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’sglowing, 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.
