He’s quiet, for a start. Observant, and always watching, even when he pretends not to be. I catch it during sessions: in the way his breath shifts when I step closer, the way his gaze flicks between Beau and I as though he’s trying to solve an equation he hasn’t been given all the numbers for.
He gets nervous around me. Aroundus. And I notice him noticing Beau, too—the way his attention lingers, the way something in him tightens when Beau laughs with Connor, or when Beau’s focus sharpens on me across the ice.
It’s… interesting. Not something I’m acting on yet, but I’m not blind to it, either.
For now, I let it sit where it is. Something potential. Something patient.
Something to keep an eye on.
Because if these weeks have taught me anything, it’s that good things don’t always announce themselves loudly. Sometimes they arrive quietly, settle gently, and wait for you to realize that life doesn’t have to hurt to be real.
*
I’m filing away my last note when Dylan wanders into the PT room like he’s got nowhere else to be.
Which, knowing Dylan, is absolutely intentional.
He’s all damp hair and lazy swagger; a white towel slung over one shoulder, muscles gleaming faintly from the post-shower steam. His scent hits a second later, adrenaline and clean soap and something sharp and male, and my spine goes taut before I can stop it.
He grins when he sees me tense.
“Emery,” he says, as if he’s been waiting all day to say my name. “Tell me you’ve got five minutes to save my career. Maybe my life.”
“You twisted your ankle trying to block a goalyouweren’t supposed to block,” I say dryly, not looking up. “Your career will survive.”
“Ouch. Socruel.” He presses a hand to his chest like I’ve wounded him. “No bedside manner at all.”
“Sit,” I tell him with a sigh, pointing my head to the table. “And don’t flirt with me. I’m working.”
He hops up obediently, swinging his legs, absolutely smug.
“Who’s flirting? This is just my personality.”
“You’re exhausting.”
“I’m charming.”
“You’re halfway to a pulled groin.”
That earns a bark of laughter from him. “You offering to stretch me out?”
I pause, then look up slowly, narrowing my eyes.
“Doyouwant to explain that one to Beau?”
Dylan smirks.
“Doesn’t seem like he’s locking it down all to himself,” he comments.
I freeze for half a second, and his gaze drops to my mouth, then lower.
“I mean… there’s a beta who works at Kessler’s that swears she saw you with Connor. Upstairs.Late.”
My jaw tics. “I go to Kessler’s for coffee, Dylan.”
He tilts his head like he’s not convinced.
“You don’t strike me as the vanilla latte type.”
