Page 41 of Broken Ice
Beau was a good fucking friend.
Another present was a laminated Tarot card. Beau hadn’t really known what it was, but Freddy had clarified.
“It’s The Magician. It symbolises how you can achieve your dreams through hard work and willpower. The energy of getting things done.”
Beau had to admit that was pretty fucking cool. “Damn, dude. Sweet. I’m gonna keep this as a good luck charm.”
Freddy breamed at him. Beau made a mental note to find something to give him in return.
Apart from that, Beau’s life was consumed, of course, by hockey.
Being out on the ice with Emilio and Pavel was kind of a dream come true. Beau still didn’t quite want to admit that, some of the old rivalry lingering in his veins, but it was a fucking rush every time.
They were the two players that had made Miami into a competitive team. The ones who pushed them forwards, who made the locker room sing with a sense of impending victory. They centred different lines but were put together during the man advantage.
The Manatees’ power play was fucking insane. Beau had never gotten so many points on it. Even if he wasn’t part of the goal, watching Pavel do a neat little feed from one side of the offensive zone to the other and Emilio slapshot it in like an animal was a sight to behold.
He still preferred to be involved, though.
“Holyfuck,” Moose cheered as he crashed into Beau, Pavel and Emilio following shortly.
Beau laughed. He liked to play it cool when he got a goalthatpretty—on a strange angle and right over the goalie’s shoulder—but he fucking loved the response.
Emilio patted him on the head with his massive mitts, grin glowing. “I think you just fucked up the goalie for life.”
Beau shrugged, untangling himself from the crush. He liked the praise, but there was still something acutely embarrassing about lingering after his own goal. “All in a day’s work.”
The locker room was jubilant after the eventual win—a five-two success was nothing to sniff at, even if itwasthe Durham Cyclops, who were dead last in the league.
Poor bastards.
Beau rallied the troops into going out, absolutely delighted when Pavel showed up with a wide-brimmed hat.
“Well, hello there, cowboy,”
Pavel rolled his eyes. “It’s alook.” It was hilarious to see the big Russian attempt to go old-school-movie American, and Beau was absolutely not letting it go without a bit of chirping.
“Sure is. Save a horse, ride a cowboy, am I right?”
Beau cackled as Pavel turned red, chasing after him as they went to the VIP area of the club. The music was pulsing, lights glowing blue and purple so that everybody transformed into phantoms, creatures of the night.
Beau got sidetracked by Korpi and Tinny, missing the waiter taking everybody’s orders.
“He’ll be back,” Don assured a whining Beau, sitting at their table.
“It’s fine. I’ll go to the bar and see what they have on tap.”
Emilio sidled up to them. “Since when do you drink anything other than Natty Light?”
“I’ve had enough of your sass,” Beau said imperiously.
Emilio opened his mouth to say something undoubtedly dumb, but Beau walked away, going down from the elevated VIP tables and to the bar.
He managed to get to the front pretty quickly, asking what was available and ordering one of the lighter IPAs to prove that he had diverse and sophisticated taste, thank you very much.
“That’s a good one,” a voice said beside him.
Beau turned, taking in the burly Alpha leaning in so he could be heard. “You a beer expert?”
