“You’re tense,” I note, because it’s safer than commenting on the way his back flexes under my hands.
“Occupational hazard,” he reminds me dryly. “Captain. Alpha. Chronic overthinker.”
I snort despite myself, and the sound makes his shoulders loosen just a fraction more. The room smells like menthol and oil andhim—clean sweat and warm alpha. Something steady and grounding that curls low in my gut if I let it.
I don’t let it, though.
Mostly.
By the time I finish, my hands ache, and my nerves feel tight-strung, like I’ve been holding myself still for too long. He sits up slowly, those striking blue eyes meeting mine in that quiet, searching way he’s developed lately.
“Thanks,” he says, rolling his neck.
“Don’t undo it,” I reply. “No heroics.”
A corner of his mouth lifts.
“Wouldn’tdreamof it.”
We part like we always do—professional and composed—but the air around me hums long after he leaves the room.
Which is why, when away game day rolls around, it feels less like a change of pace and more like an escalation.
The Moose versus Red River Reapers.
Coach invited me—though invited might be generous. It was more:You’re coming. Bring your kit. Don’t make a fuss.
That’s Coach all over: charm offensive of a brick with a soft spot somewhere deep beneath the fossil layers.
And Red River isn’t just another town. It’s history, rivalry, bad blood that never quite freezes over. The kind of game where injuries happen fast and tempers run hotter.
The rest of the Moose have thankfully been much more welcoming and overall less tense than Beau.
There’s Connor, with his fair hair and his bruised ribs (and bruised ego), who has the most obnoxious grin I’ve ever seen. There's Gordo, who has shockingly bright red hair and talks like caffeine is a hobby. There’s also Dylan and Marco, both short and stocky with dark hair and thick beards, who alternate between chirping each other and chirping me.
Out of everyone, it’s Theo who surprises me the most. He’s big—tall and broad, built solid rather than showy—but it’s his stillness that stands out first. His dark hair is kept short at the sides and longer on top. His eyes are dark and steady, framed by lashes that have no right being that thick on a man his size, and when he’s focused, his expression settles into something calm and unreadable—like nothing rattles him unless he allows it to.
Then there's Benny. Who drinks liquified spinach and crystals.Literally.
I’ve barely stepped outside the Icebox except for groceries. I haven’t made new friends because I haven’t tried, and I haven’t explored town because I haven’t needed to. Solitude wraps around me here in a way that feels like relief, not loneliness, and I decide that small towns are definitely easier than big cities.
After everything that happened with my ex—after the cheating scandal and the exposure of his web of lies—silence feels like a blessing. No one knows my baggage here, and better yet: no onecares.
The guys treat me like part of the machine, Coach treats me like I’m competent, and the town barely looks twice. There’s a faint, barely-there thrum in my stomach: the nesting instinct nudging quietly, as if it’s happy I’ve found somewhere stable to land.
Iron Lake isn’t a nest, of course; but itisa place to catch my breath, and I figure that has to count for something.
(Even if the house I live in contains one glowering alpha with shoulders that block the hallway.)
I shove that thought down as I grab my team jacket. I take one last look at myself in the floor length mirror placed at the top of the stairs, adjust my beanie, zip my jacket, and head downstairs.
Beau’s already in the kitchen, waiting. He looks up just as I step in, his blue eyes flicking from my face to my jacket then back again.
“Ready?” he asks.
I nod. “Yeah. You?”
“Always.”
