“Tomorrow morning,” she says. “Before you so much aslookat the ice.”
“You’re not easing me in, huh?”
“You want to play again?” she asks, one brow lifting.
I hold her stare.
“Yeah,” I tell her, and I mean it. “I’ll be here.”
“Good.” Her arms cross, the line of her shoulders relaxing by a fraction. “Just try not to be late. Alphas are notoriously bad at clocks.”
“I’m never late,” I say as I stand, my shoulder flaring in protest as I reach for my shirt.
“You were born late,” she says. “I can feel it.”
I almost smile at that.
She turns away to put something back on the shelf, her ponytail swaying with the movement and her scent trailing after her.
“See you tomorrow, Wolfe,” she says.
I don’t answer as I step out of her room, but the whole way down the hall, I can feel the ghost of her eyes on my back.
Chapter Ten
Emery
The door clicks shut behind him, and I stare at the spot where Beau Wolfe was sitting not sixty seconds ago, letting my pulse even out while my brain tries to recalibrate.
Okay. So.
He’s hot.
I know that. Everyone in this town probably knows that. Hell, I already clocked it last night when he walked into our shared living room like a six-foot-two complication wrapped in tension and Moose hoodie; but being close to him,touchinghim…
That was different.
The man is built like he’s been carved out of spite and blue-collar gym memberships. He’s all solid muscle; thick around the delts and traps, core tight, posture rigid even at rest. His whole body screams control, except for that shoulder.
That shoulder is a whole other story.
The joint moves as though it’s made of rusted parts and duct tape, and still, he barely flinches. He doesn’t whine or complain; just breathes harder through the pain as though this isn’t his first time playing hurt.
And I’ve had my bare hands on him. Alpha under my palms, the scrape of stubble along his jaw when he gritted his teeth, his scent cutting through the cold air…
I blow out a long breath before I forcibly drop onto the rolling stool and swivel toward the supply cart, grabbing my clipboard. My fingers hover over the page for a beat before I continue writing.
His shoulder is worse than I initially thought. The restriction is deep; the kind that builds over time, chronic and neglected. The muscles around it are pulling double duty to keep everything stable; his pec is overfiring, his traps feel like piano wire, and don’t even get me started on the tightness through the scapula.
I can still feel the way the scap stuck when I tried to move it, how he held his breath like someone bracing for impact.
And I didn’t get his full history first.
What. The actual.Hell.
I can't quite believe it.
I click my pen hard enough to threaten the paper and scrawl across the page:
