He grabs his keys and holds open the door without comment.
A small gesture, yet my omega instincts flare all the same.
Beau heads down the porch steps first, his boots crunching over thin ice that’s crusted the front walk overnight. The cold bites instantly, and he unlocks his truck with a softbeep.
It’s huge: a lifted black pickup with tires that look capable of plowing through a blizzard without noticing. It shouldn’t really be any surprise that an alpha who clears doorframes by a country mile drives a vehicle big enough to fit both of us and a small moose.
I’m halfway down the stairs when he opens the passenger door for me.
Nowthatis a surprise.
This time, the flare of omega instinct hits harder. It’s warm at the base of my spine, a little dizzying. That old, instinctive awareness of being seen, being considered.
I swallow it back and climb in.
He rounds the hood, slides into the driver’s seat, and starts the engine. The truck grumbles awake, apparently resenting early starts as much as I do, and I sigh to myself as he puts it into drive and heads off.
Iron Lake on a Sunday morning in January looks exactly like you’d expect a small hockey town to look: quiet, snow-dusted, and eerily proud of it. The main street is lined with businesses that all look like they were built in 1973 and never updated, and I glance out the window as Beau drives.
He keeps one hand on the wheel, the other braced casually on the gearshift; moving with the kind of controlled ease that only comes from years of being watched, measured, and expected to lead.
“You sleep?” he asks suddenly, breaking the silence.
It startles me enough to make me blink. “Uh… yeah. Mostly.”
He nods once. “Good.”
The words are plain, almost monotone, but something under them feels… intentional. I don’t know how to answer that, so I distract myself by watching the town fall away as we approach the Icebox.
The rink sits at the far end of a long stretch of road, past the last few houses and a big billboard advertising a car dealership twenty miles away. The team bus is idling near the entrance with its peeling Moose logo on the side, and even from the parking lot I can see people milling around as players move on and off it like hyperactive bees.
Beau parks and kills the engine, and I reach for the handle, but he beats me to it; coming around the truck and opening the door again. He doesn’t look at me as I hop down, doesn’t say anything either. Just waits until my feet hit the ground, then closes the door behind me.
The bus is louder up close. Dylan is on the steps, already chirping at Gordo for dropping his water bottle while Marco is leaning against the side of it. Connor is in the doorway yelling something about superstition and seat assignments, and Theo nods at Beau as he walks by before he glances at me.
“Morning, Emery.”
“Morning, Theo,” I echo.
“You brought your kit?”
“Yep.”
“Great.” He jerks his thumb toward the bus. “You might want to claim a seat before Gordo convinces someone to let him DJ.”
“HEY!” Gordo shouts from across the lot. “My playlists slap!”
“They slapyou,” Dylan comments from the steps.
I suppress a laugh.
The team is a lot—chaos wrapped in expensive skates and bad decisions—but underneath the chirping, the shoving, and thealpha energy vibrating through the cold air, there is a structure, and strangely, I’m not overwhelmed by it.
Beau walks toward the bus, and every alpha in the vicinity seems to straighten. It's funny, really: the way pack-aware alphas always respond to a dominant center of gravity.
I follow behind him, side-stepping Dylan as I climb onto the bus.
My first thought is that it smells like energy drinks, laundry detergent, half-eaten breakfast sandwiches, and unshakable team spirit. It's not pleasant, exactly, but I've definitely been around worst scents. The aisle is narrow, the seats are old and worn, and I swear that the heater is blasting like someone bribed it; which means one thing.
