My shoulders ease a fraction.
“You understand what this means,” he continues. “For the team. For the pack dynamic. For the season.”
“I do.”
“And you’re not backing out when it gets complicated.”
“No.”
He nods once, decisive.
“Then we do this properly. With transparency, and boundaries, andrespect.”
He stands, picking up his clipboard again.
“You’re still captain: that hasn’t changed. Which means you don’t just lead on the ice. You lead in how you handle this.”
“I know.”
He pauses at the door, hand resting on the handle. When he speaks again, his voice is quieter.
“You didn’t have a good model growing up, Beau. But you’ve built yourself into a damn good man anyway. Don’t forget that.”
My chest tightens.
“This pack is going to feel it,” he adds, glancing back at me. “Make sure what they feel is steady. Safe.”
The door closes behind him, and I sit there for another moment, the weight of his words settling deep, familiar and grounding all at once.
Then I grab my helmet and head for the ice—knowing that whatever comes next, I won’t be facing it alone.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Theo
The ice is good this morning—fresh cut with clean edges, pale and glassy under the lights. Cold enough that every push bites back just a little, the kind of bite that keeps you honest.
I like it that way. It gives me something solid to measure myself against, something physical and dependable, something that doesn’t shift just because instincts are loud or emotions are running hot beneath the surface.
We’re midway through drills when I feel it. Not see—feel.
The rhythm of the line stutters for half a second. It’s not enough to stop anyone, or draw a whistle. Sticks still move, skates still carve clean arcs into the ice, bodies still flow through the pattern Coach set; but the cohesion tilts, like a current pulling slightly off course.
It’s subtle. Most people wouldn’t clock it, and would chalk it up to early-morning stiffness or someone missing a cue.
I do.
I glance toward the bench, toward the gravitational center we all orient around without thinking. Beau stands beside Coach, helmet tucked under one arm, shoulders squared, weight evenly balanced. He’s too even, too still; the kind of posture that doesn’t come from ease, but from bracing—like he’s holding himself in place rather than settling into it.
And then the scent reaches me.
It’s faint. He’s tried to scrub it, so I’ll give him that, but scent doesn’t work like that once it’s set. Once instinct has decided what it’s holding onto.
Omega. Warm, and quietly settled; wrapped around his alpha in a way that doesn’t flare or shout, just…belongs. It’s the kind of scent that doesn’t need to announce itself because it’s already rooted.
My grip tightens on my stick without me meaning to.
A few of the guys missed it at first. They were too busy chirping in the locker room, laughing, shoving, riding the leftover edge of yesterday’s win. Now they’re skating hard, lungs burning, minds on the drill in front of them.
