By the time I pushed through the locker room doors, I was vibrating like hummingbird wings. The familiar smells hit me—old sweat, industrial soap, and the specific scent of rink ice.
Normal, I told myself.You are a normal human man with normal human responses to normal human stimuli.
I covered precisely four steps before I hip-checked a crate of foam rollers, sending them scattering across the floor like oversized pool noodles fleeing a crime scene.
Twelve guys looked up.
"I meant to do that," I announced. "It's a drill. Obstacle training."
Desrosiers snorted. Jake didn't even pause in his conversation with Evan. He reached down and tossed me a roller without looking.
I dropped into my stall and started unpacking my gear, fingers clumsy on the familiar straps. Hog was three spots down, growling at Kowalczyk about borrowed tape—"I label it for a reason, you gremlin"—and the normalcy of it should have settled me.
It didn't.
I knew Adrian was somewhere in the building. With a camera. He could point it at me at any second.
"You okay?"
Hog was beside me, his eyebrows doing a concerned dad thing.
"Never been more okay," I said. My voice cracked on okay like I was fourteen and asking someone to the spring formal. "Peak okayness."
He stared at me. "You're being weird."
"This is baseline weird."
"This is elevated weird."
Movement at the door caught my eye.
Adrian.
He stepped into the locker room with his camera already up, filming slow B-roll of the space. He focused on guys tying skates, then the gear hanging from hooks.
I was mid-stretch when I noticed him, one leg up on the bench, reaching for my toes. I froze.
It wasn't subtle. It was a full-body lock-up, like someone had hit my pause button.
Adrian's lens swept across the room. Toward me. Past me.
I held the stretch. Kept holding it long past the point where any reasonable person would have moved.
My hamstring screamed. My skate lace snapped—just gave up entirely.
The frayed end dangled accusingly.
Normal. Totally, completely, devastatingly normal.
Adrian set up an interview station by the boards—a spot near the bench with decent lighting and a clear backdrop of ice. One by one, guys skated over for their intros. Name, position, hometown, one fun fact. Thirty seconds, max.
Jake went first, leaning into the lens like an old friend: "Jake Riley, left wing, Vegas originally, but Thunder Bay's home now. Fun fact—I once got recognized at a gas station in Manitoba by a guy who'd seen my reality TV meltdown. He bought me a slushie. We're still in touch."
Evan followed, stiff but sincere: "Evan Carter. Defense. Michigan. I make cookies for the team. That's... probably not interesting enough for a fun fact."
"It's perfect," Adrian said.
I watched from across the ice, pretending to adjust my gloves while my pulse pounded in my ears.
