Chapter Fifteen
Theo
We take the opening faceoff, and the Reapers come out hard. They’ve always been mouthy as hell, and their center chirps me off the draw.
“You're slow as shit, big boy.”
I lift one brow, win the faceoff clean, and leave him eating ice shavings.
The game blurs after that. Not in a messy way; just in that hyper-focused, instinct-driven tunnel vision that snaps into place the moment the adrenaline hits.
Shift, skate, pivot.
Hit, recover, read the ice.
Repeat.
Emery’s scent lingers faintly from the bench area, even across the rink.
There are other omegas in the building—I know that. Staff, partners, and no doubt some of the fans tucked up in the stands, too. Their scents thread through as well, but in the usual muted way, softened by blockers and distance, blending into the background noise of bodies and adrenaline.
But Emery’s keeps drifting back to me.
It shouldn’t. Not like this. Not across open ice and layered scents and the sharp bite of alphas in full drive. I don’t know why I notice it more than the others, or why it pulls, low and persistent, when I try to ignore it.
I know there’s something between her and Beau. Anyone with a functioning nose does. He’s captain, which makes him our center of gravity, the quiet spine of this team, and unofficial pack leader—whether he likes the title or not.
Part of me wonders if that matters. If his claim over the ice, over us, has somehow changed the way her presence settles into the space.
Or if I’m just looking for a reason my instincts won’t shut up.
Either way, I force my focus back to the game, my jaw tightening as I dig my skates into the ice.
The Reapers start chirping halfway through the second, the way teams do when they realize skill alone isn’t going to win it for them.
Little things at first: sticks tapping my skates after whistles, shoulders leaning in a fraction too hard along the boards.
Their winger drifts close on a line change and mutters something about my stride, about how quiet I am.
He grins when I don’t react.
They always do.
I let it slide the way I always have. I sink inward, to the place I go when noise tries to get inside my head.
It’s automatic now. Muscle memory.
I picture my dad’s hands wrapped around a chipped ceramic mug, steam curling up between us on the back steps of our old place. Early mornings. Frost on the grass. He used to tell me that the ice doesn’t care how loud you are—only how steady.
Let them waste energy trying to move you, he’d said. You just stay where you are.
So, I do.
The Reapers winger keeps trying. He leans in after a whistle, breath hot through his cage.
“You ever smile, or you always look like that?”
Nothing.
“Guess that’s what happens when you’ve got nothing going on upstairs.”
Still nothing.
Marco takes an elbow along the boards not long after—an ugly one, tucked in close where the ref can pretend he didn’t see it.
Marco stumbles, catches himself, then snarls.
Gordo is already shedding gloves in the background like someone hit his fight button early, but Coach screams from the bench so hard I think the veins in his forehead are about to burst.
“NOT NOW!” he bellows. “SAVE IT FOR THE THIRD!”
It's barely contained chaos. We skate away, and the Reapers winger laughs like he’s won something.
By the time the third starts, it’s tied 2–2. The crowd is feral, noise rolling down from the stands in waves. Connor’s got a bruise blooming along his jaw from a cross-check nobody bothered to call, and my lungs burn, legs heavy, every shift carved out of grit instead of air.
We pull ahead with seven minutes left, when Gordo slips one through the five-hole after the goalie overcommits.
“You mean to do that?” I ask as he glides past me on the change.
“Obviously,” he says, chest heaving, eyes wild.
(He did not.)
The Reapers start pressing harder after that; bodies flying, sticks clashing, and the boards rattle like the whole rink might crack in half.
Their winger lines up beside me for the next faceoff, too close, blade nudging mine like it’s accidental when it isn’t. He doesn’t look at me as he speaks, staring straight ahead, though his voice is low and deliberate.
“Enjoy it while it lasts,” he says. “Your captain’s shoulder’s already hanging by a thread. Everyone can see it.”
I breathe out slowly through my nose.
Let it pass.
Let it slide.
He chuckles under his breath, sensing the lack of response, and finally turns his head.
His eyes flick toward our bench.
“Must be hard,” he continues. “Leading a team when your captain can’t even finish a season whole. Half a man on the ice. Half an alpha off it.”
I don’t rise to it. I think of my dad again, and of how stillness is power.
The winger leans in closer, mouth near my ear now.
“Bet it pisses you off,” he murmurs, “watching him pretend he’s fine. Playing hero for that little omega of his.”
My vision sharpens, but he isn’t done.
