Chapter Thirty-Four
Emery
The Icebox feels different now.
Not quieter—never quieter—but steadier; as if it’s learned the shape of us and adjusted its breathing accordingly.
It’s been a few weeks since the away game.
Another one after that. Wins, a loss, then a win again.
Road buses and cramped locker rooms and the peculiar intimacy that comes with long hours spent together, learning each other’s tells.
The pack—my pack, even if we don’t say it out loud—has started to find a rhythm that feels less reactive and more intentional.
I finish wiping down the treatment table and flick the light off above it, the hum cutting cleanly. The rest of the rink is still lit, bright and cold beyond the hallway, the sound of skates slicing ice echoing faintly through the concrete bones of the building.
Beau’s still out there.
I know it without checking the clock. I feel it the way I’ve started to feel a lot of things lately: through our bond, quiet and constant, like pressure against my ribs. He’s winding down, not pushing, just skating laps to loosen his shoulder.
I lock the cabinet, sling my bag over my shoulder, and step out toward the rink. The lights are dimmed to half, casting long shadows across the ice. Beau glides near the boards, helmet off, dark hair damp with sweat, breath fogging softly as he slows when he spots me.
“There you are,” he says.
His voice carries easily over the rink, warm despite the cold, and the automatic smile that crosses my face catches me off guard.
It doesn't feel all that long ago since that same voice had been clipped. Guarded.
Like he’d rather I not exist at all.
“You done pretending you’re not figure skating?” I call back.
He huffs a laugh, the sound low and familiar now, and coasts closer until he’s braced against the boards. He rolls his shoulder once, slow and careful. I clock it automatically, the way I always do, but there’s no wince or flare of pain through the bond.
“Just making sure it still listens to me,” he says.
I step closer to the glass, resting my forearms on it. “And?”
His mouth curves, subtle and pleased.
“It behaves. Most days.”
He studies me for a second longer than necessary, eyes tracking the way my bag slips on my shoulder, the way I shift my weight to keep warm, and then he straightens, evidence of a decision settling into his posture.
“Come out.”
He says it as though it’s the most natural suggestion in the world.
I blink. “Beau—”
“I know,” he cuts in gently, already pushing off toward the bench. “You’re not dressed.”
I watch with a furrowed brow as he disappears down the side corridor, the one that leads past the equipment cages and the overflow lockers. He’s gone barely a minute before he’s back, arms full of gear that’s unmistakably his.
A spare Moose hoodie, thick and worn soft from use, and his heavy team jacket—the one with the repaired zipper and the frayed cuff he refuses to replace. There’s also a pair of extra gloves, black and scuffed, clearly lived in.
He sets them on the bench with quiet purpose, effectively laying out an argument he already knows he’s going to win.
“It’s late,” he says, voice dropping. “The ice is clean. Zamboni ran after the guys cleared out. No one else around.”
I hesitate, instinct humming low in my chest. That omega pull toward warmth, toward safety, toward him.
He catches it. Of course he does.
“I’ll keep you upright,” he adds, softer still. “Promise.”
Something in his scent shifts: grounded alpha calm, offered rather than imposed, and I exhale slowly.
“Five minutes.”
His mouth twitches. Victory, quiet and smug.
“Deal.”
He helps me layer up without comment, hands steady and deliberate. Hoodie first, swallowing me in warmth and familiar scent. Then the jacket, zipped all the way up to my chin. He adjusts my beanie with a gentle tug, knuckles brushing my temple.
“Cold?” he asks.
“A little.”
He nods, like that’s something he can fix.
“Sit,” he says quietly.
I do.
He drops to one knee in front of me, pulling my skates closer.
“You don’t have to—” I start.
“I know,” he says, not looking up. “I want to.”
That lands harder than it should.
His fingers work the laces with practiced ease, tightening them just right—not too snug, not loose enough to wobble. He checks each one twice, thumb pressing into the tongue and making sure I’m secure.
When he’s done, he braces a hand on my calf and looks up at me, blue eyes steady.
“Tell me if it’s too much.”
“I will.”
