IT'S ALMOST 2 PM by the time my Uber pulls up in front of the absolute mansion that is Leila and Washington's house—massive, modern, and sitting on what appears to be half an acre of prime Chicago real estate. Perks of a team captain's salary, I imagine.
I'm hauling two duffel bags stuffed with supplies—extension cords, duct tape, hand warmers, emergency blankets, and approximately seventeen different kinds of snacks because someone needs to think about blood sugar levels around here.
The snow's falling steadily, fat flakes drifting down like the universe is just warming up for the main event. The forecast said it would get much worse. By tonight, this gentle snowfall will transform into a full-blown blizzard that'll make stepping outside feel like a personal attack from Mother Nature herself.
Right now, though? Right now it's almost pretty.
I crunch through the accumulating snow up the driveway, my breath forming clouds in the cold air, and push open thefront door without knocking because I've been here before, so I'm practically family, as far as I'm concerned.
Inside is controlled hell, and I meancontrolledin the loosest possible sense.
The living room has been transformed into a war room. Equipment is everywhere—lights, cables, tools, plastic sheeting, hockey gear in various states of assembly. Groover and Jinx are in the corner having what appears to be a very serious discussion about optimal camera placement, complete with hand gestures and occasional pointing at Becker's laptop, which is displaying some kind of software I don't understand.
Petrov's on the floor doing pushups for no apparent reason, counting in Russian.
Snooze is asleep on the couch despite the noise. Living up to his nickname, I guess.
And standing in the middle of it all, clipboard in hand, hair pulled back in a ponytail, wearing jeans and a Wolves hoodie, is Leila.
"Devon!" she shouts over the havoc the second she spots me. "Thank God. I need you on—" She glances at her clipboard. "—beverage station setup. Kayla and Hunter are in the kitchen. Also, Becker broke something in the garage but won't tell me what. Also, your phone's buzzing. Also—"
"Leila. Breathe."
She takes a breath. "Right. Breathing. Good idea."
"I'll handle Becker. You handle—" I gesture vaguely at everything. "—all of this."
She's already moving on to her next crisis, yelling something about extension cords to Wall.
I drop my bags by the door and head toward the kitchen, weaving through the obstacles, nodding at teammates as I pass. The house smells like coffee and cold air and that specific scent of organized panic. You know the one. It's the smell of people trying to pull off something impossible on an unreasonable timeline.
The kitchen is huge, with an island that could double as a landing strip, and Kayla and Hunter have taken it over completely. There are commercial-grade coffee makers lined up like soldiers, boxes of supplies stacked on every available surface, and then there's Frank, standing at the island, organizing what appears to be enough food to feed a small nation.
Which, given the crowd, might not be enough.
"You came," I say, surprised.
Frank looks up, grinning. "You think I'm missing this? I want a front-row seat."
"If we're doing this," Kayla adds, pouring coffee grounds into one of the industrial machines, "we're doing it right."
Hunter holds up a box of paper cups. "I brought twelve hundred cups. Think that's enough?"
"Probably not," I say honestly, "but I appreciate the optimism."
I'm helping them set up the coffee station when I hear…a siren?
Multiple sirens, actually, growing louder.
Everyone freezes.
"Did someone call 911?" Jinx asks nervously from the living room.
"I didn't!" Becker yells from somewhere deeper in the house.
The sirens get closer, then stop, right outside.
We all rush to the windows like we're in a sitcom, crowding around, pressing our faces to the glass, and—
