Gordo salutes dramatically, wobbles, nearly eats ice, then resumes skating like a normal person.
(For now.)
We move into the first warm-up drill: crossovers, edges, transitions. Coach likes fundamentals. Coachlivesfor fundamentals. It's the kind of skating you can’t fake; the kindthat tells him everything he needs to know about your body before you even touch a puck.
I settle into stride when the temperature in the rink shifts: not literally, but instinctually.
The hairs on the back of my neck lift, and I know what it is, orwhoit is, even before I turn my head. You always know when a dominant alpha steps onto the ice, especially one who’s been sidelined long enough for frustration to ferment.
Beau glides out through the gate and onto the ice, all wounded-dominant energy. He’s helmeted, geared, and moving carefully; but there’s no hiding the fact that his shoulder still isn’t right, even if he doesn't have it in a sling anymore.
His presence rolls across the rink like pressure before a storm, and the guys quiet without meaning to.
That's how this works. Alphas feel other alphas, especially dominant ones, and today, Beau’s scent has a new undertone: something raw and unsettled.
Marco glides up behind me.
“Okay,” he whispers, “why does he look likethat?”
“Like what?”
“Like someone just told him feelings exist.”
Dylan snorts, listening in.
“More like someone told him the dog dies at the end.”
“He had PT first thing, didn’t he?” Theo asks.
“Yeah,” Marco says. “First thing this morning.”
Theo nods once, then lets out a long exhale.
“That tracks.”
Beau’s eyes sweep the rink, quick and controlled, then flick toward the hallway that leads to the PT room. It’s a brief glance, lasting for half a second at best, but every alpha on the ice clocks it.
Because instinct notices. Becauseherscent—even faint under our respective blockers—is unmistakable.
An omega fermenting in the cold air, and the thought of Beau reacting to it harder than the rest of us is interesting.
Veryinteresting.
We aren't the only ones who sense it, and Coach blows his whistle like he’s trying to kill it immediately before skating straight toward Beau.
“Hold up,” Coach says, his voice firm. “You cleared to be out here?
Beau slows to a stop, careful with the shoulder.
“It's a light skate. Not an actual game.”
Coach’s brow furrows. “That wasn’t my question.”
“She signed me off,” Beau says evenly. “For controlled movement.”
Coach studies him, eyes dropping to the shoulder, then back up.
“And how’s it feel?”
