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 whenhe’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 beensogood tonight. Professional, and present, and careful.
Butfuck:I’msodone being careful.
