The buzzer sounds and the arena devolves into a mix of cheers and hatred as we win 4–2.
Helmets fly, gloves get tossed, and someone screams: “SUCK IT, REAPERS!”, which is objectively not sportsmanlike, but deeply satisfying anyway.
Beau coasts over to the bench, breathing hard but steady. He’s not clutching his shoulder, and relief hits me so sharp it stings behind my ribs.
I smack his helmet as he steps off the ice. “Good shift.”
He nods once. “You too.”
Coach doesn’t smile, but his face softens by around two percent, which is basically a hug.
Emery stands tucked beside the equipment manager, her chin lifted and her eyes tracking Beau with laser focus, the same way she’s looked at the boys all week.
I spot it, though: the moment she registers he’s unharmed, and her shoulders release. Beau’s eyes flick to hers, a glance that then turns into a whole second, then two; and for one bizarre, instinct-bruising moment, Beau Wolfe looks like someone caught between bracing and breathing.
He’s the one who looks away first, and I’m not sure who that says more about; him or her.
All I do know is that I notice her becausehedoes. Alphas pick up shifts in the room the way wolves pick up a change in thewind, and something about her is tide-shifting; pulling threads we haven’t named yet.
“Damn, did you see that?” Connor yells as he barrels toward us, nearly folding Gordo into a hug. “Ice in his VEINS, baby!”
“That spleen of yours still functional?” Marco asks, clapping him on the back.
“Barely,” Connor wheezes. “But it’s worth it.”
Dylan skates over, too, his helmet now tucked under his arm.
“Pretty sure one of their guys owes me an apology for insulting my mother in the second period.”
“Your mother insulted him first,” Gordo reminds him.
“Details,” Dylan says.
Emery laughs. It’s a quiet, soft sound, but it’s enough to draw all of our attention for half a beat.
She tucks a strand of hair into her beanie, cheeks flushed, and one of the Reapers medics walks by and raises a hand to her.
“Tough job with this lot,” he says.
“The toughest,” she deadpans.
He moves on, but I don’t miss the way Beau postures.
“Alright!” Coach claps his hands together, his signature way of corralling a stampede. “Lock it in, boys. Great game, and great finish. Locker room, now.”
On the way off the ice, fans lean over the railings shouting for sticks, gloves, jersey tosses. Apparently, semi-pro life means souvenirs matter, and Marco hands off a broken stick as Gordo signs a foam moose antler hat.
Connor winks at a group holding a sign that readsROCKET MARRY ME.
“My personal fan club made it,” he says smugly.
“Those are eight-year-olds,” Dylan replies.
“...They have taste.”
Beau doesn’t sign any autographs tonight, but he gives a nod to a kid wearing his jersey.
The kid beams like he just won the lottery.
