“This way’s the locker room,” he says. “Don’t go in after a win. Or a loss. Or really… ever.”
“Got it.”
He shows me the broom-closet-sized office, the skate station, and the room that might be a janitor’s closet but also might be a crime scene. I nod as I take it all in, trying not to grimace. It’s a far cry away from the sleek buildings I’m used to, but I suppose Ididcome looking for change.
It’s then that he pushes open a set of double doors and stretches his arms wide.
“And lasts,” he says, “the rink.”
The cold is instant. The ice glitters under flickering lights, and though it’s anything but glamorous, it certainly feels alive.
“Might not look like much, but the crowd sure does pack in on game nights,” Coach explains. “‘M talkin’ shoulder to shoulder, and loud as hell.”
“I like loud,” I tell him. “Loud means they care.”
He nods in approval as though that comment passes some invisible test, and we keep moving until we reach a door with a hand-painted sign that readsPT / STRENGTH.
“Here’s your space.”
He opens the door, and I step in behind him.
It’s smaller than what I’m used to, but still usable. There’s a treatment table and a mini fridge, along with an array of towels, foam rollers, and bands. There’s a squat rack and a wobbly stool, and even a speaker—though that looks like it retired in 2007.
Coach watches me take it all in with his arms folded across his chest, and I swallow thickly as I look around.
“It’s… perfect,” I tell him.
He grunts. “Most of the boys will roll in around nine. Some have jobs. Others just have a bad relationship with punctuality.”
He hands me a clipboard, and I smile as I take it from him.
“Here's a short list of players. Start with these.”
I sit on the stool and start reading names while he gives me the rundown.
Dylan Hayes. Connor Madsen. Benny Carver.
Walking red flags. Walking injury reports. Walking alpha problems.
“Manageable chaos,” I say.
“Exactly.”
“And Wolfe?”
Coach’s mouth twitches, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. He leans back, arms folded, studying me in a way that tells me he’s weighing more than just words.
“He’s… complicated,” Coach says.
No kidding.
I shift my weight, then decide to say it outright before it turns into something awkward.
“I guess you know we’re… sharing a house.”
Coach winces,hard.
Wonderful.