“Bet he’s real useless in bed like that, too. All bark, no—”
My glove is off before the thought finishes forming.
Heat floods my head so fast it feels like the ice tilts under my skates. The calm I cling to—years of discipline, of restraint—fractures in a single, blinding second, and I see red.
I step into him and drive my fist straight into the side of his helmet, knuckles jarring hard enough to sting through the padding. He doesn’t expect it—no one does—and he goes back a step before swinging wildly in return. His punch catches me across the cheek, white flashing behind my eyes.
And then it’s bodies.
Connor’s there instantly, with Marco, Benny, and Gordo. Gloves, helmets, arms, everywhere. The linesmen pile in, whistles shrieking, refs shouting numbers as they drag us apart. I’m hauled back by the shoulders, skates scraping, breath coming too fast.
The crowd is on its feet, and then I’m shaking with the sudden, disorienting realization of what I’ve just done.
I don’t start fights. Ever.
And everyone on the ice knows it.
Connor stares at me like he’s seeing a ghost. Marco’s mouth hangs open. Even Coach looks stunned, half-risen from the bench, eyes locked on me like he’s recalculating everything he thought he knew.
The refs sort it out quickly, and the game moves on, but the shock lingers, heavy and undeniable.
Because fights happen all the time in ice hockey. It's standard. Expected, even.
What doesn’t happen… is me throwing the first punch.
“Wolfe,” I hear Coach bark from near the bench. “You're up.”
My stomach drops, and every alpha on the ice stiffens at once.
Technically, he shouldn’t be out here; but practically, Beau listens to his instincts first, pain second, and logic ninth. He pulls on his helmet, and I feel it—the pack tension winding tight, and protectiveness thick enough to choke on.
We may not be a formal pack, but our instincts sync anyway.
“No hits, and no scrums,” I hear Coach tell him. “You touch the boards wrong and I’ll murder you myself.”
Beau snorts like that’s adorable, and then he’s over the boards.
He takes the ice like he always does: with a quiet presence and heavy gravity. Even the crowd’s booing changes, as though they know what he can still do, even injured.
And yeah, his shoulder is tight and his stride’s a hair stiff, but he’s not reckless.
At least, not tonight.
The puck drops on a defensive zone faceoff, and I tie up my man, digging in with everything I’ve got.
Beau reads it instantly and picks up the loose puck, snapping it up the boards to Marco who rockets out of the zone like his skates are jet engines.
We cycle twice, but the Reapers get it back, the shot on net blocked.
The clock’s ticking down fast when Marco intercepts a pass and shoots it off the glass where it ricochets perfectly. Gordo chases it down and buries it in the empty net with six seconds left, and the bench explodes.
The buzzer sounds and the arena devolves into a mix of cheers and hatred as we win 4–2.
Helmets fly, gloves get tossed, and someone screams: “SUCK IT, REAPERS!”, which is objectively not sportsmanlike, but deeply satisfying anyway.
Beau coasts over to the bench, breathing hard but steady. He’s not clutching his shoulder, and relief hits me so sharp it stings behind my ribs.
I smack his helmet as he steps off the ice. “Good shift.”
He nods once. “You too.”
Coach doesn’t smile, but his face softens by around two percent, which is basically a hug.
Emery stands tucked beside the equipment manager, her chin lifted and her eyes tracking Beau with laser focus, the same way she’s looked at the boys all week.
I spot it, though: the moment she registers he’s unharmed, and her shoulders release. Beau’s eyes flick to hers, a glance that then turns into a whole second, then two; and for one bizarre, instinct-bruising moment, Beau Wolfe looks like someone caught between bracing and breathing.
He’s the one who looks away first, and I’m not sure who that says more about; him or her.
All I do know is that I notice her because he does. Alphas pick up shifts in the room the way wolves pick up a change in the wind, and something about her is tide-shifting; pulling threads we haven’t named yet.
“Damn, did you see that?” Connor yells as he barrels toward us, nearly folding Gordo into a hug. “Ice in his VEINS, baby!”
“That spleen of yours still functional?” Marco asks, clapping him on the back.
“Barely,” Connor wheezes. “But it’s worth it.”
Dylan skates over, too, his helmet now tucked under his arm.
“Pretty sure one of their guys owes me an apology for insulting my mother in the second period.”
“Your mother insulted him first,” Gordo reminds him.
“Details,” Dylan says.
Emery laughs. It’s a quiet, soft sound, but it’s enough to draw all of our attention for half a beat.
