“I’m not a toddler,” I mutter.
“Debatable,” he replies, though he’s smiling as he steps off the bus.
The guys pile out behind him in a wave of noise and energy, and I shoulder my PT bag as I follow them all out into the cold.
The arena hums with pre-game electricity: fans lining the railings, music echoing faintly from inside, and lights flashing behind the doors like the heartbeat of the rink. I remind myself that this isn’t Iron Lake, this is competition and enemy territory, but I feel a twinge of something I almost forgot how to recognize anyway.
Excitement.
Chapter Fourteen
Beau
Away rinks always smell different. A little hostile. It’s not fear—none of us are afraid—but the atmosphere hits you in warning, almost as if the ice itself knows you’re not home and plans to make you earn every inch.
The locker room is cramped and too warm. Old heaters rattle overhead, blowing stale recycled air into a space already stuffed with alpha bodies and hockey gear. Half the guys sit shirtless, taping sticks or stretching, and the rest move around.
They’re restless dogs in too small a pen: pacing, cracking knuckles, and bouncing their knees. Pre-game energy hums through the room, synchronizing us all.
I get a few minutes on the ice tonight, which is disappointing, but at the same time, it's enough. Coach made the deal clear: PT every morning, and rehab every night. No skipping, and no bullshit. I’ve followed every rule, because the alternative is not playing at all, and I sure as hell can’t stomach that.
Not when the team needs me.
Not when the season’s on the line.
I adjust the tape across my shoulder, careful not to over-tighten it. The boys don’t look directly at it, but I catch the quick glances and the subtle shifts in position. I don’t hold it against them, since they can’t help it.
After all, a wounded center of gravity throws everything off.
Theo sits on my left, quietly lacing his skates.
“Shoulder holding up?”
“It's better,” I answer. He gives me a look, and I sigh. “Honest, it is.”
“Good.” He pulls his gloves on. “Just don’t do anything stupid.”
“Define stupid.”
“...Anything you’d normally do.”
Marco barks a laugh from across the room as Dylan slaps his helmet onto his head.
“He’s sitting on the bench for most of the game. He can’t do anythingthatstupid.”
“You’re underestimating him.” Gordo looks up from tying his own skates. “Give him five minutes.”
Connor leans back against the locker stall, his arms crossed.
“Pretty sure Emery taped him up nice. He’s practically domesticated now.”
My jaw clenches.
The guys noticeeverything. Every morning I walk into her PT room, and every time I leave looking better. And maybe I’ve been looking at her too long, too often. Maybe I’m not subtle about it.
Either way, Emery Tate is a problem I didn’t ask for.
Coach storms into the room before I can fire back.
