“Godspeed.” Rob chuckles, then holds up a hand. “On that note: never mind welcome to Iron Lake. Welcome tothe Moose, Emery Tate. You’re gonna love it here.”
I have my doubts, but despite myself—despite the drive, the cold, and the human ice sculpture sulking in the corner—I smile.
I busy myself by taking another sip of coffee as Rob walks away, but after a few moments, my eyes drift back to where Beau Wolfe is still glowering at the world from beneath his hoodie.
This isn’t my first rodeo, and I’ve worked with enough athletes to know the type. The injured ones are the worst: the ones who wrap their pain in silence and snarls, who think vulnerability makes them weak.Especiallythe ones who have built their whole identity around being tough, invincible, and untouchable.
Take that away, even temporarily, and what you’re left with isn’t just a physical rehab case.
It’s a mental minefield.
Beau has all the signs of the classic wounded-wolf thing—the bitterness, the isolation, the refusal to readjust even when his body has clearly forced him to. And he doesn’t know it yet, but we are going to havesomuch fun.
He’s not going to make this easy. But then again, neither am I.
I didn’t come all this way—uproot my life, freeze my ass off, and sign up to be the newest outsider in a town full of people who probably think iced coffee is witchcraft—just to babysit someone’s bruised ego. I’m not here to tiptoe or play nice, and I’m not going to let one grumpy alpha derail me, either.
I’m here to get people back on the ice,period, and whether he likes it or not, he’s on my list.
Game on, Mr. Wolfe.
Chapter Two
Emery
“You must be Emery.”
I’m still mid-coffee, mid–Broody McShoulderpack surveillance from the booth Rob steered me toward when the voice cuts through the low diner chatter behind me.
It’s deep, gravel-edged, and one-hundred-percent belonging to someone who’s yelled over a thousand whistles in a lifetime of hockey rinks.
My instincts clock him before I fully turn: a steady, no-nonsense scent that settles in my bones instead of setting my nerves on fire.
I find exactly the alpha I would have expected. He’s tall and broad, with salt-and-pepper hair in practical need of a trim and the permanent squint of someone who’s seen every play, every mistake, everyexcuse…and isn’t buying any of it.
He wears a navy jacket with a blocky IRON LAKE MOOSE patch across the chest, and a moose charging through a hockey stick on the sleeve. The thing looks older than I imagine some ofthe players are, and though it’s faded in spots, it’s still holding strong—much like the man wearing it.
His boots are scuffed, his jaw is set, and his expression says he doesn’t have time for nonsense; but there's something about the slight twinkle in his eyes that tells me this man possibly feeds stray cats and never tells anyone about it.
That, or he's sleeping with Bev. Jury's out so far.
“Coach Phillips,” I say, standing to shake his hand.
He nods once, firm and all business.
“Emery. I'm glad you made it.”
His grip is solid, and I have to wonder whether he’s measuring more than just my handshake, and is instead reading the exhausted omega in front of him and deciding if I can handle his pack of overgrown hockey boys.
Based on how I lookright now,I wouldn't be at all surprised if he didn't have much faith, if any.
“Heard you had a detour,” he comments, releasing my hand.
“If by ‘detour’ you mean a full-blown existential crisis in a snowstorm while my GPS plotted my slow, frozen death, then yeah. Little one.”
Thatgets the faintest twitch of a smirk.
“That’s Iron Lake for you. The snow tries to kill you, but the people usually don’t.”
