“Wrong,” he counters. “I’m fashionably early to mock you.”
He skids to a stop nearby, dropping into a hamstring stretch with exaggerated effort.
“Never thought I’d see the day Beau Wolfe actually follows a PT plan.”
“She’s not a suggestion,” I say, steady. “She’s a requirement.”
It comes out flatter than I mean it to.
Connor’s grin shifts. He clocks the tone instantly, but for once, he doesn’t push.
“No argument,” he says instead. “She iced my ribs without calling me an idiot. That alone makes her a miracle worker.”
Theo joins us a second later, towel slung over one shoulder, rolling his neck slowly.
“She made me restart my entire warm-up because my hip rotation was off.”
Connor snorts.
“Youarebuilt like a folding chair.”
Theo ignores him. “She didn’t explain it twice. Just waited until I figured it out.”
That earns a nod from Marco as he wanders by, stretching his hamstrings against the boards.
“She’s done her research, too. She asked about my ankle from two seasons ago. The bad sprain.”
“Yeah, she’s doing mental spreadsheets,” Connor laughs. “You can see it: she’s tracking who’s lying.”
“Good,” Theo says. “Maybe it’ll stop half of you from skating through injuries like martyrs.”
There’s an easy rhythm to it—the way they talk, the way they move around each other without colliding. There’s no posturing or dominance plays here, but trust that’s been earned over years of shared ice and busted knuckles.
And beneath it all,respect.The kind that settles in early and stays.
They drift off toward the tunnel as Coach’s whistle shrills, sharp and commanding. The ice doors swing open, cold air spilling out as the first lines head through.
I finish my last rep, shoulder burning in a way that feels earned. I welcome it. It keeps my head where it belongs.
They like her. They trust her. And some part of the room—some pack-deep instinct I don’t want to examine too closely—has already shifted to make space for her.
My shoulder twinges as I release the band. I roll it once, slow and careful.
I don’t want this. I don’t want to want her. Don’t want the way my chest tightens when I picture her moving through my house, leaving quiet order behind her like a signature. Don’t want how easily the guys talk about her like she’s alreadyours.
But wanting isn’t a decision. That’s the problem.
Coach appears in the doorway, coffee in hand, eyes sharp as ever.
He watches me finish, then he nods.
“Good,” he says. “You’re doing the work.”
“I said I would.”
“I know.” He pauses, gaze steady. Then, quieter—meant only for me—“And remember.”
I straighten automatically.
