Three wraps past the heel, half-overlap, consistent tension from heel to toe.
Around me, the locker room ran its usual current. Rook dressed two stalls down in the order that never changed—socks, shin guards, pants. Pratt stretched in the center of the floor, one leg extended, forehead nearly touching his knee, eyes closed. A man meditating inside a suit of armor.
Varga was talking, as always.
"—the thing about deep-dish is that it's not pizza. It's a casserole that committed identity fraud. I've been saying this for years. Nobody listens. It's a structural argument. The cheese-to-crust ratio violates—"
"Varga," Rook said. "It's nine in the morning."
"Truth doesn't have business hours."
Four days since the deadline. The board in Markel's office still held the same names in the same positions.
I was still here.
I'd played thirty-seven games. Scored fourteen goals. Earned trusted minutes in high-leverage situations and net-front assignments that Coach Markel didn't hand out as favors.
The deadline came and went. My name stayed on the board.
That meant something.
Varga migrated from pizza taxonomy to something about a documentary he'd watched on competitive eating. He was half-dressed, one shin guard on, the other still in his stall, gesturing with a roll of tape.
"—and the hot dog guy, the champion? He trains by drinking water. Gallons. Expanding his stomach capacity. He logs it. It's a training program. Progressive overload. The man periodizes his hydration, Rook. He has a watermacro split—"
"Nobody asked."
"Nobody ever asks. That's the tragedy of being ahead of the discourse."
I reached for my skates. Left foot first. Tongue pulled forward, laces threaded through the lower eyelets. The motion was automatic.
"Hey, Donnelly."
Varga changed the subject to me.
"Yeah."
"You see the deadline breakdown onThe Athletic? Good stuff. Barkov went for a haul. Two firsts and a prospect."
"Didn't read it."
"You should. Context matters." He yanked his shin guard on and velcroed it tight. "Speaking of, heard they were shopping you before the deadline. Like, for real. Three teams. Then Mathers signed and the whole thing went away. Lucky break, right?"
He tossed the news out between shin guard and elbow pad, delivered with the same weight he'd given the deep-dish argument and the competitive-eating documentary.
"What?"
"Yeah, Pratt's agent heard from somebody. You were in a package. Cap space thing. Mathers's extension fixed the math, so—" Varga shrugged. Reached for an elbow pad. "Anyway, the Barkov return is insane. Two firsts. In this market."
He was already gone. Next subject loaded.
My hands had stopped moving.
The left skate was half-laced. Tongue still forward. Laces threaded through the fourth eyelet but not the fifth. I looked at my fingers where they held the lace.
Shopping you.Three teams.Mathers signed and the whole thing went away.
The equipment dryers hummed behind the far wall. The sound had been there all morning. Now it was the only thing I could hear.
