Another horn blared. New drills loaded in. Passing, breakaways, blue-line coverage. Over and over until sweat burned through pads and lungs heaved.
Rhett was still riding hot, pushing himself hard and calling out encouragements even while he worked, and the guys followed. They always did. Roan drove the structure. Rhett lit the fire.
Me?
I kept the goddamn thing from burning down the whole building.
Even with all of that humming beneath the surface—everyone skating harder, tighter, smarter—you couldfeelit. The noise outside the rink.
The bracket announcement was imminent.
Everyone knew the Vultures were gunning for us. Not just on the ice, but off it too. They were trying to rattle cages. Leak drama. Stir the pot and keep us off balance. I’d seen it a dozen times before from other teams. It always came down to psychological warfare this close to playoffs.
But the Howlers?
We didn’t break.
I skated up alongside Roan during water break. He was frowning at the corner of the rink, running something mental in his head. Maybe lines, maybe plays, maybe how to keep the newer guys from crumbling under the weight ofexpectation.
He didn’t say anything at first, just handed me a water bottle.
“You good?” I asked.
He gave a grunt of assent. “They’re pushing harder today. It’s good. We need that.”
“But?”
He glanced at the far bench, where half the team was crowding around someone’s phone.
“Distraction’s bleeding in,” he muttered. “I’d rather they get it over with.”
“They will,” I said. “Soon.”
Roan’s jaw flexed once. “When it drops, they’ll want to talk. To speculate. We shut it down.”
I nodded. “Rhett’ll keep the mood light. I’ll keep the tempo.”
His eyes met mine.
“I’ll handle the noise,” I added.
A breath passed between us.
“I know,” he said, quiet. Then he looked back at the rink. “Let’s make themearntheir spot.”
I grinned. “They don’t stand a chance.”
Roan skated off without another word.
The horn blew again and we dove back in.
The brackets droppedright about lunchtime, exactly when I expected. Coach walked into the locker room like he already knew the temperature and intended to reset it.
He didn’t bark. Didn’t raise a hand or his voice. Just let the weight of his presence carry the room as every player stilled mid-grumble or glance at their screens. Word spread fast. We weren’t facing the Vultures in round one.
“No Vultures first,” he confirmed, dropping his clipboard onto the bench like a gavel.
Disappointment flared across a few faces. I felt it, too. It wasn’t just about rivalry, it was about momentum. About shutting that kind of noise down early. Sure, part of me had wanted to be the one to take Rylan out personally. I wasn’t proud of it. But I wasn’t lying to myself either.
