Beau catches every tremor, and holds me through it.
With his strong arms locked around me, he rocks us gently as the aftershocks roll through my body. His mouth softens against my temple, my jaw, my lips—grounding me, anchoring me while my instincts slowly settle back into my skin.
“Mine,” he murmurs—not as a claim, but a promise; and god help me,I believe him.
Once I’ve come back down to earth, he exhales a laugh, his forehead resting against mine.
“Okay,” he says, amused now, brushing his thumb under my chin as my legs finally loosen. “That’s enough for one afternoon.”
I blink, still dazed, and he grins.
“Let’s get you home.Pronto.”
His nose wrinkles slightly as he breathes in again, amused and fond.
“Before the entire Icebox smells like slick.”
And somehow—despite everything—I laugh too.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Beau
Game day in Iron Lake is never subtle, but especially not on days like today.
By the time I pull into the lot behind the Icebox, the place already looks like a damn festival.
Pickup trucks lined crooked along the snowbanks, tailgates down, and portable grills hissing steam into the cold while someone blasts classic rock loud enough to rattle the rink doors. Kids dressed in Moose jerseys are chasing each other between cars, while old-timers in heavy coats are nursing thermoses like they’re sacred objects.
Home ice.
The Icebox squats against the gray sky. Newer barns try to be sleek, but ours just tries to survive the winter and intimidate visiting teams.
Thankfully, it does both beautifully.
Inside, the air is thick with sound and heat. The stands are already filling, boots stomping metal bleachers, cowbellsclanging, and the Moose mascot posing for photos near the boards. The scoreboard cycles through sponsor ads for bait shops and plumbing companies while someone’s kid is pounding the glass like it owes him money.
I fucking love this place: which makes not starting feel worse.
I’m dressed and taped with my helmet ready, but my name isn’t on the opening line. Coach didn’t sugarcoat it. My shoulder might be holding up a lot better since Emery’s involvement, but it still isn’t one hundred percent.
We’re playing the Duluth Harbor Wolves. They’re big, mean, and notorious for finishing checks a beat late, so he made it clear that there was no sense risking me early when we might need me late.
Doesn’t mean I like it.
I sit on the bench during warmups, elbows on my knees, watching the guys skate. Marco’s already jawing with a defenseman he’s known since juniors, while Theo’s moving fluidly with the kind of calm that settles the whole line. Connor’s buzzing, chirping at a Wolves winger who flips him off in return, and pack energy hums through the rink.
And then there’s Emery.
She’s at the far end of the bench with the medical staff, her jacket zipped and clipboard tucked under her arm. She’s all business; no trace of the Omega who slept tucked against my chest last night, warm and solid and real in a way my instincts still haven’t finished wrapping around.
At home, it’s been… easier. Quieter.
Better.
She fits in my space like she was meant to. Mugs still migrate and blankets still get folded, but she sleeps with her back to my chest, and my alpha settles like it’s finally found a job it understands.
Here, though, we don’t touch, or linger. Hell, we don’t even look at each other for too long. We’re being professional. It’s absolutely necessary.
