Chapter Eleven
Connor
My thoughts are swirling like snow in a blizzard, and maybe that’s why I walk directly into the wall outside her door once Benny has stepped in.
It’s a solid thump, and pain shoots through my ribs.
The wall wins.
“Hey, Madsen!” I look down to the far end of the corridor, where Dylan is grinning. “You okay, or did she break you with a glance?”
“...The wall moved,” I announce.
“It didn’t,” he says.
“It definitely did.”
I rub my forehead like that might fix my life and pull my hoodie on over my T-shirt. My ribs still feel warm from where her fingers were pressed, slow and clinical and intentional, and my brain hasn’t caught up.
Emery Tate.
She’s not what I expected. She’s funny in that quiet, sarcastic, deadpan way that sneaks up on you and smells like citrus and clean laundry, like fresh sunlight on a windowsill—shit you only notice when your instincts suddenly sit up and say: well hello.
Suppressants never fully hide a fresh omega scent, and hers is one I won’t be forgetting anytime soon, even if it has been dulled down.
I get ready quickly before I head over to the rink, and the arena hits me with its usual slap of cold air and charm of a half-functioning municipal building. Gordo’s already skating laps, Theo’s stretching on the bench, and Marco’s lying on his back at center ice doing… something.
Leg circles, maybe. Or snow angel yoga.
“Morning, sunshine,” he calls without lifting his head.
I skate out toward him. “You look like a crime scene outline.”
“I am a crime scene outline,” he groans, stretching dramatically. “My lower back died three seasons ago, and the rest of me is just waiting.”
Dylan skates up to us, flicking ice shavings at him.
“Emery’ll fix it.”
“She’ll fix everything,” I say before I can stop myself.
Both of them look at me funny, and Marco’s eyebrows shoot up.
“Ohhh. You saw her.”
Saw her? Touched her? Got clinically assessed as though she was reading my soul?
Yes. Yes, I did.
“She’s good,” I say, attempting casual and failing spectacularly.
“And an omega,” Dylan adds, sniffing the air like a bloodhound. “She smells like a lemon cake I want to make terrible decisions near.”
“My blockers didn’t even touch her scent,” I mutter.
Marco snorts. “That's 'cause blockers don’t work on alphas with no impulse control.”
I smack his helmet with the end of my stick.
“My impulse control is—”
“—nonexistent,” Dylan finishes. “We know.”
The sharp sound of Coach’s whistle cuts through before I can respond, and every head snaps in his direction.
“Alright, boys!” he barks, voice echoing off metal beams and Plexiglas. “Let’s move like we have a pulse!”
Dylan huffs. “Why does he talk like we’re storming Normandy?”
“I heard that, Hayes,” Coach points without even turning around. “And if you skate like you did on Friday, I’ll reenact Normandy on your conditioning test.”
We scatter.
I skate into formation just as Theo glides up beside me and gives me a long, unimpressed look.
“How’s the rib?” he asks.
“Fine,” I lie.
“Yeah? That explains why you’re breathing like a wounded horse.”
“It’s called being an athlete,” I argue.
Theo snorts. “It’s called being stupid.”
“I prefer ‘charmingly resilient’.”
“You’re going to end up back on the PT’s table within the hour,” he says. “Try not to look excited about it.”
“I’m not excited,” I insist.
Theo hums.
Translation: he thinks I’m full of shit.
We settle into our pace, edges cutting into the ice and breath syncing with motion as the team forming its natural hierarchy. That’s the thing about the Moose: we’re chaotic, but we’re also pack-structured in our own way.
As captain, Beau is our emotional anchor, while Theo is tactical and balances Beau’s temper with calm logic. Marco the kind that tells him everything he needs to know about your body before you even touch a puck.
I settle into stride when the temperature in the rink shifts: not literally, but instinctually.
The hairs on the back of my neck lift, and I know what it is, or who it is, even before I turn my head. You always know when a dominant alpha steps onto the ice, especially one who’s been sidelined long enough for frustration to ferment.
Beau glides out through the gate and onto the ice, all wounded-dominant energy. He’s helmeted, geared, and moving carefully; but there’s no hiding the fact that his shoulder still isn’t right, even if he doesn't have it in a sling anymore.
His presence rolls across the rink like pressure before a storm, and the guys quiet without meaning to.
That's how this works. Alphas feel other alphas, especially dominant ones, and today, Beau’s scent has a new undertone: something raw and unsettled.
Marco glides up behind me.
“Okay,” he whispers, “why does he look like that?”
“Like what?”
“Like someone just told him feelings exist.”
Dylan snorts, listening in.
“More like someone told him the dog dies at the end.”
“He had PT first thing, didn’t he?” Theo asks.
“Yeah,” Marco says. “First thing this morning.”
Theo nods once, then lets out a long exhale.
“That tracks.”
Beau’s eyes sweep the rink, quick and controlled, then flick toward the hallway that leads to the PT room. It’s a brief glance, lasting for half a second at best, but every alpha on the ice clocks it.
Because instinct notices. Because her scent—even faint under our respective blockers—is unmistakable.
An omega fermenting in the cold air, and the thought of Beau reacting to it harder than the rest of us is interesting.
Very interesting.
We aren't the only ones who sense it, and Coach blows his whistle like he’s trying to kill it immediately before skating straight toward Beau.
“Hold up,” Coach says, his voice firm. “You cleared to be out here?
Beau slows to a stop, careful with the shoulder.
“It's a light skate. Not an actual game.”
Coach’s brow furrows. “That wasn’t my question.”
“She signed me off,” Beau says evenly. “For controlled movement.”
Coach studies him, eyes dropping to the shoulder, then back up.
“And how’s it feel?”
Beau rolls it once, slow and deliberate.
“Sore. But manageable.”
Coach still doesn't look particularly impressed with any of this.
“That’s not exactly a ringing endorsement,” he comments.
“No,” Beau agrees. “But standing still won’t help it either.”
There’s a long beat where I can see Coach weighing it: the season, the body, the man.
Finally, he exhales through his nose.
“Fine,” he says. “Light skate only. You feel a twinge, you’re off. No heroics.”
Beau nods once. “Understood.”
Coach points a finger at him anyway.
“And if I find out you ignored what she told you—”
“I won’t,” Beau says.
Coach studies him another second, then skates away. He turns to face all of us, his eyes narrowing as annoyance dances over his features.
“That's enough flirting with the atmosphere,” he barks. “Line drills. Now.”
“We weren’t flirting,” Dylan protests.
“Watch it, Madsen 2.0.”
“Hey! I’m Madsen 1.0!” I yell.
“Yeah, well: makes no difference, really. Not when you’re all disappointments,” he chirps back, though there's no real bite in his tone. “Come on. Get your asses in gear.”
We form up.
Skate.
Stop.
Pivot.
Sprint.
Sharp edges and powerhouse strides with lungs burning. Pain jabs through my ribs in sync with each breath, but Emery’s voice echoes in my mind, encouraging me to breathe deep.
I push harder, refusing to give anything less than one hundred percent.
Behind me, Marco groans.
“I think my spleen just detached.”
“That’s a you problem,” Dylan yells.
“You’re a you problem,” Marco fires back.
“I hate you both,” Theo mutters.
“Love you too, Dad,” I grin.
Beau’s quiet as he paces us, his shoulder tight, but his jaw tighter. The crack is there: in his scent, in the tension under his skin, and in the way he looked down the hallway like there was someone pulling at him.
And as Theo sighs heavily and skates away, I have to wonder whether that citrus-scented omega has any idea that she’s started something.