“She is,” I reply, the truth catching in my throat. I keep my eyes on the road because if I don’t, I might not get the next part out. “Even when she forgets.”
Emery’s hand moves slowly, giving me time to pull away if I want to.
I don’t.
Her fingers lace with mine, warm and sure, her thumb brushing over my knuckles in a quiet, grounding motion that feels more intimate than anything loud ever could.
The bond responds immediately, wrapping around the ache I didn’t realize I was still carrying.
It doesn’t erase it, but itdoesmake it lighter.
And maybe that's important.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Connor
The thing nobody really warns you about packs is howquietthey make everything.
I notice it the third night in a row when I’m sprawled on Beau’s couch with a beer balanced on my stomach, Theo’s boot propped on the coffee table like it owns the place, and Emery curled into the corner with her feet tucked under her, half-watching whatever trash is on while she updates injury notes on her tablet.
There’s no tension or pacing, or even alpha posturing disguised asjust hanging out.
It’s weird.Good-weird.
Beau’s in the kitchen, stirring something that smells like actual food instead of protein and desperation. I stretch, hands laced behind my head, and let my gaze drift around the room.
There’s evidence of all of us everywhere if you know how to look for it—extra boots by the door, Theo’s meticulous stacking of coasters, my hoodie slung over the arm of the chair like I never intend to leave.
Emery glances up at me, catching me staring. One eyebrow lifts.
“What?” she asks.
“Nothing,” I say easily. “Just thinking how domestic we look. Someone should warn the league.”
She snorts and goes back to her screen, and Theo hums under his breath, the corner of his mouth twitching. Beau doesn’t say a word, but I feel the flicker of his attention like a pulse.
We’ve been like this for weeks now.
Cozy nights in when the road schedule’s brutal. Quick dinners after practice that turn into hours because no one’s in a hurry to leave. Actual dates, too—Beau and Emery disappearing for an afternoon and coming back softer somehow, Theo joining her for quiet walks when his injury keeps him off the ice longer than he’d like, me tagging along to go grocery shopping and grab food at the diner and pretending I’m not enjoying the hell out of it.
I especially love the extra portions I get from Bev whenever I'm accompanied by Emery.
The team clocked it almost immediately, though I guess it would be hard not to. The three of us… we skate tighter now. Hit harder, too. We communicate without yelling, and even the locker room feels different, like the edge has been sanded down just enough to stop cutting each other by accident.
Coach hasn’t said much, but then again, he hasn’t needed to. I know he spoke to Beau about it, when he first claimed Emery, but now he just watches.
And whatever he sees… it’s working.
Which is good. Because what’s coming next is not a game you want to walk into half-formed.
“Big week this week,” I say aloud.
Beau sets a plate down harder than necessary. “Don’t remind me.”
Theo glances up at him. “You’ve been reminding us since yesterday.”
“Because it matters,” I shoot back, grinning. “Riverton doesn’t play nice, and you know it.”
