Claire Han leans against the locker room doorway, phone in hand, hair slicked into one of those reporter buns that look effortless but probably took work. She’s wearing that polite smile that’s half curiosity, half predator.
I grunt. “Practice. They’re all rough.”
She steps closer, phone angled just enough for me to catch the glow of a tabloid site. Puck Whisperer. The headline punches before I can stop myself from reading it:
Slumping Voss Still Homeless After Flood — Surge’s Risky Bet?
My stomach knots.
Claire raises a brow. “Care to comment? Fans are starting to speculate. No stable place to live, performance dropping… people connect dots.”
I exhale hard through my nose. “People need better hobbies.”
She tilts her head, like she’s not trying to twist the knife but can’t resist testing how deep it’ll go. “You can’t blame them for noticing patterns. The Surge needs you sharp, Leo. And the piece—well, it asks if maybe you’re carrying more off the ice than you’re saying.”
Before I can respond, a voice cuts in from across the room. “Maybe they’re not wrong.”
Trevor Stein. Rookie defenseman, full of swagger he hasn’t earned yet. He’s leaning on his stick, grin wide and mean. “Tough to stay sharp when you’re couch-surfing, huh?”
The locker room goes quiet. The kind of silence that makes your pulse throb in your ears.
Gabe stands before I can. “Shut it, Stein.” His tone drops low, steady. “He’ll light up next game. Worry about your own turnovers.”
Trevor scoffs, muttering something about “touchy vets,” but he moves on. The moment passes like a puck ricocheting off glass—loud, fast, leaving a sting behind.
Claire, to her credit, looks uneasy now. She pockets her phone. “Didn’t mean to stir anything up.”
“Yeah, you did,” I say quietly.
She flinches. Then nods once and slips out.
The door swings shut, and I’m left in the echo of my heartbeat.
Gabe pats my shoulder as he passes. “Forget it. Noise doesn’t score goals.”
“Yeah,” I manage. But my jaw aches from how hard I’m holding back words.
As the room empties, I glance at my reflection again in the metal locker—blurred, warped by dents and scratches.
The article headline flashes in my head.Homeless. Slumping. Risky bet.
I dig my fingers into the tape roll until it bites my palm.
Noise doesn’t score goals. But it sure as hell gets in your head.
By the time I make it back to Sage’s place, my head’s still buzzing from that damn headline. The city outside her window glows soft orange, the kind of evening that should feel calm. It doesn’t.
She’s at the stove when I walk in, ponytail messy, sleeves rolled up, stirring something that smells too good for how bad my mood is.
“Hey,” she says, glancing over her shoulder. “How was practice?”
I drop my gym bag by the door with a dull thud. “The circus never ends.”
Her brow furrows. “What happened?”
“Nothing.” The word comes out too sharp. I grab a water bottle from the counter, twist the cap too hard, and take a long drink. The silence stretches until it feels like another kind of pressure.
She turns off the burner and faces me fully now, spatula still in her hand. “Leo. Talk to me.”
