Chapter Thirty-Seven
Emery
To call it a celebration feels laughably inadequate.
It starts in the driveway, before we even make it inside—Connor whooping loud enough to wake half the street, Theo laughing despite the brace on his leg, and Beau shaking his head like he can’t quite believe any of this is real.
Snow crunches under our boots as they pile through the door, the cold following us in like a fifth guest before someone finally remembers to kick it back out.
“We’re in the finals,” Connor says again; as though if he repeats it enough times the universe won’t be able to take it back. “Tell me again we’re in the finals.”
“We’re in the finals,” Theo replies dryly, easing himself onto the bench by the door. “But if you shout it any louder, Riverton’s going to hear you from here.”
“Let them,” Connor grins. “They can cry about it early.”
Beau brushes past them, fingers briefly catching the back of my jacket, grounding me with a touch so casual no one else notices.
He’s calmer now than he was an hour ago, the sharp edge of game-day adrenaline worn down into something warmer and deeper.
Still buzzing—but settled. Like he’s finally let himself land.
The house fills with noise and movement quickly. Someone puts music on—too loud at first, then adjusted down when Theo winces. Jackets are shed, and boots kicked aside. Beers appear, then soda for Theo, then a mug of tea for me that Beau presses into my hands without comment.
I watch them from the edge of the kitchen for a moment, heart full in a way that feels almost surreal.
Connor sprawls across the couch, recounting the last five minutes of the game like he’s narrating an epic saga.
Theo corrects him calmly every time he exaggerates, which is often.
Beau listens with half a smile, arms crossed, occasionally interjecting with a quiet, pointed observation that reins Connor back just enough to keep things honest.
They’re glowing. All of them.
At some point, Connor notices me watching and grins.
“Hey. You’re awful quiet for someone who kept us alive tonight.”
“I did not keep you alive,” I protest.
Theo lifts an eyebrow. “You iced my knee in thirty seconds flat and told me I was being dramatic.”
“You were being dramatic.”
“I was injured.”
“You were dramatic about it.”
“She’s brutal,” Connor laughs. “I love her.”
Beau’s hand lands at my lower back then—firm and possessive in the quiet, settled way that doesn’t demand attention. Our bond hums warmly in my chest, answering his touch before I even think about it.
Later, the night softens. The music gets lower, the buzz of celebration giving way to something lazier, more intimate. Plates of half-eaten food litter the coffee table, and the house smells like victory and sex and alpha.
Theo stretches out carefully, ice pack resting on his knee—courtesy of Connor, who handed it over without being asked.
Beau tosses a throw blanket over all of us, second nature to him now, since this isn’t the first time we’ve collapsed in a heap of sore muscles and tangled limbs and bitten-back moans.
We end up upstairs not long after.
Beau’s bed—which is thankfully massive—is warm with the leftover scent of the night: sweat and slick and the unmistakable imprint of everything they did to me after the win.
Of how they stripped me bare and took their time celebrating.
Of how Connor made me beg with my mouth full, how Theo didn’t care about his leg when he had me riding him slow, and how Beau didn’t stop until I was wrung out and trembling, again and again and again.
Now, in the hush that follows it all, I find myself nestled between them. Connor’s sprawled on one side, arm slung over my waist, lazy and smug. Theo lies on the other, careful with his leg, but his fingers trace gentle patterns on the back of my hand, still touching me in his own way.
And Beau’s behind me, skin-to-skin, breath warm against my neck, his steady presence grounding everything.
“You okay?” he murmurs near my ear.
I nod, smiling into the pillow. “More than okay.”
It’s strange, how quickly this has become normal. Not routine, exactly, but right. The way they check in without hovering, the way no one feels left out or forgotten, even after a night like that.
The way they each made space for the others to touch me, to claim me, and still made me feel singular—wanted.
I think about how different this feels from anything I’ve known before.
“I like this,” Connor says suddenly, voice softer than usual. “Us. Like this.”
Fuck. So do I.
Theo hums in agreement.
“Feels balanced.”
Beau exhales slowly, his chest rising against my back. “It does.”
I close my eyes, letting that settle.
