The reporter follows up with,“And as a person?”
“He’s a good teammate and a great friend.” Deacon says simply. “And he’s good to my kid. That tells me everything I need to know.”
Coach D cuts in before anyone can push further.
“That’s enough,” she says. “Let him get changed.”
I head into the locker room.
“Fun?” Faulker asks dryly.
“I hate all of it,” I mutter.
“Yeah,” he says. “But you’re getting better. You did it without telling anyone to suck your dick.”
I shoot him a look.
Coach D fills the sound speakers, “Let’s be very clear, my players are here for the same reason our fans are. The love of the game. The Bears organization doesn’t recruit passports. We recruit talent, work ethic, and people who bleed for this sport. Any hate you’re seeing isn’t coming from reality. It’s coming from people choosing to create problems where they don’t exist.”
A reporter tries to interject, she cuts them off, “And if you’re a fan of the Bears, you’re watching hockey. You’re cheering. You’re showing up. You’re part of something good. You’re not wearing tinfoil hats in your mother’s basement yelling at strangers online.”
A few snorts break out. Someone coughs to hide a laugh.
She puts an end to it all, “That’s all we’re addressing on that topic.”
No one argues. No one dares.
Within seconds, she’s in the locker room. “You good?”
I nod. Once.
“That’s it, team. Practice tomorrow at ten.”
Faulker leans in, “She just body-checked the internet.”
I exhale slowly, tension easing for the first time all night.
“Good,” I mutter.
“Wait until they start coming at me for being German and call me a Nazi.” He chuckles.
“Fuck them.”
He holds up his fist, “Fuck them.
We tap it out.
I didn’t ask to be palatable, didn’t ask to go viral for holding a kid like it was something illegal. I asked to play hockey.
Heat, music, the smell of beer, fried food, sweat, and a win that ended early because the Pittsburgh Patriots barely showed up. Jerseys everywhere. My name moves through the room before I fully am.
Then it starts. “KILLER.” One voice. “KILLER.” Then more. “KILLER. KILLER. KILLER.”
The chant rolls through the place, loud and relentless. I pause just inside the door, jaw tightening. Fantastic.
Deacon brushes past me, already shrugging out of his jacket. “They turned out for you.”
Dash is immediately at my side, arm slung over my shoulders, “Listen to that, fear disguised as affection.”
