Chapter Twenty-Three
Theo
The ice is good this morning—fresh cut with clean edges, pale and glassy under the lights. Cold enough that every push bites back just a little, the kind of bite that keeps you honest.
I like it that way. It gives me something solid to measure myself against, something physical and dependable, something that doesn’t shift just because instincts are loud or emotions are running hot beneath the surface.
We’re midway through drills when I feel it. Not see—feel.
The rhythm of the line stutters for half a second. It’s not enough to stop anyone, or draw a whistle. Sticks still move, skates still carve clean arcs into the ice, bodies still flow through the pattern Coach set; but the cohesion tilts, like a current pulling slightly off course.
It’s subtle. Most people wouldn’t clock it, and would chalk it up to early-morning stiffness or someone missing a cue.
I do.
I glance toward the bench, toward the gravitational center we all orient around without thinking.
Beau stands beside Coach, helmet tucked under one arm, shoulders squared, weight evenly balanced.
He’s too even, too still; the kind of posture that doesn’t come from ease, but from bracing—like he’s holding himself in place rather than settling into it.
And then the scent reaches me.
It’s faint. He’s tried to scrub it, so I’ll give him that, but scent doesn’t work like that once it’s set. Once instinct has decided what it’s holding onto.
Omega. Warm, and quietly settled; wrapped around his alpha in a way that doesn’t flare or shout, just… belongs. It’s the kind of scent that doesn’t need to announce itself because it’s already rooted.
My grip tightens on my stick without me meaning to.
A few of the guys missed it at first. They were too busy chirping in the locker room, laughing, shoving, riding the leftover edge of yesterday’s win. Now they’re skating hard, lungs burning, minds on the drill in front of them.
Connor doesn’t miss it, though.
His stride shortens, just a fraction. His shoulders tense, and his jaw tightens so hard I can see the muscle jump even from here. He overshoots a stop, blade scraping too sharp against the ice, and snaps his head toward the bench like he’s been hit square in the chest.
Ah.
That answers a lot.
We regroup for the next drill, lining up at the center. Breath fogs the air, the rink humming with the low, familiar sounds of effort. Marco glides up beside me, close enough that his voice stays low.
“So,” he mutters, eyes flicking briefly toward the bench, “we’re all smelling that, right?”
“Focus,” I tell him, keeping my gaze forward.
He grins anyway, unapologetic. “I am. Just… multitasking.”
I don’t respond, but my attention doesn’t leave Beau for long.
Whatever has settled into place, the ice knows it. And so do we.
Coach’s whistle cuts through the air, and just like that, we take off; crossing lines and pivoting hard, bodies moving the way they always do when we know what’s expected of us.
But the undercurrent doesn’t fade.
Connor skates too aggressively, shoulders high and movements sharp where they’re usually fluid. He clips Dylan a little too hard along the boards and mutters something under his breath that doesn’t sound friendly.
Beau doesn’t react to anything, and that’s what seals it. If this were just a rumor, just noise, he’d shut it down with a look or a word, but he doesn’t. He stays contained and controlled: the kind of control that comes after a decision’s already been made.
Coach watches it all with an unreadable expression. He doesn’t look pleased, but he also doesn’t seem surprised, either.
That’s important.
We rotate off the ice, breath fogging in front of us. Connor peels his helmet off and slams it onto the bench a little harder than necessary.
“You good?” Marco asks him.
“Fine,” Connor snaps.
Beau’s eyes flick to him, and Connor holds his gaze for half a heartbeat longer than he should, then looks away.
I swallow, noting the pack dynamics recalibrating in real time.
I stretch at the boards, pretending not to watch, but I do. I always do.
I’ve followed Beau onto the ice for a long time. Trusted his reads and covered his blind spots. I’ve watched him carry weight he never asked for and never complained about. I know the shape of his silences better than most people know their own reflections, and this one…
This one is different.
This one is settled.
Coach calls the end of the drill and waves us in. As we skate past the bench, Beau’s eyes meet mine, and I nod once. Whatever this is, it’s real, and it’s going to change things, whether any of us are ready for it or not.
I push off toward the locker room with the others, instincts quiet but alert, already adjusting.
Beau didn’t just bond: he chose.
And when a captain chooses, the whole pack feels it.