“Mm.” He dragged the sound out. “That’s your favorite lie.”
We passed Oliver St. James coming the other direction, helmet tucked under one arm, face flushed, eyes tired. Oliver always looked tired. Not weak—worn. Like responsibility lived in his bones.
His gaze flicked to my knuckles and then up. Quick. Efficient. Inventory. “Nice work,” he muttered, voice flat enough to pass as sarcasm.
It wasn’t.
Oliver didn’t hand out approval like candy.
I gave him a small nod.
He fell into step on my other side, subtly edging Ty away without touching him. Oliver had twin toddlers at home. He’d mastered crowd control without raising his voice.
Ty sighed. “Oh good. The babysitter’s here.”
Oliver’s mouth twitched. “Someone has to keep you breathing.”
“I’m indestructible.”
Oliver ignored Buzz and looked at me. “Cam’s in a mood.”
“Isn’t he always pissy?” I huffed.
Oliver’s gaze sharpened. “Not like this.”
The locker room noise pressed through the door—voices layered over each other, laughter that didn’t quite fit, the clang of metal, the hiss of showers. Someone’s speaker blasted music too loud, bass thudding like a forced heartbeat.
Ty grabbed the handle and swung the door open with the confidence of a man who’d never met consequences.
The room hit me full force. Hot, damp air washed over me. Sweat. Steam. The sharp bite of menthol muscle rub. Wet leather and stale tape. The smell of hockey never left. It soaked into floorboards. Into skin. Into you.
Cam Dunne stood near the center of it all, half-undressed, tape still wrapped tight around his wrists.
No helmet. No pads.
Just authority.
He was captain for a reason. Not because he was the loudest. Because he was the one everyone looked at when something went wrong. Because he took it personally when we slipped.
Even before the C stitched to his chest, the room bent around him.
His hair was damp, falling into his eyes. His jaw worked slowly, like he was grinding down something bitter he hadn’t swallowed yet.
His gaze snapped to me, locking instantly—judgment dressed up as leadership. He didn’t move. Didn’t step closer. Didn’t raise his voice. He just let the room watch him watch me.
“Nice show,” Cam remarked, tone flat and cold. “We trying to win games, or audition for highlight reels?”
A couple of guys shifted. Someone stopped laughing.
I felt Ty stiffen beside me, energy tightening in his shoulders, ready to spark. I kept my face neutral. The easiest mask in the world. The one people mistook for indifference.
“Both,” I replied mildly. “We won.”
Cam’s eyes narrowed. “We won despite you spending five minutes in the box.”
My pulse kicked. That familiar pressure behind my ribs. The anger I kept contained because it knew how to burn bridges.
“We won because that fucking brute took another cheap shot at Zee,” I countered, my voice staying level even as my jaw tightened. “Because their bench backed off. Because our third line finally had space.”