Chapter Fourteen
Beau
Away rinks always smell different. A little hostile. It’s not fear—none of us are afraid—but the atmosphere hits you in warning, almost as if the ice itself knows you’re not home and plans to make you earn every inch.
The locker room is cramped and too warm. Old heaters rattle overhead, blowing stale recycled air into a space already stuffed with alpha bodies and hockey gear. Half the guys sit shirtless, taping sticks or stretching, and the rest move around.
They’re restless dogs in too small a pen: pacing, cracking knuckles, and bouncing their knees. Pre-game energy hums through the room, synchronizing us all.
I get a few minutes on the ice tonight, which is disappointing, but at the same time, it's enough. Coach made the deal clear: PT every morning, and rehab every night. No skipping, and no bullshit. I’ve followed every rule, because the alternative is not playing at all, and I sure as hell can’t stomach that.
Not when the team needs me.
Not when the season’s on the line.
I adjust the tape across my shoulder, careful not to over-tighten it. The boys don’t look directly at it, but I catch the quick glances and the subtle shifts in position. I don’t hold it against them, since they can’t help it.
After all, a wounded center of gravity throws everything off.
Theo sits on my left, quietly lacing his skates.
“Shoulder holding up?”
“It's better,” I answer. He gives me a look, and I sigh. “Honest, it is.”
“Good.” He pulls his gloves on. “Just don’t do anything stupid.”
“Define stupid.”
“...Anything you’d normally do.”
Marco barks a laugh from across the room as Dylan slaps his helmet onto his head.
“He’s sitting on the bench for most of the game. He can’t do anything that stupid.”
“You’re underestimating him.” Gordo looks up from tying his own skates. “Give him five minutes.”
Connor leans back against the locker stall, his arms crossed.
“Pretty sure Emery taped him up nice. He’s practically domesticated now.”
My jaw clenches.
The guys notice everything. Every morning I walk into her PT room, and every time I leave looking better. And maybe I’ve been looking at her too long, too often. Maybe I’m not subtle about it.
Either way, Emery Tate is a problem I didn’t ask for.
Coach storms into the room before I can fire back.
“Alright!” he bellows, clapping his hands together. “Bring it in.”
We form a loose semicircle around him, shoulder-to-shoulder, helmet-to-helmet.
Regardless of the plan for me to stay benched for the majority of the game, you never know what’s going to happen, and I’m still dressed like the rest of them.
The sound settles into something low and collective as Coach’s eyes sweep over us all.
“The Reapers are gonna play dirty tonight. You know it, I know it. They’re coming off a loss, and they’re hungry. But you,” he points the end of his marker at the group, “you’re better than them. Faster. Smarter. Meaner.”
Gordo nods like he’s ready to bite someone.
“Keep your heads and remember what I told you: no cheap shots, and no stupid penalties,” Coach continues. “Play the puck. Support each other, and make sure you lock the neutral zone. We stay tight, we win this.”
Then he looks at me.
“You sit until I say otherwise,” he growls. “You get one shift. One. That’s the deal.”
I nod once.
“Understood.”
Theo elbows me subtly. It’s a silent warning: don’t push.
Coach finishes with a bark: “Let’s get it done.”
Gloves slide tight as sticks thud against the floor, and my heart thumps in a familiar way.
This is the moment it always becomes real.
*
The tunnel to the ice is narrow, but brighter than ours back home.
Red River spent a shit load of money on this place not too long ago; filling it with polished concrete underfoot and LED strips that run the length of the ceiling in their team colors.
We’ve played here a dozen times, but it never stops feeling like walking into enemy territory.
Cold air blasts toward us, and the hum of thousands of fans rolls through the walls: a low roar, layered with heckling, chanting, plastic thunder sticks smacking together in uneven rhythm.
Lights flash across the rafters, bright white strobes that pulse with the bass of the arena speakers.
The Reapers have a habit of turning pre-game into a show, as though it’ll hide the fact their defense collapses under pressure.
Someone from warmups slams into the glass, and the boards shudder beneath the hit, sending a vibration straight through the tunnel floor.
Good. Let them get their early-game ego out.
Theo steps onto the rubber mat first, stick balanced in one hand. Marco and Connor follow, laughing under their breaths about something as Gordo and Dylan file in behind them, mid-argument about who’s going to get the first shot on net.
I take up the rear, helmet off, gloves dangling from my fingers, letting the cold sting my face.
The tunnel opens, and for a second, the full arena hits like a punch.
Home fans pack out most of the stands, a sea of navy and white.
Their crow mascot parades along the glass banging a drum, its creepily oversized foam break snapping in mock aggression.
Kids lean over the railings waving signs, and some even shout my name—half cheers, half jeers.
“WOLFE! SHOW US THE BAD SHOULDER!”
Huh. Real classy.
The starters hop over the boards and settle into warm-up laps, catching sight of Reapers players doing the same.
There’s the usual tension: a few rivalries, and a few grudging friendships.
Theo fist-bumps one of their defensemen he played juniors with as Connor chirps one of their forwards about his haircut.
I don’t miss the way that Marco shoulder checks a guy a little too hard “by accident” as I drop onto the bench, settling into the familiar rhythm with an elbow on my knee and my eyes scanning the sheet of ice; tracking movement, watching stride lengths, checking for tight hips, misaligned shoulders, or signs of fatigue.
I pointedly don’t look at the tunnel. I don’t look at the corridor, either. I don’t look for—
Goddamn it.
There she is.
Emery cuts around the corner, slipping past the trainer and the arena medic with her bag slung over one shoulder and her jacket zipped high to her chin.
Her cheeks are flushed from the cold air, her dark hair tucked into a beanie, and her sweet omega scent threads through the cold air like something alive.
She takes the tiny gap next to the team medics, moving past the extra equipment and closer to me. She’s right where she has the perfect view of the ice, and where I can’t pretend I don’t notice her.
She glances at me briefly, professional and neutral, but her eyes flick over my taped shoulder with a precision that feels like a touch. My instincts prickle, and I shove them down.
This is work. She’s work, even.
But instinct doesn’t give a damn about that.
Marco skates past during a warmup lap and slaps the glass in front of us.
“Wolfe! Good to see you’re locked in.”
I flip him off, and he laughs heartily.
The whistle blows once, and warmups come to an end. The lights dim as spotlights flare, and the announcer’s voice booms through the arena speakers.
“WELCOME… TO THE RED RIVER ICE ARENA!”
The crowd erupts as the teams line up across the ice. Their captain nods at Theo, then glares at Dylan. One of their defensemen mouths a threat at Gordo, who blows him a kiss, and Coach glares over at the guys, his arms crossed and his expression stone-hard.
“Eyes up,” he orders. “We play our game. Not theirs.”
The starters crouch, ready to launch over the boards, and I sit still, waiting and watching.
The puck drops, and the roar of the crowd swallows the rink whole as the game begins.
Still, even with all of the action going on, my focus keeps drifting sideways to where Emery sits with her bag at her feet and her pen in hand, scanning the ice as though she’s dissecting every stride.
She’s not supposed to be here. Trainers handle injuries, and medics handle emergencies. As a PT, she’s optional support at best, but Coach has a plan, and I…
Well.
Let’s just say: I don’t hate it.