Taping scissors.
Gum.
Hand sanitizer.
Stupid little things, really, but they feel like anchors. Familiar shapes in unfamiliar rooms, and my control in the chaos.
I start arranging them where I want them, moving the scissors to the right side of the treatment table, setting the tape in neat rows, wiping down a corner of the counter that isn’t technically dirty, just… unloved. The instinct kicks in before I realize it: adjusting things by height, by color, by how soothing the layout feels when my eyes drift over it.
It’s not nesting, exactly, but it scratches at the same part of me that once made me line my pillows in a circle around myself like a fort. That was during my first real heat before suppressants: a soft, instinctive need to carve out safety in a world that felt too big.
This space is cold and bare, practical and functional; so, I do what omegas do best:
I soften it.
There’s a huge whiteboard on one wall, half-stained from years of marker fights. I grab a marker, then notice there are color options, and something warm flares low in my chest. I write my name across the top of the board in big letters, then outline it with teal. I add a shadow in purple as well as some stars that I absolutely shouldn’t spend so much time perfecting, but do anyway.
By the time I step back, the room still looks rough. It’s still concrete and duct tape and half-broken equipment, but now it also looks claimed; shifted just a little toward something that feels familiar and safe.
My stomach growls loudly, but I ignore it. The guys will be here soon: a whole crowd of alphas with bruises, injuries, swagger, and too much energy. I need to focus.
My instincts hum uneasily. I tell myself I’m not nervous, just tired; andtiredwon't ever stop me from showing up.
I press my palm to the treatment table, grounding myself in the cool surface before I switch off the harsh overhead light. Only the warm orange glow of the space heater remains, filling the corners with the faintest illusion of comfort, and I pull my coat tighter around myself as I look around the dim room.
This place isn’t shiny, but neither am I.
And maybe...
Maybe that’s the point.
Chapter Eight
Beau
The first thing I see when I pull into the lot is her car; that same silver crossover from last night, tucked in beside Coach’s truck.
My brow creases in irritation as I ease my own truck into a space two rows down, because ofcourseshe’s early. Of course the omega shows up before the rest of us, sliding into a new territory with something to prove.
I shut off the engine and sit there for a second, flexing my good hand on the steering wheel while my shoulder throbs in quiet protest. The sling is off today—mostly for show—but the pain is still there, a steady growl under the skin I’m learning to work around, not through.
I don’t need anyone asking if I’m okay. I already know the answer.
I step out into the cold, boots biting into packed snow with a crunch that cuts through the stillness. The Icebox looms ahead, ugly in a way you grow fond of if you stay too long. I walk slow,though not because of the pain: just because mornings like this make it easier to pretend everything is fine if I don’t rush it.
The doors squeal when I pull them open, and inside the air is cold enough to bite your teeth. The guys are already here, and I hear them before I see them; their familiar voices echoing down the corridor, a mix of chirps, bullshit, and the kind of half-serious threats that pass for affection in a locker room full of alphas.
Someone shouts about duct taping Benny’s mouth shut. Sounds like Dylan.
I head for the locker room, nodding at one of the rink guys as I pass. He raises a hand back, but doesn’t try to talk. Everyone knows my routine by now.
Technically, I don’t have to be here. After all, they don’t pay us enough for heroics. Semi-pro means semi-paid: enough to keep the lights on, not enough to skip whatever day job you’ve managed to cling to.
But still—you lead by example. Even when it hurts.Especiallywhen it hurts.
And I don’t just show up because I’m captain, although that does play a big part in it. I show up because alpha or not, you don’t just disappear when your shoulder quits mid-play and the whole team feels it.
We’re mid-season; too deep in to start over, too far from the end to slack off. We’ve got games twice this week—home Thursday, away Sunday—and everyone is running on adrenaline, tape, and caffeine. Some of them are one bad fall away from the bench, and I know what that feels like.
