Chapter Twelve #2
Beau parks and kills the engine, and I reach for the handle, but he beats me to it; coming around the truck and opening the door again. He doesn’t look at me as I hop down, doesn’t say anything either. Just waits until my feet hit the ground, then closes the door behind me.
The bus is louder up close. Dylan is on the steps, already chirping at Gordo for dropping his water bottle while Marco is leaning against the side of it. Connor is in the doorway yelling something about superstition and seat assignments, and Theo nods at Beau as he walks by before he glances at me.
“Morning, Emery.”
“Morning, Theo,” I echo.
“You brought your kit?”
“Yep.”
“Great.” He jerks his thumb toward the bus. “You might want to claim a seat before Gordo convinces someone to let him DJ.”
“HEY!” Gordo shouts from across the lot. “My playlists slap!”
“They slap you,” Dylan comments from the steps.
I suppress a laugh.
The team is a lot—chaos wrapped in expensive skates and bad decisions—but underneath the chirping, the shoving, and the alpha energy vibrating through the cold air, there is a structure, and strangely, I’m not overwhelmed by it.
Beau walks toward the bus, and every alpha in the vicinity seems to straighten. It's funny, really: the way pack-aware alphas always respond to a dominant center of gravity.
I follow behind him, side-stepping Dylan as I climb onto the bus.
My first thought is that it smells like energy drinks, laundry detergent, half-eaten breakfast sandwiches, and unshakable team spirit.
It's not pleasant, exactly, but I've definitely been around worst scents.
The aisle is narrow, the seats are old and worn, and I swear that the heater is blasting like someone bribed it; which means one thing.
It's going to be a long drive.
“Emery!” Connor waves me over. “I saved you a seat!”
“You didn’t ask,” Theo says dryly as he steps on behind us.
“I didn’t need to.” Connor flashes a grin. “We vibe.”
I roll my eyes before glancing at where Coach is seated.
“Thank you, Connor, but I’m actually sitting near the front.”
“Coward,” Marco calls.
“Professional,” I correct, dropping into the seat behind Coach.
He glances back at me and nods once in approval before he adjusts his cap and settles deeper into his seat. I watch as he taps something into the cracked screen of his tablet.
“Good call,” he says without looking up. “If you sat back there, you’d be inhaling protein farts and ego the entire drive.”
I shudder.
“I can handle ego,” I reply.
“Not theirs. Madsen alone could power a city block.”
“Hey!” Connor yells from behind us. “I heard that!”
Coach snorts. “Good. Maybe he’ll take it to heart.”
I suppress a smile, tugging my jacket tighter around me.
“So: what should I expect tonight?”
“At the game?” He scratches his jaw. “Noise. Beer. Bad reffing. The usual.”
“And from the team?”
“Depends. They’re dialled in. Red River's a dirty team, and the refs let them get away with murder. The boys will be running hot.”
“And you’re okay with me being there?” I press gently. “On the bench?”
“‘Course,” he says honestly. “These boys like you already, which is a good start, but they need to trust you. You don’t build that by hiding in the back hallway.”
That hits somewhere soft, and I nod.
“I’ll do my best.”
“Don’t do your best.” Coach finally cracks a grin. “Do your job. The rest follows.”
The peace is suddenly disturbed as Gordo practically sprints up the steps and barrels down the aisle yelling, “SHOTGUN!”—which is meaningless on a bus, and even more meaningless given that he’s heading straight for the back row.
“Jesus Christ,” Coach mutters, and I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing.
The bus is filling quickly now, not just with players, but with staff.
One of the athletic trainers hauls a rolling medical case down the aisle, the backup medic wedges herself into a seat near the front, earbuds already in, and a video analyst argues quietly with the equipment guy about camera batteries while someone else wrestles a garment bag into the overhead rack.
I watch discreetly as Beau pockets his phone and moves down the aisle toward the middle of the bus, choosing a seat that gives him space without isolating him.
Theo shifts smoothly into the seat across from him, long legs folding with practiced ease, while Connor drags Dylan into the row behind them, talking far too loudly about something that sounds deeply unimportant.
Marco, Benny, and Gordo have now claimed the back half of the bus and are already bickering over what appears to be a philosophical debate about who smells worse after practice.
Beau settles in, leans back, and crosses his arms over his chest. His shoulder is taped under his hoodie, the edge of white visible when he moves, his jaw set and his gaze tracking the aisle with quiet vigilance.
And the atmosphere shifts around him.
I’m starting to notice it a lot more, now: the way the noise levels adjust, the way conversations subtly orient themselves in his direction without anyone meaning to.
The way he grounds them, and they orbit him without thinking about it.
And I’m beginning to understand why Coach keeps saying he’s not the enemy.