“Standings don’t mean anything until April.”
Shawn’s gaze shot to the huddle of fans crowding the entrance, growing more and more excited as we approached. “Well, it’sNovember, we’re nowhere close to where we need to be, and they sure as hell think that means something.”
“Fans love a meltdown,” I said with a shrug. “Gives them something to yell about.”
We crossed the painted lines of the lot, sneakers scuffing grit and old salt as the arena rose in front of us. I didn’t slow when I saw a cameraman and a reporter peel off from near the curb.
“Here we go,” I muttered under my breath, and had my game face firing on all cylinders in one second flat.
“Landon,” the reporter said, mic lifting, smile locked in. She was cute, so that made it easier to overlook the way she’d shoved into my path. “Rough start to the season. Tough loss to the Jets. There’s a lot of pressure on you this season, especially with everyone saying you’re the Surge’s ticket to making it two-in-a-row.”
Shawn made a noise like he’d swallowed a laugh. Mason stopped walking altogether, arms folding, eyes on me now instead of the reporter.
“Pressure’s why I’m here,” I replied, easy as ever.
The cameraman leaned in a fraction, probably for that close-up. The reporter’s eyebrows ticked up, which meant she’d gotten exactly what she wanted. “So you don’t feel the weight of expectations?”
“I feel ice under my skates,” I said. “Everything else is just noise.”
Mason’s hand landed between my shoulder blades then, firm enough to redirect. “Practice. We’re gonna be late.”
We kept moving, and somehow the cluster at the doors seemed bigger than before. Fans pressed up against the railing, Surge jerseys layered over hoodies, phones already out. Kids, mostly.A few older faces mixed in, the ones who’d been around long enough to think that gave them a right to be here.
A boy with a fresh Surge hat shoved a puck through the bars. “Can you sign please?”
I took the Sharpie from the usher without breaking stride and scrawled my name across the rubber, flipping it back with a nod. Shawn was crouched, signing a stick blade, Mason keeping one eye on his watch as he autographed a few posters.
Another jersey, this one a little worn, sleeve stretched toward me. I signed that too. A phone followed, camera flipped, a girl grinning so wide it looked painful.
Then a voice cut through it, louder than the rest, pitched to carry.
“Enjoy it while it lasts. Last year was dumb luck.”
I glanced up. The guy wasn’t old, just bitter, patchy beard, cap pulled low like that hid anything. He wasn’t asking for an autograph. He just wanted a reaction.
“Luck runs out,” he added, once he knew he had my attention.
The kids went quiet. Shawn straightened, and Mason was already moving my way.
I gave the guy my best Sunday service smile. “Why don’t you put on a pair of skates and show us how it’s done, then?”
A couple of people laughed. Someone muttered something sharp and not friendly. But by then, Mason’s hand was back, steering me hard toward the door.
“Inside,” he said.
He kept his body between me and the railing as we passed through, ushering Shawn ahead, the doors swinging shut behind us and cutting off the noise. The sound changed immediately. Concrete, echoes, the thud of bags hitting the floor.
“You can’t mouth off at fans,” Mason said as we walked to the locker room. “You’ll have Holly so far up your ass, a hundred enemas won’t fix it.”
“Maybe it’s not a bad idea to set them straight now and again.”
Shawn shook his head. “I’d say you should know better, but then again, how could you?”
The locker room was already alive when we got there. Music thumped from Tucker’s speaker. Sticks leaned in crooked rows. Tape littered the floor near the stalls. I dropped my bag, stripped down, pulled gear on in order without thinking about it. That part was automatic. Around me, it was talk of the loss, the anniversary special events, traveling to Missouri so close after Thanksgiving… I stayed out of it, and kept my head on the practice that was about to happen.
By the time we hit the ice, the banners were impossible to miss. Gold and blue fabric lining the rafters, dates stitched bold, reminders of what had been done here before I ever showed up. Faces of players past, names people said like prayers.
I didn’t slow under them.
