Chapter Thirty-Nine
Beau
The final horn tears through the rink, sharp and absolute, and for half a heartbeat the world goes completely still.
No crowd. No ice. No pain in my shoulder or ache in my bones. Just the truth of it landing all at once.
We won.
And then the bench detonates.
“YES!” Connor roars somewhere to my left, his voice cracking with it.
Helmets crash together, gloves get flung, sticks rattle against the boards as guys spill over the ice in a tangle of bodies and disbelief. Someone grabs the back of my jersey and yanks me into a hug so hard it nearly knocks me off my skates.
“We fucking did it!” Marco laughs, shaking his head repeatedly, in clear disbelief.
Me. Fucking. Too.
This season wasn’t supposed to end like this.
It was supposed to derail when my shoulder went, when I spent weeks pacing behind the bench instead of leading on the ice, when my instincts went sideways the moment Emery walked into my life and I had to learn—fast—how to be a captain while barely holding myself together.
But here we are. Finals, on away ice, playing before a hostile crowd that wanted us gone just as badly as we wanted this win.
And we still did it.
I scan the chaos instinctively, heart hammering, and find Theo near the boards, not dressed but vibrating with it anyway. He catches my eye and breaks into a grin so wide it almost hurts to look at: pure relief combined with pure pride, as if he carried every shift with us, even from the sidelines.
And then—her.
Emery stands just beyond the bench, her hands clasped tight at her waist, hazel eyes shining as she watches us spill over the ice. The second our gazes lock, the bond flares warm and bright, a rush of joy and disbelief and something fiercely grounding that cuts straight through the noise.
You did it.
The thought isn’t words, but it lands anyway, soft and steady in my chest.
Connor slams into my side a heartbeat later, all muscle and momentum, nearly knocking the air out of me.
“CAPTAIN,” he yells, breathless and feral, gripping the back of my helmet. “You see that? Tell me you saw that.”
I laugh—actually laugh—and shove him back just enough to keep us upright.
“I saw it,” I say, voice rough. “All of it.”
He grins like a man possessed, and for a second I let myself feel everything at once: the roar of the crowd, the weight of hands on my shoulders, the echo of the horn still ringing in my ears—and the quiet, steady pull of her attention anchoring me from across the ice.
This.
This is what all of it was for.
*
By the time we spill into a local bar a few blocks away, the adrenaline still hasn’t worn off.
It’s one of those places that smells like old wood and fryer oil, jerseys on the walls from decades of teams that mattered once, and tonight, we matter enough to fill it.
The whole team’s here; buzzed on more than just beer.
Emery sits with us for a while before she’s pulled into conversations with staff, trainers, and even a couple of familiar omegas from the league who’ve traveled in for the game. She’s glowing, and every time I look at her, something low and feral shifts in my gut.
I can feel it through the bond. Her excitement. Her pride.
The way the noise and closeness is winding her up just enough to make everything sharper.
Coach sticks around longer than I expect. He nurses a single drink at the edge of the bar, the same way he always does when he’s not ready to let go of a night yet. He doesn’t join the loudest circle or raise his voice over the music; he just watches.
Watches the guys laugh too hard, watches the relief seep out of shoulders that have been locked tight for months, watches me like he’s done a thousand times before—measuring, checking, making sure I’m still standing.
Eventually, he nods toward the back hallway, and I follow without thinking. It’s quieter there, the noise of the bar muffled into a low hum, like the rink after everyone’s gone home.
“Scouts were asking about you,” he says.
It’s said lightly, but we both know better. Coach Phillips has never wasted words on nothing.
I lean back against the wall, crossing my arms. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” He studies me for a long moment, eyes sharp but not unkind. “Good questions. Not just about your stats, but about how you lead. About how the room feels when you’re on the ice.”
That lands heavier than any highlight reel ever could, and I nod once, slow.
“I’m not going anywhere.”
There it is: out in the open.
Coach doesn’t look surprised by my statement. If anything, there’s a faint curve to his mouth, like he’d already written the answer down and was just waiting for me to confirm it.
“Your mom,” he says quietly.
“And the rest,” I add. “I’ve got what I need here.”
He exhales, something easing in his posture.
“You always did know what mattered, kid. Took you a while to trust it, though.”
I huff a breath that might almost be a laugh.
“I wasn’t exactly raised to.”
His gaze softens—not pity, never that—but understanding, earned the long way around.
He’s known me since I was too angry and too young and carrying too much responsibility for one set of shoulders. He watched me learn how to lead without becoming hard. Watched me take hit after hit and still show up the next day.
“You played like it tonight,” he says. “Like someone who knows where he belongs.”
My throat tightens, unexpected and sharp.
“I’m proud of you, Beau.”
The words settle deep, filling a space I don’t think I ever quite learned how to name.
I don’t say anything back, but I know I don’t need to. He squeezes my shoulder once, firm and grounding, and then steps away, leaving me with the echo of it.
When I return to the bar, the noise swells around me again.
Connor’s laughing too loud at something Marco says, already halfway through another story that doesn’t need embellishing.
Theo’s cornered by a couple of fans who recognize him, grinning and uncomfortable but glowing all the same, and a few of the guys drift toward other tables, other smiles, other scents.
Across the room, Emery looks up and finds me. She’s perched on a barstool, laughing at something one of the trainers says. She catches me watching and her smile softens, just for me.
The bond tightens, and heat rolls low and insistent.
She’s been so good tonight. Professional, and present, and careful.
But fuck: I’m so done being careful.
Connor’s eyes meet mine from across the room, something knowing flickering there. Theo clocks it a second later, his gaze shifting between us, instinctively aware of the shift even if nothing’s been said.
Enough.
I’m at her side before I consciously decide to move, fingers curling around her wrist, firm but familiar. She looks up at me, breath hitching just slightly.
“Hotel,” I murmur near her ear. “Now.”
Her pupils dilate. She doesn’t argue.
Connor’s already grabbing his jacket, and Theo follows without a word.
We don’t linger, or explain.
The night air hits us hard as we step outside, and I finally breathe again, hand still wrapped around Emery’s, pulse hammering with everything I’ve been holding back since the final horn.
We won.
And now I’m done waiting.