I fell into step. Let the words wash over me.
"—and their coffee tastes like they brew it in Pratt's game socks. After triple overtime. In July. You ever been downwind of Pratt after bag skate? That's what their medium roast—"
"Varga," Rook called from ahead. "You need a nap or a muzzle?"
"I need accountability for crimes against caffeine!"
We boarded through the jet bridge. Charter flight. Ironhawks logo on the tail like livestock branding.
The cabin smelled like leather and unsubtle cologne. Seats wider than anything I'd flown commercially.
Varga pointed at two open seats midway back. "You're with me. Rookie orientation starts now."
I took the window. Varga claimed the aisle, long legs already angled out as if he’d decided the space was his.
Across the cabin, three rows up, Kieran settled into his seat.
I buckled in. Engine vibration traveled up through the seat frame and into my spine.
Varga was already scrolling on his phone. "So. First legit road trip?"
"Yeah."
"Cool. Essential intel: Hotel breakfast is a trap. Looks abundant, tastes like cardboard. Bring your own bars. The bus to the rink leaves ten minutes before they say, so never trust the posted time. And when we win, Pratt orders room service at 2am and charges it to whoever scored first. Congratulations, you're buying him a burger tonight."
I blinked. "That's real?"
"Ironclad tradition. Did it to me in the preseason. Thirty-dollar burger. Never said a word."
Rook's voice drifted back. "You didn't score first. You didn't score at all."
"I scoredspiritually!"
The cabin door sealed. Engine noise climbed.
I watched the wing through the window. Flaps adjusting. Mechanisms I didn't understand but trusted completely.
I thought about my new routines. Morning skates. My name on manifests. Locker room chirping that included me instead of targeting me.
It all could have settled me.
Instead, my fear sharpened. Routine could evaporate. The more normal I let this feel, the steeper the fall when someone decided I didn't fit after all.
The engines roared, and the jet accelerated. I closed my eyes as we left the ground.
Detroit's rink was older than Chicago's by decades. Peeling paint. Exposed pipes. It didn't hide it.
The concrete hallways housed ghosts, fifty years of sweat and tape residue and Zamboni exhaust that never fully aired out. Overhead pipes ran exposed, wrapped in peeling insulation.
It was honest. No longer pretending to be anything except a place where people played hockey and went home.
I dressed methodically. Skate laces checked twice, then a third time because the third check was the one that mattered.
Coach Markel's pregame speech lasted ninety seconds.
"They'll pressure hard through neutral. Don't force it. Chip and chase when the lane's not there. Stay disciplined."
That was it.
