In the tunnel, the noise of the crowd fades into a low roar. Connor slings an arm around Marco’s neck as Dylan attempts to hip-check Gordo into the wall, only for Gordo to hip-check him back twice as hard. It’s messy, loud, and borderline feral joy; the kind that sticks to your ribs and makes you forget the bruises.
Coach walks ahead, satisfied in his own tight-lipped way as we pile into the locker room. Inside, helmets get tossed into stalls and shoulder pads hit the floor with wetthuds. Half the team is shouting over the other half, and no one’s saying anything coherent.
Connor collapses onto the bench dramatically.
“I think I broke six ribs celebrating that last goal.”
“And you didn’t score it,” Dylan snorts.
“It’s the emotional impact,” Connor fires back. “I’m delicate.”
“Tell that to the guy you punched last week,” Gordo mutters as he stretches out on the floor like a satisfied St. Bernard.
The place smells like victory and blood and industrial-strength deodorizer, and sweat and steam fill the air as the showersstart running. Someone cranks the ancient speaker system, and distorted rock music blasts from a corner shelf.
This is the best part of the sport. Not the goals, not even the fights, butthis—this room, this chaos.
Thisis what makes you stay.
Beau hasn’t said a word yet. He’s peeling tape off his wrist one piece at a time, moving slower than usual and being careful with the bad shoulder, but not babying it.
Connor notices me looking and elbows me. “He’s fine.”
“Didn’t say he wasn’t.”
“Yeah, but you were thinking it,” Connor replies, dropping his voice. “We all were.”
Beau must feel us watching because he grunts.
“If you’re all waiting for me to die, it’s not happening today.”
Marco claps twice. “Great talk, Cap.”
“Shut up,” Beau says without heat.
Coach wipes his hands on a towel someone has probably used already as he surveys the room, then nods once.
“Good game,” he says.
That’s it.
That’s the whole speech.
We all wait, blinking expectantly, and his lips curve upward.
“You played smart,” he continues. “Not perfect, or pretty, butsmart. We needed that.”
Gordo beams like he personally won the Stanley Cup, but Coach isn’t finished.
“You.” He points at Dylan. “Stop taking penalties for stupid shit.”
“That call was garbage,” Dylan argues.
“And yet you sat out for two minutes. Don’t argue with me.” Coach frowns, then points at Connor. “You—no chirping the refs.”
Connor gasps. “I didn’t!”
“You called one of them a corrupt ferret,” Marco mutters.
