Raphaël claps twice, the sound sharp and commanding even in the midst of collective prostration.
"Alright. Shower your stinking selves and meet at the diner. Dinner is on me tonight."
The cheer that erupts is louder than any noise this team has produced in two days, including the goal celebration during the game they lost. The promise of free food operates as a universal restorative, capable of reviving athletes from the brink of physical death with the efficiency of a defibrillator powered by the prospect of not paying for their own meal.
"FREE FOOD!" Archie shouts from the bench, suddenly alive again, his earlier claims of dying apparently resolved by the introduction of financial incentive.
"The man said dinner is on him!" Henderson confirms, hauling himself to his feet with a renewed energy that was conspicuously absent thirty seconds ago. "Move, people! Showers! Now! Before he changes his mind!"
The training facility erupts into organized chaos as players drag themselves toward the locker rooms with the motivated urgency of people who have discovered that paradise awaits on the other side of a shower and a short walk to the campus diner.
Cal sets me down.
My feet hit the ground and my legs immediately inform me that they are participating in standing on a probationary basis. He keeps one hand on my shoulder, his ocean salt scent warm and grounding, his amber eyes scanning my face with the focused attention of a man performing a post-practice wellness check.
"You actually okay?" he asks. "And I mean the real answer, not the tough answer you give when you are pretending your body is not screaming at you."
"I am okay," I say, and it is the real answer, delivered with a breathlessness that undermines its credibility but is honest nonetheless. "I will probably feel it tomorrow. And the day after. And possibly for the rest of the calendar year. But I survived."
He chuckles, the sound tired but warm.
"You survived Raphaël's first practice. That is a badge of honor. Frame it. Put it on your wall." He nudges my shoulder with his fist. "But we have baking on Sunday, so you better be in working condition. I refuse to frost cookies alone. My artistic skills require supervision."
I laugh, the sound looser than my body has any right to produce given its current state of deterioration.
"I will not miss baking. You could not keep me away. I have been thinking about cookie frosting designs since Wednesday, and I have opinions that I intend to express with a piping bag."
He grins and jerks his head toward the locker rooms.
"Go shower and change. Do not take forever. I know how long you spend arguing with your hair, and tonight is not the night for a forty-minute conditioning routine. We have free dinner waiting and I will leave without you."
"You would not."
"Try me, MaeBell."
I wave him off with a smile, watching him jog toward the men's locker room where Etienne is already waiting by the door, his dark curls damp with sweat, his expression carrying the quiet satisfaction of an Alpha who endured seven and a half hours of his new captain's coaching and emerged with his dignity intact.
The training facility empties around me.
Bodies filter toward showers and changing rooms, the echoes of exhausted conversation fading as doors swing shut and the cavernous space settles into the hollow quiet of a venue between events. The ice sits beyond the glass partition, freshly resurfaced for the figure skating session that will begin in the next hour, its surface gleaming under the overhead lights like a mirror waiting for a reflection.
I walk toward Raphaël.
He is standing by the equipment rack, organizing a set of training cones with the methodical attention of a coach whotreats his gear with the same respect he expects from his players. I stop in front of him and punch his arm.
Hard. As hard as my exhausted muscles can manage, which, given the circumstances, is approximately the force of a kitten batting at a dangling string.
"Ow." The pain registers in my knuckles before it registers in his bicep, which is the approximate density of a concrete pillar wrapped in athletic fabric. I wince, shaking my hand. "Ow. That hurt me. That hurt me and not you. This is the worst revenge I have ever attempted."
He smirks, catching my stinging hand in his and rubbing his thumb across my knuckles with a gentleness that has no business coexisting with the sadistic training regimen he just administered.
"Your technique needs work," he says. "Rotate from the shoulder next time. You are punching with your wrist and your wrist is going to lose that argument every time against a deltoid."
"I hate you."
"You do not."
"I hate you so much."
