Chapter Thirteen
Emery
The drive over to Red River isn’t particularly long, but it’s long enough for the team to devolve into chaos.
“MARCO STOLE MY HEADPHONES!”
“They were IN THE SEAT—”
“YOU SAT ON THEM—”
“YOU PUT THEM THERE—”
“ENOUGH!” Coach barks. “Jesus. You’re grown men.”
Theo doesn’t even look up from his crossword.
“They’re not.”
“I’m a scholar,” Connor says proudly.
“You’re a hazard,” Dylan corrects.
“Potato, potahto.”
Gordo leans over the back of Beau’s seat.
“Captain. CAPTAIN. Hypothetical question.”
“No,” Beau answers immediately.
“You didn’t even hear it!”
“No.”
Gordo huffs.
“Fine. I’ll ask Emery,” Gordo huffs. “Emery!”
I sigh heavily.
“I regret this already,” I mutter.
“If you had to fight one mascot in the league, who’re you picking?”
“The Riverton Raccoon,” I say instantly.
The entire bus gasps dramatically.
“That’s a choice,” Marco comments.
“He’s tiny and fast,” Gordo argues.
“He’s unstable,” Connor adds.
“He’d bite you,” Dylan notes.
Coach rubs his temples, apparently exhausted.
“Can we not discuss fighting mascots before a game?”
“Team bonding, Coach,” Gordo shrugs. “She’s one of us now.”
Coach sends me a dry glance.
“You sure you want that?”
I hesitate, then smile. I know he's joking, but...
“Yeah,” I tell him, laughter in my voice. “I think I do.”
*
The arena appears through the windows as we pull in. It’s larger than the Icebox, as well as newer and shinier. Their parking lot is already filling with fans in navy and white jerseys as their mascot—a giant crow—dances outside the front entrance.
“That crow is scarier than our moose,” Connor comments.
“That’s because our moose looks like he pays taxes and asks about your day,” Dylan fires back.
The bus rolls to a stop at the players’ entrance, and the doors hiss open. Adrenaline spikes across the aisle as cold air rushes in, their alpha instinct snapping into place.
Coach stands and claps his hands sharply.
“Alright, boys: you know the drill. Bags off, gear in, warm up, then meetings. Keep your heads and play smart. No stupid penalties.”
He pauses, then looks right at Beau.
“And before anyone gets any ideas,” Coach adds, voice dry, “yes. Wolfe is cleared.”
A ripple moves through the bus. Not surprise—more like collective, cautious approval.
“Light minutes,” Coach continues, already holding up a finger before Beau can so much as shift in his seat.
“End of the third, if we need you. You’ve earned it with the work you’ve been putting in.
You’ve followed the program, you’ve listened, and—” his gaze flicks briefly to me “—we’ve talked it through. ”
I incline my head once. Coach is right. This wasn’t a snap decision: it was weeks of controlled reps, careful monitoring, and Beau doing exactly what he was told for once.
Coach looks back at him.
“This isn’t a comeback tour. This is a test. You feel anything off, you’re done. No arguments.”
Beau doesn’t say a word as he nods, but I don’t miss the faint twitch at the corner of his mouth, the smallest tell of satisfaction he ever allows himself.
“And don’t get cocky about it, either,” Coach snorts. “If that shoulder pops out tonight, I’m retiring early and naming you personally responsible.”
A few of the guys laugh, and Connor mutters something about it being worth it under his breath.
Coach steps into the aisle as the guys begin to move, then glances back at me.
“You stay close,” he says. “Don’t wander.”
“I’m not a toddler,” I mutter.
“Debatable,” he replies, though he’s smiling as he steps off the bus.
The guys pile out behind him in a wave of noise and energy, and I shoulder my PT bag as I follow them all out into the cold.
The arena hums with pre-game electricity: fans lining the railings, music echoing faintly from inside, and lights flashing behind the doors like the heartbeat of the rink.
I remind myself that this isn’t Iron Lake, this is competition and enemy territory, but I feel a twinge of something I almost forgot how to recognize anyway.
Excitement.