Chapter Nineteen
Beau
I wake before my alarm.
That part’s normal. My body’s been trained for it since my teens—early skates, road games, and dawn lifts that didn’t care whether you’d slept or not. Habit drags me upright before the thought finishes forming.
What isn’t normal is the tightness in my chest the second I sit up. It’s not pain, or anxiety, but the same feeling I get when I step onto the ice and realize I’m missing a piece of gear: like something essential has shifted and my instincts noticed before I did.
The house is morning-quiet. Pale light seeps through my bedroom window, reflected snow throwing everything into washed-out blues and greys. Even the air feels colder than it should.
I swing my legs over the side of the bed and pause.
Something’s off.
Not wrong. Not dangerous. Just… altered.
I step into the hallway, rolling my shoulder out of habit, slow and careful. It answers back with a dull pull, but no spike, no warning. Emery’s work is still holding. The joint feels supported, steadier than it has in weeks.
That thought settles heavier than it should.
Downstairs, the smell hits me first.
My coffee. But… it’s cleaner. As though the bitterness has been rounded off instead of left to burn.
I stop in the doorway of the kitchen and frown.
One of my mugs—my chipped black one, the one I always leave by the machine—is rinsed and placed upside down on a dishtowel.
The counter’s been wiped. Not scrubbed, necessarily, just…
reset. The throw blanket from the couch is folded over the arm instead of kicked into the corner where I dropped it last night, and the fruit bowl is centered on the table.
My breath slows without me meaning it to, my mind processing everything I’m seeing.
This isn’t cleaning: it’s adjustment. The kind of changes made by someone who notices space, who moves through it quietly, smoothing edges without trying to take over. The kind that make a place feel… steadier.
My instincts stir before my thoughts catch up, something inside me lifting its head and scenting the air, and I don’t move for a full five seconds.
Then my jaw tightens.
No.
I cut it off hard, the way I’ve learned to shut down a bad hit before it lands.
This doesn’t mean anything. She’s organized. Methodical. She works in bodies and systems—of course she resets rooms the same way.
This isn’t a nest, and she is not—
I scrub a hand down my face, rough enough to sting, and force a slow breath through my nose.
Get it together.
Her door is closed when I pass it. There’s no sound, and no scent leaking under the frame. She’s either asleep or already gone, and the quiet there is a relief I don’t want to examine too closely.
I grab my keys and my jacket, and don’t linger.
I’m halfway out the door before I realize my instincts are still humming; unsettled and watchful, as if they’ve clocked something I’m refusing to name.
I shut the door behind me harder than necessary and step into the cold, letting it bite sense back into me.
Control on and off the ice, I tell myself.
On. And. Off. The. Ice.
And I walk away before my body can decide the house feels different because she’s starting to belong there.
*
Warm-ups start long before anyone touches the ice.
The rink’s still half-asleep when we file in; overhead lights buzzing, the Zamboni’s wet lines barely set, the smell of cold metal and sharpened steel hanging in the air.
Music thumps low from someone’s speaker, bass rattling the benches, a familiar pre-practice soundtrack that says work first, talk later.
Emery’s not here yet.
Thank fuck.
I claim a corner near the boards and drop to one knee, looping the resistance band around the post the way she showed me. The rubber snaps back with controlled tension as I pull—slow, precise rotations, elbow tucked, scapula set. Every rep burns deep, the kind that forces patience instead of ego.
I count my breath.
In through the nose. Out through the mouth.
No rushing. No shortcuts.
Behind me, skates scrape concrete as the guys move through their own routines—laces pulled tight, tape ripped with practiced flicks of the wrist, sticks thumped once, twice, against the floor.
Dylan’s arguing with Marco about who stole his clear tape, while Gordo’s already sweating through his base layer like he ran here.
The team wakes up in pieces.
I’m halfway through my second set when Connor glides past the open doorway in socks and slides, hair still damp from the showers.
“Well I’ll be damned,” he grins. “Captain Compliance.”
I don’t look up. “You’re late to stretch.”
“Wrong,” he counters. “I’m fashionably early to mock you.”
He skids to a stop nearby, dropping into a hamstring stretch with exaggerated effort.
“Never thought I’d see the day Beau Wolfe actually follows a PT plan.”
“She’s not a suggestion,” I say, steady. “She’s a requirement.”
It comes out flatter than I mean it to.
Connor’s grin shifts. He clocks the tone instantly, but for once, he doesn’t push.
“No argument,” he says instead. “She iced my ribs without calling me an idiot. That alone makes her a miracle worker.”
Theo joins us a second later, towel slung over one shoulder, rolling his neck slowly.
“She made me restart my entire warm-up because my hip rotation was off.”
Connor snorts.
“You are built like a folding chair.”
Theo ignores him. “She didn’t explain it twice. Just waited until I figured it out.”
That earns a nod from Marco as he wanders by, stretching his hamstrings against the boards.
“She’s done her research, too. She asked about my ankle from two seasons ago. The bad sprain.”
“Yeah, she’s doing mental spreadsheets,” Connor laughs. “You can see it: she’s tracking who’s lying.”
“Good,” Theo says. “Maybe it’ll stop half of you from skating through injuries like martyrs.”
There’s an easy rhythm to it—the way they talk, the way they move around each other without colliding. There’s no posturing or dominance plays here, but trust that’s been earned over years of shared ice and busted knuckles.
And beneath it all, respect. The kind that settles in early and stays.
They drift off toward the tunnel as Coach’s whistle shrills, sharp and commanding. The ice doors swing open, cold air spilling out as the first lines head through.
I finish my last rep, shoulder burning in a way that feels earned. I welcome it. It keeps my head where it belongs.
They like her. They trust her. And some part of the room—some pack-deep instinct I don’t want to examine too closely—has already shifted to make space for her.
My shoulder twinges as I release the band. I roll it once, slow and careful.
I don’t want this. I don’t want to want her. Don’t want the way my chest tightens when I picture her moving through my house, leaving quiet order behind her like a signature. Don’t want how easily the guys talk about her like she’s already ours.
But wanting isn’t a decision. That’s the problem.
Coach appears in the doorway, coffee in hand, eyes sharp as ever.
He watches me finish, then he nods.
“Good,” he says. “You’re doing the work.”
“I said I would.”
“I know.” He pauses, gaze steady. Then, quieter—meant only for me—“And remember.”
I straighten automatically.
“You lead by example,” he says. “On the ice. And off it.”
His eyes linger just long enough to make sure it lands, then he turns and heads toward the tunnel, barking at someone to tape faster.
I stand there a second longer than necessary, resistance band slack in my hands, the echo of his words settling deep.
On and off the ice.