A stick clattered to the floor and stayed there a second too long. A laugh restarted, thinner than before, like it had to push past something on the way out. Tape ripped somewhere down the row, the sound too loud in the space it cut through.
The storm had broken.
What it left behind was worse.
I stood there a moment longer, letting the energy drain out of my muscles, out of my hands, out of the part of me that still wanted to push back just to prove I could. There was nowhere for it to go now. No hit to take. No body to absorb it.
So it settled where it always did.
Behind my ribs. Quiet. Waiting.
Then I walked to my stall.
MÜLLER.
Clean block letters.
Not a name.
A label. A warning. A brand.
I stripped off my gear in automatic motions. Gloves. Elbow pads. Jersey peeling off damp skin stretched taught over aching muscle. Cold air hit my chest, harsh enough to make me shiver.
Across from me, Jonah Kapur untied his skates with the calm focus of a surgeon, no wasted movement, no rush. He glanced up, eyes steady and kind.
“Good fight,” Jonah offered quietly. He had a way of speaking like he didn’t expect anything from you, which made it harder to disappoint him.
I grunted a response that might’ve been agreement. Jonah accepted it like it was conversation.
Zachary “Zee” Hendrix—rookie sensation, loudmouth, too much enthusiasm—hovered two stalls down, peeking at me like I was a live animal. He finally cleared his throat. “Uh. Thanks.”
I looked up.
Zee’s ears went red. He tried to square his shoulders and failed. He was built like speed and optimism, the kind of player marketing teams loved. The kind the league protected.
The kindIprotected, even if I never admitted it.
I nodded once.
Zee’s relief was immediate. He scurried away like he’d survived something.
Ty dropped into his stall to the right of mine to mine, flopping down with theatrical exhaustion. “Captain’s gonna give himself an ulcer,” he muttered.
Oliver, now half-dressed and scrolling through his phone, didn’t look up. “Cam’s under pressure.”
Ty snorted. “So are we. Doesn’t mean we have to be—” He searched for the right word, landed on a gesture at Cam’s back. “—that.”
Oliver finally glanced up. “Watch it.”
Ty’s mouth twitched. “Yes, Dad.”
Oliver’s phone buzzed again. He read something, and his expression flattened.
“What,” Ty demanded. “What is it?”
Oliver held the screen out.
I didn’t need to see it to know.