"And here," Jake said, pointing a finger at Miami, "is where they'll relocate us because clearly what the hockey world needs is more teams in places where ice only exists in drinks."
"That's not how geography works," Evan said from his stall. "Geography is a construct, Spreadsheet."
"No, it's literally a science."
"Science is also a construct."
Pickle sat on the bench between them, bouncing his leg so hard the entire row of lockers rattled. "What if they send us somewhere without good coffee? What if I have to live in, like, Moose Jaw? Do they even have Starbucks in Moose Jaw?"
"Kid," Desrosiers called from across the room, "Moose Jaw has hockey. That's all that matters."
"But does it have oat milk?"
"Fuck." Desrosiers shook his head.
I dropped my bag in my stall and started the familiar routine—unlace boots, hang jacket, check my phone even though I'd checked it seven times on the drive over.
Nothing from Rhett. He was probably still asleep on my couch, or maybe he'd woken up and gone home. I'd left him a note—Team meeting, back later—and a fresh mug of coffee on the counter. That felt insufficient, but I didn't know what else to offer.
"Hog!" Pickle spotted me and immediately launched himself across the room. "Did you hear anything? Do you know what's happening? Jake says we're going to Florida, but Evan says that's statistically impossible, and Desrosiers thinks it's Saskatoon, and I can't go to Saskatoon because—"
"Breathe," I said.
He sucked in air. "Breathing."
"Good. Now sit down before you pass out."
Jake appeared at my shoulder. "Look who finally decided to show up. I thought maybe you and the flannel stud were too busy doing essential carpentry to care about our impending doom."
"It's eight forty-six."
"You're usually here by eight-thirty. Slipping in your old age, Hawkins."
I shoved him. Not hard—just enough to make my point. He shoved back, laughing, and it was almost normal for a second.
Coach appeared in the doorway at eight fifty-five, ball cap backward, and a clipboard under his arm. Behind him were the suits.
The room went silent.
It was a different kind of quiet. Like a library… or a funeral. My stomach dropped.
Coach cleared his throat. "Morning, gentlemen. We're not big on speeches here, so I'll make this quick. As you know, the franchise has been exploring sale options. There's been interest from several parties—some local, some not."
Pickle made a strangled sound. Evan's hand shot out and gripped his shoulder.
The GM spoke. "Ownership has made a decision." Coach glanced at him. "Thunder Bay Storm has been sold to a local investment group. Team stays here. Everyone under contract stays under contract. We're not going anywhere."
The silence held for exactly two seconds.
Then the room exploded.
Helmets banged against lockers. Someone—MacLaren, maybe—started screaming incoherently. Pickle burst into tears, sobbing into his hands while Evan awkwardly patted his back.
Jake grabbed me in a headlock, yelling directly into my ear. "LOCAL HEROES, BABY! WE'RE LOCAL FUCKING HEROES!"
I shoved him off, laughing. The relief was so intense that it took over my body, like a Vise-Grip, and I shook from head to toe.
Desrosiers was hugging people. I'd seen him smile maybe twice in three years.
