I cut through the loading dock, keep my head down, and badge in through the staff entrance.
The locker room is a war zone.
A couple of the guys are already there, slamming Red Bulls and trading rumors. No one looks up when I come in.
They’re too busy doomscrolling, reading headlines out loud like play-by-play:
"STEELHAWKS STAR COMES OUT, CALLS OUT TOXIC LOCKER ROOM CULTURE"
"ASHER ROSEN: 'I WON'T BE YOUR SCAPEGOAT'"
"HOCKEY'S NEW HERO? OR LOCKER ROOM CANCER?"
I take my stall, pull my phone, and scroll the text chain with Ash. Still nothing since last night. I type "You good?" then erase it. Type "Here if you want to talk," then erase that, too.
Coach calls us in early. Her face is stone, but her voice is steady, the kind of controlled calm you get from years of dealing with drunks, assholes, and the kind of injuries that make strong men puke.
"Phones off, eyes front. We have a situation."
She waits for everyone to settle, even the rookies in the cheap seats. Ash is the last to arrive, ducking in with his hood up, the bruise on his chin purpled and the cut above his eyebrow held together by four little white steri-strips.
His phone is still buzzing, even in his pocket, and the sound is so loud it’s like a second heart beating next to mine.
Coach starts: "You’ve all seen the posts. I’m not going to insult your intelligence by pretending this is business as usual." She paces in front of the whiteboard, her hands balled into fists. "But if anyone thinks this is going to tear us apart, they’re dead wrong."
She stares at each of us, long enough to make you sweat, then zeroes in on Ash. "We’ve already lost four of our own. We are not losing another to the goddamn internet."
A silence follows, the kind that hums in your bones. Then Raz claps once, sharp and loud. Tommy follows.
Then the whole room, every guy on the roster, even the ones who wouldn’t give Ash the time of day last season, join in, a steady rhythm of hands slapping together, a percussive fuck-you to the world outside.
Ash doesn’t smile.
But he stands up a little straighter, lets his hands fall out of his pockets, and for a second, the buzzing stops.
Coach lets it go for a beat, then snaps back to business. "We’re going to practice. We’re going to win. And no one," she says, "is going to let a bunch of cowards hiding behind a keyboard define who we are."
There’s a moment where it feels like everything is back to normal.
Guys start gearing up, the air filled with the chemical stink of sweat and tape, voices rising as they chirp about the morning skate, the new lines, who’s on power play.
But when I look up, I see Ash across the room, head down, fingers tapping at his phone like it’s a panic button.
He catches me staring, holds my gaze for a fraction too long, then looks away.
The ice is a relief.
Out there, the noise dies, replaced by the familiar scrape and thud of skates and sticks, the shouts of teammates as they chase the puck up and down the rink.
Coach runs us through drills with no mercy, as if she can sweat the drama out of us by sheer force.
I stonewall every shot, my body moving on autopilot, but my mind is stuck on the tunnel vision of Ash’s face, the way he looked at me in the locker room, like he wanted to say something and couldn’t.
After practice, I try to disappear. The plan is to shower fast and get out before the media can camp the exit.
But as I hit the tunnel, Ash is waiting, one foot up on the wall, helmet dangling from two fingers. His eyes are red but his voice is steady.
"D, can we talk?"
