The noise continued. Jared was retelling the infamous diner story—how we’d gotten lost after that away game and ended up eating waffles with a trucker named Big Mitch.
Laughter again. Too loud. Too bright.
“Best part? We missed curfew!” Jared said with theatrical flourish.
“That was your fault,” I muttered. “Too many milkshakes.”
More laughter. Someone clapped me on the back. I let it happen.
This was the strange thing about North American teams—too many emotions in the air, like cologne in a bad club. But still… there was comfort in the ritual. The same jokes. The same tape. The same war to come.
Jared launched his skate guards at Asher. Asher screamed like a child. My eyebrow twitched.
“Idiots,” I said, mostly to myself.
But these idiots were my brothers. Loud, unrefined, chaotic… and yet, they would bleed for me on the ice. I would do the same. That was enough.
I stood, placing my stick beside my stall, blade down, as it should be. A small pause. The silence beneath the noise.
Soon, the noise would fade. The lights would dim. We would walk out into the cold roar of the arena, where nothing mattered but speed, strength, and resolve.
And I would see him.
Petrov.
I would see her, too.
Freckles.
And no one would laugh then.
I leaned back against my stall, arms crossed, letting the noise wash over me like rain on stone. The locker room buzzed—shouted jokes, slamming lockers, the stink of tape and sweat and overconfidence. American chaos. Loud, messy, and strangely comforting.
A rookie—fresh face, full of questions, too eager for his own good—piped up from across the room. “Hey, Volkov! What’s this Mina bet I keep hearing about? Sounds wild.”
Laughter erupted, predictable and loud, like they had been waiting for someone to open that particular door. It echoed off the walls, bouncing between sweat-drenched jerseys and chipped helmets.
Jared, always the agitator, grinned like the devil himself. “Better start brushing up on your dog-walking skills, Romeo,” he said, pointing a finger at me like he expected me to dance.
I didn’t move. I didn’t blink.
I let the silence stretch for a beat too long, then offered a shrug. A small smirk pulled at the corner of my mouth—half warning, half invitation. “He made the bet,” I said, voice low and calm. “I just intend to collect.”
To them, it was a joke—a locker room tale to be retold over beers and broken teeth. But for me?
It was leverage. Strategy. Opening move.
And maybe something more.
Asher leaned in, slapping his knee like a child at a puppet show. “You serious? You think Petrov’s gonna lose?”
I met his gaze, my tone flat. “Why wouldn’t he? His ego is larger than the square footage of this building.”
That earned a few dramatic oohs, another wave of laughter. But the energy in the room had shifted. Just slightly. Like someone had lit a match too close to a gas leak.
A towel came flying my way. I caught it midair without looking. Eyes still locked on Jared.
He raised an eyebrow, reading the mood like a seasoned gambler. “Just remember what’s at stake if you win.”
