“Honestly? So far, everyone’s been weirdly kind for a town that looks like it was built on top of a frozen curse.”
I lift my mug in Rob’s direction. He offers a two-finger salute without looking up from where he’s now untanglingwhat appears to be a very minor, very ridiculous syrup-related incident, and Coach grunts before he slides into the stool across from me.
Once seated, he gives me another once-over., and I know what I look like: I’ve seen gas station security footage with more glamour.
“You settle in yet?” he asks.
“Not unless you count this booth and the heated seat setting in my car.”
He hums under his breath.
“Let me guess: you're running on coffee, adrenaline, and the clothes in your trunk?”
“Right on the nose,” I confirm. “I’ve got a place lined up, though. I just haven’t seen it yet. I literally rolled into town, parked up here, and went straight into crisis mode.”
“Hell of a welcome,” he mutters, but there’s something softer under the gruff.
A flicker of understanding.
“You nervous?” he adds. “First time in a town this small? First time being the only omega on staff?”
“A little,” I admit. “I’ve worked with all sorts of people so far in my career: college athletes, some minor league guys, pros who didn’t want to listen, and rookies who thought foam rolling was witchcraft. But moving to a town this small, where everyone knows each other’s cholesterol levels, and probably my designation by dessert? Yeah: that’s new.”
“You’ll be fine.” Coach actually cracks a smile. “And the Moose could use someone who knows what the hell they’re doing.”
“That’s the plan.” I pause. “And hey, I survived the Iron Lake Triangle, so I assume that gets me some kind of honorary badge. Maybe a punch card. Ten loops and you get a free coffee, or something?”
“We’ll count it as your initiation,” he says. “Tomorrow, I’ll walk you through the Icebox before practice and show you your space. It’s nothing fancy, but it’s yours.”
“The Icebox,” I repeat. “Is that the rink, or a cry for help?”
“Bit of both.”
I think on it for a moment, then shrug.
“I’m almost certain I’ll have worked in worse.”
He nods. “We’ve got a solid crew. Local guys, mostly, and some ex-college players. A few still work day jobs. Teacher, construction, one guy’s trying to be a social media chef—don’t ask. But they’re good players. They’re loyal, and tough.”
“Any particular personalities I should prep for? Or, you know: any alphas I should be warned about before they set off my flight reflex?”
Coach exhales through his nose, clearly deciding whether to answer honestly or diplomatically.
“Dylan Hayes thinks stretching is a government scam. Benny Carver blends beef jerky into smoothies. And if you hear someone shout ‘I’ve got goat balm in my locker,’ don’t ask follow-ups. Just walk away.”
“Solid advice,” I say. “I'll make sure to add that to my survival guide.”
“We’re short a few players right now, since we’ve got a couple nagging injuries. One guy’s suspended for… reasons.” A beat. “And Beau’s situation has thrown everything out of rhythm.”
My eyes drift, uninvited, back to the corner booth where Beau sits like a storm cloud in a hoodie, with that same glower, same jawline carved out of pure resentment, and same alpha pull that hums against my nerves whether I want it to or not.
Coach follows my gaze, then sighs, apparently tired of explaining the inevitable.
“Been leading the Moose for five seasons now,” he comments.
“He doesn’t exactly screamteam spiritfrom over there,” I mutter.
“Hmm.” Coach’s voice is tight with that specific tone men reserve for someone they respect and want to strangle in equal measure. “He was born and raised here, and is Iron Lake to the bone. Kid’s been skating since he could walk—hell, maybe before. Played D-I, had scouts sniffing around him all through college, and even got a couple of invites to NHL training camps.”
