“Is called winning.” Volkov stepped out of the shower, water streaming down his heavily muscled frame. “You play with structure, you win. You play like children, you lose.”
“We won tonight,” Finn pointed out.
“Was exhibition. Means nothing.” Volkov grabbed his towel and headed back toward his stall. “New coach will make us earn it.”
The mood shifted slightly, the reality of settling over all of us. A new coach meant new systems, new expectations, new ways to fuck up. It meant proving ourselves all over again, earning ice time, earning trust. It meant nothing from last season mattered anymore.
“Well, this is depressing now,” Finn said. “Someone say something funny.”
“Your contract,” Benny offered.
“Fuck you.”
“See? Funny.”
I finished drying off and wrapped the towel around my waist, heading back to my stall. The banter continued behind me: debate about Tate's hair product and whether it was worth the forty dollars he spent on it. I was already mentally checking out, already preparing for what came next.
The reporter came in twenty minutes later. Avery Shaw, beat writer for the Northgate Tribune. I didn't hate them personally,but I also didn't trust anyone whose job was to turn my words into headlines.
“Jace, two goals tonight. Feeling good heading into the season?”
I turned on the charm like flipping a switch. Easy smile. Relaxed posture. Golden boy. “Yeah, felt good to be back out there. Exhibition games are about timing, getting the legs under you. The guys played great. Elias was a wall back there.”
“There's been talk about last season's playoff exit. How are you approaching this year differently?”
“Every season is different,” I said smoothly. “We've got new coaching staff coming in, new systems to learn. I'm focused on what I can control, which is my effort and preparation. The rest takes care of itself.”
Meaningless platitudes. Perfect.
They asked a few more questions and I answered each one with the same polished nothing. When they finally left, I felt like I'd run a marathon. Performing was exhausting in a way hockey never was.
I checked my reflection in the mirror by the door on my way out. Clean-cut. An expensive haircut courtesy of a sponsor deal. A jawline that photographed well. Eyes that looked bright and focused if you didn't look too close.
Golden boy. Franchise face.
I wanted to punch the glass.
Owen's barwas called The Penalty Box, which was embarrassingly on-the-nose for a place that catered to hockey players and their hangers-on, but Owen had never been subtle. It was tucked into a side street downtown—a spot that lookeddivey from the outside but had craft cocktails and a bouncer who knew exactly who to let in and who to turn away.
I parked two blocks over and walked, keeping my hood up. The last thing I needed was to get recognized and have photos show up on social media of me at a bar the night of an exhibition game. The optics would probably be fine, but I didn't want to deal with it.
The bouncer nodded when he saw me. “Hart. Owen's behind the bar.”
Inside was dimly lit, all exposed brick and Edison bulbs. Crowded but not packed. A Friday night energy without the desperation. I spotted Owen immediately, working the bar, pouring something amber into a rocks glass while laughing at whatever the customer was saying.
He saw me and his face split into a grin. “There's my superstar. Two goals tonight, I heard.”
“You watched?”
“Had it on in the back. You looked good.” He slid a glass of water across the bar toward me. “Start with this. You look dehydrated.”
I took the water and found a spot at the end of the bar where the wall gave me some cover. Owen had been my best friend since we were fifteen, back when we both thought we'd make the NHL together. He'd been good, really good, but not quite good enough. A blown knee at nineteen, a career over before it started. Now he worked here and didn't hate me for succeeding where he'd failed, which made him either a saint or a masochist.
He was also the only person in the world who knew I was gay.
“New coach starts Monday,” I said, because that felt safer than admitting how anxious I actually was.
“Could be good. Maybe he'll actually push you instead of treating you like a PR asset.”
