As I make my way through town, my brain replays last night in full HD. I don’t want to think about him, but there he is in my mind, anyway: tall, brooding, and alpha to his bones in that quiet, dangerous way some people wear like armor.
I can’t stop myself from recalling the way he stared at me, his blue eyes cold, but oh so gorgeous. He didn’t smile, or soften. In fact, he didn’t do anything exceptloom,acting as though the house itself had appointed him its guardian.
Naturally, I move halfway across Minnesota for a fresh start and end up sharing a home with a local legend who acts like I’ve taken over the spare room inside his ribcage.
I tighten my hands on the wheel as I drive through the town, making my way down Main Street, headlights catching on snowbanks and the remnants of a place that refuses to die quietly.
I need to get it together. I have a new job to focus on, a professional reputation to build here, and a new network to create. This is supposed to be my fresh start: I certainly don’thave time to get derailed by one alpha with a bad attitude and a jawline that probably violates building codes.
I told myself before I moved here that there would be no distractions.
Thatdefinitelyincludes the tall, glowering, blue-eyed kind.
*
The Icebox sits at the far end of Main Street, past a shuttered bait shop and a gas station that looks like it hasn’t updated its signage since the ‘90s.
The building is squat and square, all corrugated metal and frostbitten siding, with a faded banner that readsHOME OF THE IRON LAKE MOOSE.
It looks less like a hockey arena and more like a bunker where old tractors go to die.
I park next to a lifted truck that could easily drive through a blizzard without noticing before I kill the engine. I sigh as I haul myself through the snow toward the dented front door, and the moment I open it, I’m hit with the unmistakable smell of hockey: ice, sweat, rubber, and industrial-strength cleaner that burns my eyelashes.
It's been a while since I've worked in an actual arena, and even though I've long since decided that high-end facilities are not for me, I've definitely not missedthis,either.
The lobby is dim, lit by buzzing fluorescents, and stocked with a couple of vending machines that probably steal your money on principle. There's a mounted moose head wearing a child’s knit cap, and a large reception area that I assume serves as a box office on game days.
There are no players here yet, but the space remembers them. Alpha scent sits heavy in the walls, even without bodies here to generate it. It’s a static charge of testosterone and competition, and I’m starting to think that working here might end up feeling very much like walking into a wolf den with a pair of panties and a clipboard.
It’s fine, though. Itwillbe fine. I’ve worked with plenty of alphas. I know how to navigate the ego, the instinct, the hierarchy.
I'm only rattled because I didn’t expect to live with one, too. That’s all.
I start down the hallway, following the faint murmur of voices. My boots echo just enough to make me feel like I shouldn’t be here. I pass team photos, year after year frozen behind glass.
Most faces are strangers, except three.
Rob, from the diner; younger looking, smirking at the camera with his hair much shorter.
Coach; younger, too, his arms crossed and his eyebrows already judging the world.
And then Beau. His photo is recent, placed in the middle of the group, and even in a photograph, he looks like he could silence a room without opening his mouth.
I shake my head, snapping myself out of it, and keep walking.
Finally, I spot Coach near the back hallway.
“Morning,” I say, trying not to jog the last few steps.
He nods once. “You beat the boys.”
“Good. I prefer to establish dominance before breakfast.”
He actually chuckles at that.
“You’ll fit in just fine, Emery,” he says, motioning for me to follow.
We start the tour, with Coach leading me through the chipped hallways.