She tucks a strand of hair into her beanie, cheeks flushed, and one of the Reapers medics walks by and raises a hand to her.
“Tough job with this lot,” he says.
“The toughest,” she deadpans.
He moves on, but I don’t miss the way Beau postures.
“Alright!” Coach claps his hands together, his signature way of corralling a stampede. “Lock it in, boys. Great game, and great finish. Locker room, now.”
On the way off the ice, fans lean over the railings shouting for sticks, gloves, jersey tosses. Apparently, semi-pro life means souvenirs matter, and Marco hands off a broken stick as Gordo signs a foam moose antler hat.
Connor winks at a group holding a sign that reads ROCKET MARRY ME.
“My personal fan club made it,” he says smugly.
“Those are eight-year-olds,” Dylan replies.
“...They have taste.”
Beau doesn’t sign any autographs tonight, but he gives a nod to a kid wearing his jersey.
The kid beams like he just won the lottery.
In the tunnel, the noise of the crowd fades into a low roar.
Connor slings an arm around Marco’s neck as Dylan attempts to hip-check Gordo into the wall, only for Gordo to hip-check him back twice as hard.
It’s messy, loud, and borderline feral joy; the kind that sticks to your ribs and makes you forget the bruises.
Coach walks ahead, satisfied in his own tight-lipped way as we pile into the locker room. Inside, helmets get tossed into stalls and shoulder pads hit the floor with wet thuds. Half the team is shouting over the other half, and no one’s saying anything coherent.
Connor collapses onto the bench dramatically.
“I think I broke six ribs celebrating that last goal.”
“And you didn’t score it,” Dylan snorts.
“It’s the emotional impact,” Connor fires back. “I’m delicate.”
“Tell that to the guy you punched last week,” Gordo mutters as he stretches out on the floor like a satisfied St. Bernard.
The place smells like victory and blood and industrial-strength deodorizer, and sweat and steam fill the air as the showers start running. Someone cranks the ancient speaker system, and distorted rock music blasts from a corner shelf.
This is the best part of the sport. Not the goals, not even the fights, but this—this room, this chaos.
This is what makes you stay.
Beau hasn’t said a word yet. He’s peeling tape off his wrist one piece at a time, moving slower than usual and being careful with the bad shoulder, but not babying it.
Connor notices me looking and elbows me. “He’s fine.”
“Didn’t say he wasn’t.”
“Yeah, but you were thinking it,” Connor replies, dropping his voice. “We all were.”
Beau must feel us watching because he grunts.
“If you’re all waiting for me to die, it’s not happening today.”
Marco claps twice. “Great talk, Cap.”
“Shut up,” Beau says without heat.
Coach wipes his hands on a towel someone has probably used already as he surveys the room, then nods once.
“Good game,” he says.
That’s it.
That’s the whole speech.
We all wait, blinking expectantly, and his lips curve upward.
“You played smart,” he continues. “Not perfect, or pretty, but smart. We needed that.”
Gordo beams like he personally won the Stanley Cup, but Coach isn’t finished.
“You.” He points at Dylan. “Stop taking penalties for stupid shit.”
“That call was garbage,” Dylan argues.
“And yet you sat out for two minutes. Don’t argue with me.” Coach frowns, then points at Connor. “You—no chirping the refs.”
Connor gasps. “I didn’t!”
“You called one of them a corrupt ferret,” Marco mutters.
“Because he is!” Connor insists.
“Jesus Christ.” Coach rubs his temple. “Anyway: clean it up.”
Then he turns to Beau.
“And you,” Coach says, voice softening by a molecule. “Good minutes. No heroics. Proud of you.”
Coming from Coach, that’s the equivalent of a damn gold medal, and Beau nods once.
That’s all he gives, and my shoulders sag in relief. He doesn't call me out for the fighting. That's... something.
Marco pounds his fists against his thighs like a drum.
“Come on, boys: next stop, playoffs.”
“Easy,” I say. “Let’s win four in a row first.”
“Let me believe, Theo!”
Someone throws a towel at him, and the room dissolves again into the same tangled collage of laughter and swearing and steam and noise.
I bend down to unlace my skates, letting my breathing settle, and letting the high from the game come down slowly. Beau sits at the end of the bench tying off the last piece of tape around his wrist, and for once, it looks as though his shoulders aren’t carrying the whole world.
We’re loud, we’re lucky, and we’re whole.
And, most importantly: we won.
.