That’s the whole day, violence and recovery, pain and the proof you survived it.
After, the team herds into the break room, which is just a corner of the warehouse with a folding table and a fridge that smells like death. Someone brought Costco muffins; the box is already half gone.
There’s a radio playing classic rock, too low to compete with the voices.
O’Doul starts it. “Remember Cap’s karaoke?” he says, tearing into a muffin with his front teeth.
Raz snorts. “How could you forget? Wagon Wheel three times a night. Fucking war crime.”
A couple of the rookies try to one-up with stories of Cap’s worst pranks, but the old guys know the good ones. “He put Icy Hot in Vasquez’s chalk,” O’Doul says, eyes glinting. “She screamed like she’d been shot.”
The laughter is ugly, but real. Even Coach, lurking at the edge with her clipboard, cracks a smile.
Raz pipes in. “What about the cowboy hat phase? Two months, wouldn’t take it off. Showered in it.”
“He said it made him faster. ‘Aerodynamics, bitch,’” someone quotes, and the room shakes with the kind of laughter that’s equal parts mourning and defiance.
I look around the table. Everyone’s talking, mouths full, but underneath it is the shared knowledge that nothing will ever be the same.
The old team is dead. The new team is still figuring out what it means to live.
Darius sits next to me, close enough that our shoulders touch. He’s eating a protein bar, tearing it with the side of his mouth, methodical.
I feel the warmth of his arm through my sleeve. I keep thinking he’ll move, create distance, but he doesn’t.
The stories keep coming, louder, funnier, until every phone in the room vibrates at once.
For a moment, the conversation fractures, replaced by a collective groan as the world tries to elbow its way into our bubble.
I check my phone, NEWS ALERT. Second shooter still at large. Suspect described as “armed and dangerous,” last seen in the city limits, “believed to be targeting affiliated personnel.”
The room goes dead silent. No more jokes, no more laughter.
Coach steps forward, clipboard to her chest like a shield. “Listen up. New protocols.
Nobody leaves alone, everybody checks in when you get home. If you see anything, you say something. I don’t care if it’s a goddamn pigeon, you report it.”
Someone mutters, “Yes, Coach,” and the group breaks up, the easy warmth gone, replaced by the same old dread.
On the ice, the next scrimmage is full contact. No holds barred. I skate like I’m trying to outrun a bullet.
Every time I get knocked down, I bounce up faster. I lose track of the score, but I know I’m winning at not dying.
Darius is a monster in net, taking shots like he’s allergic to letting anything past.
At one point, I crash the crease, and our bodies collide, full speed. We both go down, and for a second, I’m sprawled on top of him, chest to chest, hearts thundering like a drumline.
He looks up at me, eyes burning, and I can’t tell if he’s furious or terrified or something else entirely.
I roll off, scramble to my feet, but the memory of his body under mine is the only thing I’ll remember about today.
When practice ends, the team trickles out in pairs and trios, nobody daring to walk alone. I wait at the exit, helmet in hand, until Darius catches up.
He doesn’t say anything. He just walks with me to the parking lot, our steps in sync.
At my car, he stops. “You good?” he asks, voice low.
“Yeah,” I say, but it’s a lie. I want to ask him what happened in the shower, if he remembers, if it meant anything, if he wants it to.
