The Frosthawks logo was stamped at center ice like a promise no one fully believed yet—fire in the cold, the marketing team liked to say, as if slogans ever fixed a rebuild. As if a tagline could erase three seasons of bad drafts, bad luck, and a locker room that tightened every time a lead got thin.
Tonight’s victory was brittle. One bad bounce away from becoming another collapse.
My shoulder ached where I’d taken a hit late in the third. Not an injury.
A reminder—You’re not twenty-two anymore, Müller.
I stepped off the ice and into the tunnel, and the temperature changed instantly—less freezer, more damp concrete and old sweat baked into paint. The overhead lights buzzed faintly, already halfway to exhausted.
A kid in a black Frosthawks hoodie darted out of the equipment room, nearly colliding with me. One of the interns. Equipment staff, maybe. Hard to tell. Everyone looked wrecked the same way.
He froze, eyes wide, then pivoted so fast he almost tripped over his own sneakers. “Sorry—” The word came out thin. Like he expected to get buried for breathing wrong.
I kept walking. My skates clicked against rubber mats. Each step sounded too loud in my head. Like a countdown.
Behind me, someone whistled low. Ty Burns—Buzz to anyone who’d survived a season with him—fell into step beside me, all sweat and adrenaline and bad instincts.
“That was savage,” he muttered, half-impressed, half-accusing. “You trying to get fined or just bored?”
I didn’t look at him. “Neither.”
“Bullshit.” Ty snorted. “You lined him up like you had a personal vendetta.”
“He took a run at Zee.”
“So you try to take his head off?”
“Correct.”
“Jesus. You’re gonna get us all suspended one of these days.” Ty laughed under his breath, shaking his head. “You hear that place?” Ty went on. “They were losing it. Thought they were about to start chanting your name.”
“They’d chant for a house fire if it wore skates.”
“Yeah, but this?” Ty tilted his head at me. “This was vintage Müller. Old-school psycho.”
I finally looked at him. Ty’s grin sharpened. He liked pushing. He liked seeing where the line was.
“Don’t,” I warned.
“Don’t what?”
“Test me.”
He raised his hands in mock surrender. “Relax. I’m complimenting you.”
“That’s not a compliment.”
“Sure it is. Means you still got it.”
Still.The word lodged in my chest like a splinter.
I kept walking.
Ty jogged a step to stay beside me. “Seriously, though. You good?”
The tone shifted. Just a notch. Enough to matter.
I rolled my wrists, felt the tight pull in the tendons. “Fine.”