Most of the time, she loved it.
And then there were moments like this afternoon, when the fairy lights felt like a poor substitute for roots and the postcards on the walls reminded her of all the places she'd never go back to.
Hence, professional reconnaissance.
The arena's backstage areas were a maze of concrete corridors, service entrances, and mysterious doors with labels like "ELECTRICAL - AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY" and "ZAMBONI STORAGE." She'd already discovered the team cafeteria with the lingering scent of protein powder, the weight room that looked more like a medieval torture chamber, and a small meditation space that appeared to have been designed by someone whose idea of relaxation involved fluorescent lighting and motivational posters about winning.
But it was the locker room that stopped her in her tracks. The door was propped open, revealing a glimpse of gleaming wood benches and individual cubbies stretching into the distance. Thesmell hit her first—sweat and industrial cleaner, and something earthier that made her think of pine forests and cold winter mornings.
I shouldn't go in there,her sensible side warned.It's definitely off-limits.
Her feet were already moving.
The Emerald Enforcers' locker room was surprisingly elegant for a space dedicated to sweaty athletes. Each player had their own cubby, marked with nameplates and hung with equipment in various states of use. Some cubbies were cluttered with hockey tape and energy bar wrappers and crumpled towels. Others were bare, waiting for their occupants. A few had personal touches like family photos, lucky charms, and a poster of what appeared to be a troll death metal band.
And then there was Tarmek's locker.
She knew it was his before she even saw the nameplate. His equipment hung on hooks at exactly even intervals. His skates were aligned with military precision, blades gleaming and guards in place. A small shelf held toiletries arranged by height—shampoo, body wash, and deodorant, all with their labels facing forward. A folded towel sat at a perfect right angle. Even his spare laces were coiled into identical circles and hung on small pegs.
It was beautiful. It was insane.
"Oh my god," she breathed, leaning closer. "You absolute control freak."
The cubby was a masterpiece of organizational obsession. She'd seen neat before—she'd painted a mural in a monastery, forcrying out loud—but this was something else entirely. This was a male who had waged war against chaos and won. This was a male who would absolutely lose his mind if someone moved his deodorant two inches to the left.
A slow grin spread across her face.
Don't do it,her sensible side urged, but once again she ignored it.
She glanced around. The locker room was empty. The corridor outside was silent. The team was probably at afternoon practice or whatever hockey players did in the middle of the day. No one would ever know.
Except Tarmek. Tarmek woulddefinitelyknow.
She moved the deodorant exactly one inch to the left. Then she tilted the body wash label slightly away from center. Then she repositioned the skates to the alignment was off by a quarter of an inch. Then she uncoiled one of his spare laces and left it in a loose figure-eight instead of a perfect circle.
The changes were subtle, barely noticeable to anyone who wasn't pathologically obsessed with order. Which meant that Tarmek would notice instantly.
She stepped back to admire her work, heart racing with the gleeful thrill of chaos. The cubby looked almost exactly the same—but wrong in a way that would drive a certain orc captain absolutely batty.
"This is childish," she told herself.
Yes,her brain agreed.And also hilarious.
She was still grinning when she slipped back into the corridor, pulling the door shut behind her with a soft click. Her phone buzzed again—probably Sam with another question about the mural timeline—but she ignored it.
Tomorrow, she'd be professional. Tomorrow, she'd focus on sketches and paint palettes and the serious business of transforming a lobby into a work of art.
But tonight?
Tonight she was going to enjoy the mental image of Tarmek Stonefist walking into his locker room and discovering that someone had violated the sacred order of his toiletries.
Enormous, she thought, and laughed all the way back to her camper.
CHAPTER THREE
Someone has touched my things.
Tarmek stood frozen in front of his locker, equipment bag dangling from his fist, and stared at the catastrophe before him. His deodorant, which he always positioned exactly three inches from the left edge of the shelf with the label facing forward at a precise ninety-degree angle, had been moved. Not dramatically. Just enough that the label now tilted slightly towards the right wall, and the container itself sat perhaps an inch closer to his body wash than it should.
