I could easily buy a home, hell, I could buy a block, but unlike the rest of my family, I view our privilege to be more of a burden. Kilovac has changed the way I look at it. I now see it as an inevitable responsibility. Oddly, the weight of that is far heavier. Luckily, I can easily block all of that noise and focus on the present. The life I have chosen, not the one that chose me, one that is waiting on this one’s inevitable end.
I know, I know, first-world problems. But it is what it is. And what it is, is very seasonal and temporary.
Callahan and Kozlov had expressed interest in moving in, and I am all for it. When Koa bought his place, and we all knew wherever Koa went, Dash did, much like Kilovac and I; they came from the same college and were brothers by everything but blood, just like Killer and I.
“Don’t be jealous,” Marshall says.
Kozlov fires back. “You’re not my type.”
“Too many tattoos?” Hank flexes his sleeve, the ink stretching as his forearm tightens.
Marshall’s arm reads like a Texas archive carved into skin. A longhorn skull crowns his shoulder, weathered and cracked. Barbed wire trails down his bicep in loose coils. Beneath it, a windmill rises from open plains, horizon wide and endless. Closer to his wrist, a rope-woven star sits bold and centered, heritage stamped without apology. And threaded along the inside of it all, scripture instead of decoration, 2 Timothy 1:7 wrapping faith around muscle like a reminder he carries into every arena.
I looked it up,For God gave us a spirit not of fear, but of power and love and self-control.
It’s loud. Patriotic. Earnest in the distinctly American way. It’s Hank.
“Subtle,” I say dryly.
Marshall grins. “It’s called pride.”
“It’s called announcing yourself before you enter a room,” I correct.
Kozlov laughs. “You have one.”
“I do. My history,” I reply, pulling my gloves tighter.
“No one just has one.” Callahan chuckles.
“The rest of my history does not require illustration.”
Marshall shrugs. “Mine keeps me grounded.”
That part, I understand. Not the volume. But the reason.
There’s an easy rhythm to these exchanges, a practiced choreography that never quite tips into genuine cruelty. It’s what passes for affection in a room where everyone is paid to be twice as tough as they feel. The jokes and banter stills the nervous current beneath all of our skin, inked or otherwise.
I lean over to tape my stick, and the scent of eucalyptus balm blends with the sharp reek of open bags. All around, the guys perform their rituals: someone mutters a Latin prayer, another lines up his pucks at perfect intervals, a rookie rubs his helmet with the same dirty towel for what must be the thousandth time. It’s a pageant of superstition, but it works. Keeps us from thinking too hard about the fans, or what we’ll learn about ourselves on social media tomorrow, true or not, or the men upstairs who hold the pen on our contracts.
I glance up and catch Dash Sterling’s reflection in the mirrored trophy case. He’s fussing with his pads, turning his head from side to side, checking out his reflection, ever the pretty boy.
“Faulker,” he calls when he notices me looking. “You ready to shut down McLeod tonight?”
I offer the faintest smile. “That’s the plan, unless you want to take a shift on defense.”
He grins back. “God, no. The only time I hit someone is when I have to.”
Hank chimes in, “Remember that time you tripped over the ref and took out three of their first line?”
Dash bows theatrically. “I call it strategic play.”
Laughter filters through the room, a release valve for the jitters. Even Kozlov breaks character and cracks a crooked grin.
Coach D appears in the doorway, arms folded, and instantly the noise drops by half. She surveys us, eyes flicking from veteran to rookie. For a few seconds, nobody moves, a display of anticipation and nervous energy.
She clears her throat. “Stick to the plan. No hero plays until we’re three up.”
“Noted,” I say, just loud enough for Coach to hear.
