Chapter Twenty-Seven
Beau
Game day in Iron Lake is never subtle, but especially not on days like today.
By the time I pull into the lot behind the Icebox, the place already looks like a damn festival.
Pickup trucks lined crooked along the snowbanks, tailgates down, and portable grills hissing steam into the cold while someone blasts classic rock loud enough to rattle the rink doors.
Kids dressed in Moose jerseys are chasing each other between cars, while old-timers in heavy coats are nursing thermoses like they’re sacred objects.
Home ice.
The Icebox squats against the gray sky. Newer barns try to be sleek, but ours just tries to survive the winter and intimidate visiting teams.
Thankfully, it does both beautifully.
Inside, the air is thick with sound and heat.
The stands are already filling, boots stomping metal bleachers, cowbells clanging, and the Moose mascot posing for photos near the boards.
The scoreboard cycles through sponsor ads for bait shops and plumbing companies while someone’s kid is pounding the glass like it owes him money.
I fucking love this place: which makes not starting feel worse.
I’m dressed and taped with my helmet ready, but my name isn’t on the opening line. Coach didn’t sugarcoat it. My shoulder might be holding up a lot better since Emery’s involvement, but it still isn’t one hundred percent.
We’re playing the Duluth Harbor Wolves. They’re big, mean, and notorious for finishing checks a beat late, so he made it clear that there was no sense risking me early when we might need me late.
Doesn’t mean I like it.
I sit on the bench during warmups, elbows on my knees, watching the guys skate.
Marco’s already jawing with a defenseman he’s known since juniors, while Theo’s moving fluidly with the kind of calm that settles the whole line.
Connor’s buzzing, chirping at a Wolves winger who flips him off in return, and pack energy hums through the rink.
And then there’s Emery.
She’s at the far end of the bench with the medical staff, her jacket zipped and clipboard tucked under her arm. She’s all business; no trace of the Omega who slept tucked against my chest last night, warm and solid and real in a way my instincts still haven’t finished wrapping around.
At home, it’s been… easier. Quieter.
Better.
She fits in my space like she was meant to. Mugs still migrate and blankets still get folded, but she sleeps with her back to my chest, and my alpha settles like it’s finally found a job it understands.
Here, though, we don’t touch, or linger. Hell, we don’t even look at each other for too long. We’re being professional. It’s absolutely necessary.
Again: doesn’t mean that I like it.
I keep my eyes on the ice as the puck drops.
The Wolves come out exactly the way we expected them to: hard on the forecheck, bodies finishing checks a beat late, sticks chopping at hands along the boards.
They’re built heavy through the shoulders, a team that likes to wear opponents down by the third, and the Icebox answers them in kind.
The crowd is feral tonight. Every Moose hit sends a shockwave through the stands, boots stomping metal bleachers hard enough that I can feel the vibration through the bench. Every time a Wolves player drifts too close to our crease, the boos rain down, thick and personal.
Midway through the second, the game tightens. Theo carries the puck cleanly through neutral ice, cutting wide along the boards to buy space. He’s already bracing for contact—because you always are in this league—but the hit comes wrong.
Late, and from behind.
The Wolves defenseman drives him straight into the glass with his numbers exposed, shoulder slamming into Theo’s spine hard enough that the boards rattle and the sound cracks through the rink.
Theo goes down, and doesn’t move.
The whistle shrieks, but it barely registers as the Icebox detonates around us.
I’m on my feet before the whistle finishes blowing, fury ripping through me so fast it burns white behind my eyes.
Connor is already there, gloves flying as he slams into the Wolves player like a missile, momentum and rage carrying them both into the boards.
Theo still isn’t getting up.
Coach turns and looks at me, and I swear, it’s as though I can read his mind at this point: the way he’s weighing risk against necessity in real time.
“You good?” he asks.
I don’t look at my shoulder. I don’t need to.
“Yes.”
I’m over the boards on the next whistle, shoulder screaming in protest but locked down by adrenaline and something colder, steadier, deeper.
The Wolves clock it immediately. Their captain’s eyes track me as I take my first stride, calculating angles and measuring distance like he’s deciding whether tonight is worth it.
Good.
We play mean after that: mean, but disciplined.
Every shift is tight and controlled, every move intentional.
I finish checks where I can without exposing my shoulder and keep my stick active, clog passing lanes, making my presence unavoidable.
Every stride feels like borrowed time, and I spend it like it matters.
Still, under it all, I feel her.
The bond hums sharp and startled, a spike of shock and fear that isn’t mine but lands in my chest all the same, knocking the air out of me for half a heartbeat.
My shoulder aches as I push through the next shift. I keep it tucked, protecting the joint when I finish checks and let my left side do more of the talking. Adrenaline helps.
So does anger.
Theo’s gone down the tunnel, and the pack closes ranks around his absence without discussion.
Connor plays like he’s possessed, crashing the net on every shift, chirping nonstop at the Wolves’ defensemen.
They chirp back—mostly cheap shots, including some comments about Theo that earn them a warning from the refs and a promise from Marco that they’ll regret it later.
Connor buries a rebound off a broken play, jamming the puck home through traffic and pure spite. He takes a cross-check to the ribs for it, shoves back, and has to be hauled away before gloves come off again.
The Icebox loses its collective mind.
The Wolves answer back in the third, of course: a greasy goal off a deflection, the puck clipping a shin pad and fluttering just enough to beat our goalie. On the next shift, one of their forwards mouths off at our bench, pointing down the tunnel like he’s proud of himself.
I skate past and shoulder-check him with my good side: clean, but hard, just enough to send the message. My injured shoulder flares anyway, but I ride it out, teeth clenched.
It was worth it.
The tension coils tighter with every minute. Every whistle, every shove after the play, every glance from the Wolves’ bench daring us to lose control.
It’s late third period, at a tie game, when Coach taps the boards and meets my eyes again.
“One more.”
I nod.
The final goal comes ugly, the way the best ones often do: bodies stacked in the crease, sticks hacking, the puck bouncing off skates and pads until Marco muscles it through sheer will and buries it behind their goalie.
The horn blares, and the Icebox shakes.
Beer sloshes as people scream themselves hoarse. The Wolves argue the call, crowding the ref and shouting about goalie interference. Connor chirps back, grinning like he’s won Christmas as one of their player’s squares right up to him. It only ends when the refs shove them apart.
We hold the last seconds by grinding it into the boards, killing time the hard way. My shoulder burns as I pin a guy along the glass, but it holds.
Then the buzzer sounds.
We win—but only just.
As we skate off, lungs burning, legs heavy, my eyes find Emery without conscious thought.
She’s already moving, heading toward the tunnel where Theo disappeared, her attention fully locked into work mode.
Through the bond, I feel the echo of her emotions: relief first, then worry settling underneath.
Pride swells in my chest at our win, fierce and territorial and threaded through with something softer I don’t have time to name.
She’s mine, and this team—this season—is going to demand everything I’ve got.
Including control.