I blow out a long breath, jaw tight enough to crack a molar.
“You don't understand. She’s not—”
“She’s not the enemy,” he interrupts, his tone sharper now, frustration running through it. “She’s here to help. And if you’re smart, you’ll let her.”
The silence stretches, and I hate that he’s right. I hate that I need help at all, but I especially hate that the help comes in the form of an exhausted omega who already lives inside the few safe square feet I have left in this town.
I grab my jacket and shove my arms through the sleeves.
“Fine,” I mutter.
Coach doesn’t say anything more as I shoulder past the doorway and head down the hall. There’s no point arguing with the clipboard, especially when deep down, I know he’s right.
I can’t lead from the bench, and I can’t get back on the ice if I don’t fix what’s broken.
Even if that fix comes from someone with big eyes, sharp edges, and an apparent habit of making herself at home in places I didn’t realize were mine until she was already in them.
Chapter Nine
Beau
The walk to the PT room isn’t long, but that doesn’t stop it from feeling that way.
My boots echo down the hallway, the low hum of the vending machine by the water fountain the only other sound. This part of the Icebox always feels quieter, since the noise from the rink never quite makes it this far.
It’s like the building has a spine, and this is the nerve ending nobody touches unless they have to.
The light is on in the room, and a shadow moves across the frosted glass panel. Her soft scent lingers out in the hall, a contrast from the usual wall of alpha and disinfectant, and my stomach tightens.
It’s ridiculous to get worked up over a PT session. I’ve had hundreds of these over the years, and I know the drill.
But it’s not the work that makes me hesitate.
I push the door open just a fraction, spotting where she stands with her back to me, rearranging something on a shelf. Her hairhas been pulled back into a high ponytail; nothing like the sleep-tangled mess from last night on the couch.
She doesn’t turn around at first, and I look for longer than I mean to: at the way her navy sweater is fitted just enough to show off her slim waist, while her black leggings flare at the bottom, but hug tight everywhere else.
It’s stupid, and I shake my head to snap myself out of it.
I push the door until it groans in protest and she turns at the sound. Her hazel eyes land on me, and for a second, neither of us speaks.
Then:
“Hello.”
It isn’t cold, but it isn’t exactlywarm,either.
“Hey,” I say, stepping in and letting the door fall shut behind me. “Coach sent me. For an assessment.”
“Oh. Of course. Yeah.” She blinks once, like she’s slotting this into a mental checklist. “Right. You’re, um—well.”
“Beau,” I offer flatly, brow lifting.
She squeezes her eyes to a brief close as she inhales deeply through her nose, pausing for a moment before she shakes her head from side to side.
“Yeah, no; sorry, I know who you are. Kind of hard to forget.”Her gaze flicks to the table. “Why don't you go ahead and sit. Let’s get this assessment over with before one of us starts brooding in stereo.”
She turns away to set down her clipboard next to a tray of tape rolls, giving me a second of space. I cross the room and sit on the table, and the vinyl squeaks under my weight. My training jerseytugs across my shoulder when I move, and the joint complains in a hot, familiar burn.
