“Connor Madsen,” he says. “Fastest skater on the Moose, best hair—”
“You guys all get a script for that?” I cut in. “Or do you improvise your delusions?”
He laughs, the sound easy and full-bodied.
“Very funny,” he says. “But seriously: I am actually the fastest. The fans call me Rocket for a reason.”
“Of course they do,” I mutter, jotting it down anyway. “Shooting side?”
“Right-handed.”
“Alright, Rocket.” I look up at him. “How did this happen?”
He straightens his posture like he’s bracing for inspection, shoulders rolling back a little too deliberately. It’s a tell—and not a subtle one.
“Uh… a fight.”
“O-kay,” I draw out, already unimpressed. “With who, and why?”
He scratches the back of his head, suddenly sheepish.
“Other team’s defenseman. Big guy. Dumb face.”
“Connor.”
He sighs, long and put-upon. “Yes?”
“Details.”
He shifts again, the weight rocking from heel to toe. It’s almost funny:thisfrom a man who just moments ago was more than happy to boast about his speed and ability.
“He, uh…” Connor clears his throat. “He chirped.”
I slowly look up at him, more curious than before.
“...About?”
He waves a hand, too quick. “Doesn’t matter.”
“It does,” I say calmly. “Especially if you want me to assess whether you’re dealing with a bruised rib or something worse. Were you provoked? Did you throw first? Did he?”
Another pause. Another shift.
And then—resignation.
“He made a comment,” Connor says, voice lower now. “About my sister.”
Something sharp twists in my chest.
“What kind of comment?”
“About her scent.” His jaw tightens. “And about what omegas are ‘good for.’”
My grip on the pen tightens until I’m pretty sure it’s going to snap.
“So,” I say evenly, “you started it.”
“Oh, yeah,” he says immediately, like that part at least isn’t up for debate. “Dropped him like a sack of potatoes.”
