"For you, that's basically a rager. I'm proud of you, man. Character growth."
Jake rolled his eyes, but he was smiling. Marcus had been his closest friend on the team since Jake signed three years ago—mostly because Marcus was the only person who could make Jake laugh when he was in one of his moods.
Marcus "Stone" Williams was twenty-six, from San Diego, and the most laid-back person Jake had ever met. He was also one of the best goalies in the ECHL, which people tended to forget because he showed up to games wearing neon slide sandals and Hawaiian shirts. He'd been playing professional hockey for four years—two in the AHL, two in Timber Falls—and he treated every day like a vacation.
"You know what we should do?" Marcus said. "Team dinner. Friday night. Mandatory fun."
"Mandatory fun is an oxymoron," Jake said.
"So is 'Jake Morrison having a social life,' but here we are, living in unprecedented times." Marcus grinned. "Come on. Mac's Tavern. The whole team. We can carbo-load before Saturday's game, bond, tell embarrassing stories about Owen—"
"Hey!"
"—and you can practice this new thing you're doing where you occasionally interact with other humans."
"I interact with other humans."
"Grunting at us during practice doesn't count."
Other players started filtering in—Dmitri Volkov, their Russian winger who spoke approximately five words per day; Ryan Chen,their enforcer who was actually a philosophy major; Hank the equipment manager, who'd been with the team for twenty years and functioned as everyone's surrogate father.
The locker room filled with the familiar sounds of morning practice prep: skates being sharpened, sticks being taped, the low hum of conversation punctuated by laughter. This was Jake's other routine, as established as his 4 AM wake-ups and Wednesday pork buns.
"Okay but seriously," Owen said, appearing at Jake's elbow like a persistent mosquito, "can I ask you something?"
"You're going to anyway."
"How do you do it?"
Jake looked up. Owen's face was earnest, open, painfully young. "Do what?"
"Stay focused. Everyone talks about how you're like, the most mentally tough player they've ever seen. Stone-faced, never rattled, totally locked in. How do you get like that?"
Jake felt something twist in his chest. Stone-faced. Locked in. All the things people said when they meant "emotionally shut down."
"It's not a skill you want to learn," Jake said quietly.
"But—"
"Owen." Jake set down his stick and looked the kid straight in the eye. "You know why they call me Reaper?"
"Because you're deadly accurate?"
"Because I stopped enjoying it. The game. Hockey. I show up, I do the work, I score goals, and I feel nothing. You know what that makes me? Efficient. Not better. Not happier. Just...efficient." Jake picked up his tape again. "You've still got joy in your game. Don't trade that for whatever the hell it is I'm doing."
Owen was quiet for a long moment. Then: "Do you wish you still had it? The joy?"
"Every single day."
Marcus, who'd been pretending not to listen, kicked Jake's shin gently. A reminder:You're not alone in this.
Tommy's whistle cut through the chatter. "All right, ladies, let's go! Ice time's expensive and my knees are telling me it's gonna rain!"
The team filed out toward the ice, Jake bringing up the rear as always. As he passed Tommy, the coach grabbed his arm.
"Owen's looking up to you," Tommy said quietly.
"I know."