There’s one more match left; one more night where everything will be poured onto the ice—every instinct, every ounce of strength, every piece of discipline they’ve built all season. After that, things will change. They always do.
I don’t know exactly what comes next. I don’t know when—or if—I’ll extend the bond further. I don’t know how the future will reshape us, or what it will ask of us in return.
But tonight, I know this:
I’m happy. Genuinely, deeply happy. Wrapped in warmth and laughter and the quiet certainty of being chosen: not owned, not claimed out of fear, but wanted. Supported and seen.
Beau may be the one who officially claimed me, but Connor and Theo are woven just as surely into my heart. Into my life.
Into this strange, beautiful pack we’re still learning how to be.
I shift slightly, earning a chorus of sleepy protests.
“Don’t move,” Connor mutters.
Theo smiles against my hair.
“She’s not going anywhere.”
*
The diner is quiet in that late-afternoon way: after the lunch rush, before anyone starts drifting in for pie and coffee.
The windows are fogged from the cold outside, the heat turned up just a little too high, and there’s a low murmur of conversation that feels more like background noise than anything you’re meant to listen to.
I slide into a booth by the window and shrug out of my jacket, tucking it beside me. Vinyl squeaks under my weight. A mug of coffee appears not long after, black and steaming, and I wrap my hands around it without thinking, letting the warmth sink into my palms.
This is new for me. Being alone like this, and not feeling lonely.
I glance down at my phone, where Sasha’s name lights up the screen.
okay but ARE you actually happy or are you doing that thing where you lie to yourself really convincingly
I snort softly and type back.
I’m actually happy. Like… annoyingly so.
Three dots appear immediately.
terrifying.
who are you and what did you do with my emotionally guarded best friend?!
I smile to myself, something warm settling low in my chest. I don’t even have to think about the answer.
I’m someone who has a pack now.
The thought still feels surreal when I let myself sit with it.
I think about Beau in the mornings, half-awake and warm, grumbling when I steal the blankets.
Connor sprawled across the couch like he lives there now—because, honestly, he kind of does.
And Theo’s quiet presence, always hovering just at the edge of things, watching, waiting, steady as stone.
Mine.
The bell over the diner door jingles softly as someone new comes in, and a moment later, Bev slides into the booth across from me without asking, balancing a pot of coffee like it’s an extension of her arm.
“Well,” she says, topping up my cup. “Look at you.”
I glance up, amused. “What?”
“Eating alone,” she says. “Smiling at your phone like it told you a secret.”
“It might have,” I reply, lifting my mug. “Is that a crime?”
“No,” she says thoughtfully. “Just surprising.”
I arch a brow. “Why’s that?”
She tilts her head, studying me in that way she has—like she’s reading between lines I didn’t realize I was writing.
“Because when you first got here, you looked like someone who needed noise. Distraction. Pretty much anything but quiet.”
I don’t argue, because she’s not wrong.
“I guess I needed quiet more than I realized,” I say instead.
Bev hums, satisfied.
“Funny how that works.”
She pauses for a moment, then gestures vaguely at me with her pot.
“You’re glowing, you know.”
I laugh under my breath. “You’re going to make me check my reflection.”
“Don’t need a mirror,” she says. “It’s not that kind of glow. It’s the kind you get when you finally stop holding your breath.”
I look out the window at the slow fall of snow, at the empty street and the familiar storefronts beyond it.
Iron Lake isn’t flashy, or fast. It doesn’t demand anything from you except that you show up and stay awhile.
“It’s been good for me,” I admit quietly. “Being here. Away from the city. Away from… everything.”
Bev nods, almost as if she’s been waiting for me to say that.
“Small towns have a way of doing that. Stripping things back. Letting you remember who you are when you’re not performing for anyone.”
I take another sip of coffee, letting the warmth settle.
“I didn’t come here looking for a pack,” I say. “I just wanted a job. Some space.”
“And instead,” she says, smiling faintly, “you found something better.”
I think of the house. The rink. The laughter. The bond humming steady and sure beneath my skin.
Of Beau. Connor. Theo.
“Yeah,” I say, smiling. “I really did.”