We lunge.
The scrape of blades, the clash of sticks, the adrenaline that hits like a shot of electricity — it’s all noise and instinct. The scrape of blades, the clash of sticks, the adrenaline that hits like a shot of electricity — it’s all noise and instinct. Grayson’s glove hooks mine for half a second, just enough to tick me off, but I bite it down. No penalties. Not tonight.
We chase the puck down the ice, shoulder to shoulder. He leans close enough for me to smell the mint gum he’s chewing—sharp, cold, almost chemical—when he mutters, “Hope your crash pad’s treating you well. Penthouse too wet for you?”
The words hit like a stick check to the ribs. Cheap shot, disguised as casual. I don’t flinch, but my grip tightens, my jaw locks. Every player on the ice knows about the flood at my place. Some idiot leaked photos of the soaked penthouse last week, and the internet had a field day — poor Leo Voss, captain of the Surge, displaced by faulty plumbing. The memes were brutal.
Grayson grins when he sees he’s landed the hit. “Guess it’s humbling, huh?”
I shove past him, hard, cutting toward the boards. “Guess humility’s what you get when you play clean,” I shoot back. The puck’s already sliding toward center, so I dig in and chase it down. Focus, Voss. Play the damn game.
It’s weird — I should be furious, but the energy feels different tonight. Sharper. My stride’s cleaner. The passes click. The rhythm’s there, steady and tight, like something’s finally clicking back into place. Sage’s cooking? Her morning coffee routine? Whatever it is, it’s working. My body feels lighter, faster. I’m not thinking, just moving.
Shift after shift, Locke tries to needle me, and each time I let it roll off. I can see the frustration tighten in his movements, the little jerks when he misses a check. It’s almost satisfying — watching him unravel while I stay locked in. My team feels it too. Gabe flashes a grin when we hit the bench. “He’s chasing ghosts, man. Keep it up.”
I nod, rolling my shoulders. Heart still hammering, but steady. It’s not just a game tonight — it’s a message. Flood or not, I’m still here, sweat cooling on my neck, legs burning from the last shift. Still captain. Still dangerous.
Across the ice, Grayson slams his stick against the boards after the buzzer. I don’t even glance his way. The score says enough.
Reporters swarm. For half a heartbeat, I think about ducking out the side door—anything to skip the chaos—but habit wins. Before I’ve even pulled my gloves off. The locker room corridor turns into a wall of mics and camera lights, the hum of post-game chaos closing in. I’m used to it — the noise, the flash, the same recycled questions — but tonight there’s an edge in the air. The kind that makes my pulse drag heavy in my throat.
“Captain Voss, Leo, over here!”
I step toward the cluster, shoulders squared, helmet tucked under one arm. Sweat still cools down my spine as I brace for the first hit. Anya Lopez, the new beat reporter for the Surge, leans forward from the pack. She’s young, sharp-eyed, too observant for comfort.
“Leo,” she starts, voice steady but curious, “how are you handling things off the ice after the flood?”
The words hang there, deceptively casual. A few cameras tilt closer. There it is — the angle. Not the win, not the hat trick assist. My living situation.
I keep my expression neutral, breathing through the flicker of annoyance. “I’ve got what I need,” I say, slow and measured. “Focus is hockey.”
She nods, jotting notes, lips pressing into a faint smile that’s more calculation than warmth. She’s thinking about how to spin it, I can see it in her eyes. Maybe she’s picturing the headline already —Homeless Captain Voss Keeps Calm Under Pressure.
Trevor Stein, our PR guy — slick suit, smoother smile, and a knack for saying the right thing while meaning something else —, stands off to the side, watching. When the cameras finally lower, he steps in with that half-smirk that never reaches his eyes. “They’re digging for dirt, man,” he murmurs. “Gotta be careful.”
“I always am.”
He shrugs, but his gaze flicks to my phone as I slide it into my pocket. It’s quick — a second, maybe two — but enough to prickle the back of my neck. He’s too interested. Too aware.
“Nice answer, though,” he adds, still casual. “Could’ve been worse.”
I don’t respond. The noise of the locker room swells — laughter, showers running, the metallic clatter of skates being unbuckled. I glance toward the guys, toward Gabe, who’s already tossing his gloves into a bin, chatting easy with one of the rookies.
Me? I’m still wound tight, heartbeat steady but coiled. Grayson’s jab shouldn’t matter. The flood shouldn’t matter. But something about the way Trevor’s watching me — and the faint, knowing curve of Anya’s smile — makes it clear this isn’t over.
Not even close.
The locker room thins out fast, steam curling through the air, echoes bouncing off tile and metal. The cooling air bites at my skin as the last of the interviews fade into background hum. The steam from the showers blurs the edges of the room, turning victory into a haze. I’m halfway through unlacing my skates when Gabe drops beside me, still in half his gear, a towel slung over his shoulders, grinning—the kind of grin that almost pulls one out of me too.
“Forget Locke,” he says, bumping his shoulder into mine. “You owned him out there.”
I huff a laugh, shaking my head. “Owned might be generous. He’s just pissed he couldn’t get in my head.”
“He tried, though.” Gabe pops open a sports drink and takes a long pull. “The guy looked like he was two shifts away from snapping his stick. I’d say that’s a win.”
“Yeah,” I admit, rubbing a hand over the back of my neck. “Felt good to play clean. Controlled.”
He nods. “That’s what we need from you — that focus. None of the noise.”