When I stand, he offers his hand without hesitation. His grip is firm and warm even through the gloves, anchoring me as I step onto the ice. The cold sings up my legs, sharp and exhilarating, and I wobble—just a little.
His arm slides around my waist immediately, solid and sure.
“I’ve got you,” he murmurs near my ear.
The bond hums in agreement, and I believe him.
We don’t go far: just to the edge of the rink, slow and careful. He moves with me, matching my pace, guiding without taking over. Every time I falter, he’s there; steady, patient, and present.
A far cry from the alpha who once could barely even look at me.
“This okay?” he asks.
I glance up at him, at the softened lines of his face, the quiet pride in his eyes, the alpha who has learned how to offer instead of brace.
“Yeah,” I say, smiling. “It’s… actually perfect.”
We glide like that for a while, slow loops along the boards, his arm a constant at my waist, my gloved hand braced against his chest. It’s not as though I haven’t skated before, but it’s not something that I do regularly, by any means.
Just because I work with players doesn’t mean I’m the one out here, but I start to trust the ice under my feet, my weight shifting more confidently with each pass.
Beau eases back just enough to give me room, then steps in again when I wobble, still not making a big deal out of it.
“Okay,” he murmurs after I manage a clean push-off without clinging to him. “You’re getting it.”
I grin, breath puffing white in the cold air.
“I have a very good teacher, apparently.”
He huffs a quiet laugh, something warm and pleased flickering through the bond.
“Careful. Compliments go to my head.”
“Good,” I tease. “Might soften you up even more.”
He arches an eyebrow, skating backward now so he can face me, hands still light but steady at my hips.
“You saying I’m soft?”
I consider him—this version of Beau, relaxed and grounded, laughing easily on his own ice.
“I’m saying you’re… different. In a good way.”
He nods slowly, accepting that without deflection.
“Pack’ll do that.”
The word settles between us, heavy but welcome.
We drift toward center ice, the rink vast and quiet around us, lights humming overhead. It feels like the whole place belongs to us for these few minutes: no crowd, no whistles, no expectations.
We skate in companionable silence for a moment, the scrape of our blades the only sound in the vast, empty rink, then Beau clears his throat.
“Hey,” he says. “Can I ask you something?”
I glance up at him. “Yeah. Of course.”
“How’s that feel—being here?” he asks, vague on the surface but not really. His eyes stay forward, fixed on the far boards. “With… all of this.”
I understand exactly what he means.
“It feels steady,” I say after a beat. “More than I expected.”
He nods, like that matters to him.
“My mom’s doing alright,” he comments, and it takes me by surprise. He doesn’t speak about her that often, but when he does, I hang on to every word; remembering what Coach told me about his past. “Better than she was a few months ago. She likes the new nurse. Thinks she’s very competent.”
“High praise,” I smile.
He huffs a soft breath.
“She still forgets I’m bonded, though. Keeps trying to set me up with her friends’ daughters.” A pause. “I think it’s her way of pretending things haven’t changed.”
I nod in understanding.
“I’m heading over there Sunday morning,” he adds. “Said I’ll take some groceries. I’m also supposed to be fixing a shelf she’s convinced is crooked.”
We slow slightly, drifting closer together as we circle the rink.
He looks at me then: really looks.
“I was wondering,” he says, voice lower now, steadier through the bond than out loud. “If you’d want to come with me. Meet her.”
My breath catches.
“I don’t want to push,” he continues. “But… I’d like her to meet you. If you’re comfortable.”
The bond warms instantly: a soft, affirming pulse that makes my chest ache in the best way.
“Beau, I… I’d love that,” I say, and mean every word. “Really.”
His shoulders ease, like something he’d been holding finally lets go.
“Good,” he murmurs. “I think she will, too.”
We make one last slow circuit before he guides us back toward the boards. He helps me off the ice with the same care he brought me onto it, large hands warm and sure, lingering just a second longer than necessary—enough to say something without words.
We sit down as we unlace our skates, and I catch him watching me.
“This,” he says quietly, gesturing to the empty rink, the quiet, the us, “feels right.”
“Yeah.” I look up at him and smile. “It does.”