Not quieter—neverquieter—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—mypack, 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, towardhim.
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.”
