go full rut on you in the hallway or anything. Coach would give us to Bev, who'd feed us to unsuspecting regulars in the Rusty Spoon.”
“Good to know.” I smirk as I shift my hand, pressing along the intercostal spaces and mapping the pain. “Deep breath again.”
He complies, his breath a little more controlled this time.
Omega instincts or not, I stay clinical.
This is just tissue. Bruised, not broken.
“Any pain when you rotate?” I ask. “Twisting, reaching, shooting?”
“Shooting hurts if I really torque into it,” he says.
“But if I don’t, I feel slow. And if I feel slow, I start overthinking.
And if I start overthinking, I play like trash, and then Dylan chirps me, and then I punch him, and then Coach makes us both bag skate, and.
.. I'm sure you see where this is going.”
“Straight into my nightmares,” I nod. “Wonderful.”
He chuckles again, then sobers a little.
“Seriously, though: I don’t wanna be benched. I’ve worked my ass off this season. I can play through a bruise.”
“And I’m not here to bench you for fun,” I reply. “Breathe.”
He inhales again.
“You’re lucky,” I say finally, stepping back a half-step. “No fracture signs, and no crepitus. Just soft tissue trauma. Well: that, and your ego.”
“So I can play?”
“If you listen,” I say. “I’m giving you clearance with conditions.”
He salutes.
“Hit me.”
I grab my clipboard, flipping to a clean sheet.
“You’re going to rest after practice. You’re going to take your anti-inflammatories like a grown adult.
You’re going to avoid direct hits to this side as much as you can—which I know isn’t fully in your control, but maybe don’t throw yourself into every board battle like you’re auditioning for a demolition derby. ”
He winces.
“You’ve been talking to Coach.”
“I’ve been talking to your ribs.” I scribble some more notes down, then glance back up at him. “And you’re going to come back in here at the end of the week so I can recheck motion and pain. If it’s worse, you’re getting imaging whether you like it or not.”
“Got it,” he nods, more serious now.
I hold his gaze for another second. There’s something there beneath the charm: an edge of hunger I recognize. Not just for the game, but for something steadier.
Someone to tell him when to stop before he breaks.
The thought surprises me, and I shove it aside.
“I mean it, Connor,” I add. “I’m not here to be the fun aunt who tapes you up and sends you back out to die. If you want to play long-term, you treat your body like you plan on still using it at thirty-five.”
“Wow,” he says. “You really know how to talk dirty to a guy.”
I give him a flat look, and he laughs, lifting both hands up.
“Kidding. I hear you. Seriously. I’m not gonna mess this up. Not with a real PT on site now.”
“Good,” I say, softening just a little. “Then we’ll get along fine.”
He hops off the table, rolling his shoulders experimentally before tugging on his t-shirt.
“Feels better already.”
“Placebo,” I comment dryly. “Don’t get cocky.”
He’s halfway to the door when he pauses, fingers on the handle, and looks back at me.
“Hey, Emery?”
“Yeah?”
“If you ever need backup,” he says, tone easy but eyes a little more intent, “with the guys, or with…you know. This town. Ken. Whatever. You’ve got more than one brick wall in the room.” He taps his chest lightly. “Just saying.”
My stomach does a weird flip.
“Noted,” I say, keeping my voice light. “Now get out before I decide you need breathing exercises and a lecture about sleep hygiene.”
“That’s pretty pack-like, you know,” he says, grin sliding back into place. “Bossing us around about bedtime.”
“Out, Rocket,” I repeat.
He laughs, opens the door, and nearly collides with a much larger body waiting on the other side. Another alpha scent rolls in on the draft, and I sigh.
“Dude,” Connor grins. “She’s scary. You’re gonna love her.”
I feel my lips twitch as the door swings shut again. My stomach growls as the clock keeps ticking, but I ignore it. The guys are coming; one by one, a steady stream of alphas with bruises, injuries, and too much energy.
A whole roster of potential disasters.
I drag my palm across the treatment table once, grounding myself, then flip my pen around in my fingers, glancing at the door.
I’m in a concrete box at the back of a rink in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by alphas, with my name written in colors on the whiteboard and my stuff in all the drawers. My space is small, rough, and humming with potential.
It feels, uncomfortably, like the start of something.
I blow out another breath and square my shoulders.
“Alright, Iron Lake,” I mutter. “Send me your next problem.”