“Together,” we echoed back, voices solid.
For the first time since my skates hit the locker room floor, I let myself smile. Not soft. Not sweet.
Ready.
The door creaked again, and the room quieted just a beat as Rhys stepped in.
Nose bloodied, shirt torn at the shoulder. He walked in like nothing was wrong, but his knuckles were raw, and there was a smear of red on his jaw that sure as hell wasn’t his.
“The fuck happened to you?” Drew asked, eyes narrowing as he leaned against a bench. Cool and casual, but his voice had that edge—like steel beneath velvet.
Rhys wiped at his nose with the back of his arm, still breathing hard.
“What’s it look like?” he muttered, dropping onto the bench like his bones had finally remembered they were tired.
There was a pause.
Then Sam—big, broad-shouldered, always the one trying to play peacekeeper—huffed a laugh.
“Looks like you finally remembered how to throw a punch,” he said, shaking his head with half a grin. “Didn’t think you had it in you.”
Rhys glanced over, eyes sharp despite the bruise blooming under one of them. “Gary opened his mouth about Kennedy. So I shut it for him.”
Silence dropped again—heavier this time.
Not because it was shocking, but because Rhys didn’t fight. He was the guy who watched from the edge, who calculated, who cut with words instead of fists. He was the fucking assistant coach. Seeing him banged up like this? It meant something.
My throat tightened, and I looked over at him.
He just gave me a nod—barely perceptible, but I felt it in my chest. You protect yours. I protect mine.
Around us, the energy shifted again. Not hype now. Not adrenaline. Something deeper. Weightier.
Respect.
Brotherhood.
Toshi let out a low whistle. “We ride or die for Kennedy now, huh?”
“Damn right we do,” Dominic said, without missing a beat.
I looked around the room—at bruised faces, busted knuckles, bloodied jerseys—and felt it in every bone of my body.
This wasn’t just my fight anymore. They’d all picked a side.
Ours.
And we weren’t backing down.
I was still riding the high—adrenaline thrumming, jaw tight, blood crusting along my knuckles—when the locker room door opened one last time.
Coach stepped in.
Even after a win, the room tensed. Guys fell quiet. Everyone knew the difference between a celebration and a reckoning.
He scanned the locker room. We were bruised, bloodied, jackets half off, sweat clinging to skin and gear like armor. Rhys sat on the bench next to me, nose crooked and bleeding again, towel pressed to his face like it was the only thing keeping him from swinging again.
Then Coach’s gaze landed on me.
