I’m here to support. To keep us steady.
We all have a part to play.
I step into the locker room just as Dylan launches a roll of tape at Marco's head. It misses by a mile and smacks the wall beside me.
“Seriously?” I mutter, ducking to scoop it up.
Marco grins. “Morning, Cap.”
“I was aiming for his ego,” Dylan shrugs from the bench. “It’s a bigger target than his head.”
Benny is sitting cross-legged on the opposite bench, sipping something green out of a mason jar that smells like blended spinach and a sock that’s seen god.
“Want some?” he asks, holding it out to me.
“Not unless it comes with a tetanus shot.”
I drop the tape onto the bench and unzip my jacket, keeping my face in neutral territory when the movement pulls at my joint again. My shoulder protests, but I don’t let it show. I focus on the routine instead: gear check, tape restock, locker list.
Under all of that noise, one thought keeps circling:
She’s here.
Her scent is now part of this place, threading faintly into the cold, layered over old sweat and rubber. Emery Tate, in my space,again.
Last night she was wrapped in my blanket and curled up on my couch, sitting in my living room with that hollowed-out look, messy hair and big hazel eyes that made her seem younger than twenty-four. Too young to move like someone already tired of proving herself, and too tired to let herself be soft.
I’ve seen that kind of tired before. On my mom’s face. In the mirror.
Now it’s attached to the omega who lives in my house and works on my team.
I’m toeing out of my boots when the door bangs open again and Coach strides in. He’s got a clipboard in one hand and a coffee in the other, his jacket halfway zipped.
“Alright, let’s lock it in,” he barks. “Zip it and listen up.”
The volume around me drops instantly. Even alphas know when someone outranks them in the room.
“Madsen and Gordo better have a damn good excuse for being late. And Hayes, stop throwing shit,” Coach adds without looking. “You throw tape, I’ll make you sort it all.By brand.”
Dylan smirks, but says nothing as Coach steps into the center of the room and turns so that he’s facing us all.
“We’ve got a light skate today,” he announces. “Full contact is off the table. Thursday night, we’re home against the Chelsea Bucks: they’ve got that new winger who thinks he’s hot shit. We shut him down early, they crumble. We play smart, we play tight. Sunday’s away to Saint Cloud. Don’t make me remind you what happened last season.”
The room groans as one.
“Yeah. Exactly,” Coach says. “So maybe don’t let that happen again.”
He shifts the clipboard under his arm, scanning us with that assessing stare. He’s not just counting bodies; he’s counting injuries, exhaustion, and pride.
After all, alphas are easy to read if you know where to look.
“One more thing,” he adds. “You all knew she was coming. Now she’s here.”
The pain in my shoulder flares, dull and deep, and I lock onto it.
It’s easier than thinking about the PT room at the end of the hall, and the omega scent that wasn’t here last week.
“Emery Tate’s in the building,” Coach continues. “She’s your new PT. Strength, rehab, recovery… it all runs through her now. If something hurts, you tell her. If you lie, don’t expect sympathy.”
