Page 62 of Broken Ice
Not only that, but the Manatees felt likepack, and that was a big fucking deal to Beau, especially after that last year on the Warriors, when his lack of scent had left him adrift, unable to connect to anybody the way he was used to.
He honestly couldn’t even imagine how Omegas used to do it, taking suppressants all their damn lives just to play hockey. He was used to sacrificing something for the game—broken bones and torn ligaments weren’t exactly rare.
Giving up his scent? Yeah, that had been a totally different beast.
Beau scrunched up his nose as Johnson’s scent hit him, the coach frowning behind the Warriors’ bench. He looked as strict and put together as always, but for the first time, Beau let himself feel the anger he’d kept bottled up for so long.
It had been fucked up, what had been asked of him, and it was fucked up Johnson had suffered zero consequences for it.
But that was the NHL for you. A lot of talk but little action. The number of scandals that had been swept under the rug by the league were innumerable, from abusing pain medication to sexual abuse.
Beau was just glad he wasn’t under Johnson’s thumb anymore.
“Hey,” Emilio said, sliding up to him. Beau realised that he’d been frozen in place as the starting line waited for the linesmen to get their shit together and begin the game.
Beau glanced at Emilio questioningly.
“You okay?” Emilio asked, voice low.
Beau twitched a smile at him. “Sure. Let’s kick some ass, huh?”
Beau had to admit it was a weird game. It was strange, being booed by the fans that had once cheered for him, the sea of brown and tan and black like a landslide on the stands. It didn’t hurt, exactly—he understood what the game was about, and Beau was used to compartmentalising shit on the ice—but it did throw him a little, like he’d taken a wrong turn somewhere and ended up in a distinctly unfamiliar place.
It still felt damn good to win the game with a decisive 5-3 score, Beau getting two assists under his belt, even if he’d had to check a few of his friends into the boards to get there. He was grateful his ex-teammates didn’t hold it against him, happy to meet him after the game for a few drinks.
They chose one of their old haunts, a grimy bar with cheap beers and patrons that left them alone.
“There’s the enemy,” Ossy, his old liney, called out as Beau approached the table.
It was a good turnout—Ossy, Bear, Lexi, Brown, Itch, Finny. Beau grinned at the introduction, taking a bow before sitting down.
“Man, you really are a Manatee, huh?” Finny teased, no doubt noticing how he was scent marked as pack.
“Don’t cry just ’cause you wish you were on the other side of the scoreboard, Finny, baby.”
Brown cackled. “There’s our boy. Sharp as ever.”
It was a nice night. It didn’t quite feel like home, but like putting on a sweater he used to love, still comfortable and familiar.
Beau drank one beer too many, helping him get tipsy and loose, leaning on Ossy and laughing at Lexi’s antics.
There, in the gloom and smell of beer and peanuts, Beau was struck by how much things had changed. It was as if his vision split in two.
Here was life as it had been. Good, but not perfect. He was surrounded by faces he’d known for years. People he’d battled with. The jersey he’d worn on his draft day.
And here was life now. A city he never thought he’d belong to. A team that was pack. A particular team member dissolving the loneliness encasing Beau’s heart.
It was strange to see the difference so starkly. To feel the loss of what was, and the happiness of what he’d gained, all at once.
He wasn’t exactly maudlin by the time Ossy put him in an Uber headed to the hotel, but he might have hugged the guys for a little too long.
Luckily, they were used to him.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
He trudged down the quiet, beige hotel hall. His tipsy brain was too busy cartwheeling through old memories to notice what his feet were doing, which was to stop right in front of Emilio’s room.
Beau checked his phone. It wasn’t even midnight. He pressed his ear against the door. The muffled sound of the TV trickled through.
