Connor doesn’t miss it, though.
His stride shortens, just a fraction. His shoulders tense, and his jaw tightens so hard I can see the muscle jump even from here. He overshoots a stop, blade scraping too sharp against the ice, and snaps his head toward the bench like he’s been hit square in the chest.
Ah.
That answers a lot.
We regroup for the next drill, lining up at the center. Breath fogs the air, the rink humming with the low, familiar sounds of effort. Marco glides up beside me, close enough that his voice stays low.
“So,” he mutters, eyes flicking briefly toward the bench, “we’re all smelling that, right?”
“Focus,” I tell him, keeping my gaze forward.
He grins anyway, unapologetic. “I am. Just… multitasking.”
I don’t respond, but my attention doesn’t leave Beau for long.
Whatever has settled into place, the ice knows it. And so do we.
Coach’s whistle cuts through the air, and just like that, we take off; crossing lines and pivoting hard, bodies moving the way they always do when we know what’s expected of us.
But the undercurrent doesn’t fade.
Connor skates too aggressively, shoulders high and movements sharp where they’re usually fluid. He clips Dylan a little too hard along the boards and mutters something under his breath that doesn’t sound friendly.
Beau doesn’t react to anything, and that’s what seals it. If this were just a rumor, just noise, he’d shut it down with a look or a word, but he doesn’t. He stays contained and controlled: the kind of control that comes after a decision’s already been made.
Coach watches it all with an unreadable expression. He doesn’t look pleased, but he also doesn’t seem surprised, either.
That’simportant.
We rotate off the ice, breath fogging in front of us. Connor peels his helmet off and slams it onto the bench a little harder than necessary.
“You good?” Marco asks him.
“Fine,” Connor snaps.
Beau’s eyes flick to him, and Connor holds his gaze for half a heartbeat longer than he should, then looks away.
I swallow, noting the pack dynamics recalibrating in real time.
I stretch at the boards, pretending not to watch, but I do. I always do.
I’ve followed Beau onto the ice for a long time. Trusted his reads and covered his blind spots. I’ve watched him carry weight he never asked for and never complained about. I know the shape of his silences better than most people know their own reflections, and this one…
This one is different.
This one issettled.
Coach calls the end of the drill and waves us in. As we skate past the bench, Beau’s eyes meet mine, and I nod once. Whatever this is, it’s real, and it’s going to change things, whether any of us are ready for it or not.
I push off toward the locker room with the others, instincts quiet but alert, already adjusting.
Beau didn’t just bond: he chose.
And when a captain chooses, the whole pack feels it.
Chapter Twenty-Four
