Rémi tips his chin at her. Approximately a degree. It is the warmest greeting he has issued a stranger in a calendar year.
“Matteo Santori,” I add, dryly. “Winger, twenty-one. Already self-introduced. Repeatedly. Aggressively.”
“Rude.” Matteo, delighted.
“Accurate.”
Iris’s mouth does the crooked thing again. She is fighting the smile and losing.
I shrug the duffel off my shoulder onto the bench by the door, set the case down beside it, and turn to face the room. Ilet the silence settle before I speak, because I have learned that a captain who fills silence the moment it appears is a captain whose team will eventually stop listening.
“Listen up.”
Twelve heads come up at once. Even Petrov, mid-stretch, freezes and remains frozen, because two years of training have made the lift of my voice an involuntary signal.
“This is Iris O’Shea. As of this morning she is our sector’s goalie. As of this afternoon she has a problem that lands at our door. Omega housing is full. The administration confirms there is no bed for her in the standard residence this semester.”
A small ripple goes around the room. Murray, finally, returns the toast to the counter.
“And the other half of the program,” I continue, level, “was polled an hour ago and refused to host her. Unanimously. Citing disruption.”
Hargrove makes a soft sound through his teeth. Not laughter. Something closer to a snort buried under a winter coat.
“Her scholarship requires confirmed housing.” I let the words sit. “Without it, her placement is forfeit by tomorrow afternoon. She is on a plane home. Her North Star career ends before it begins.”
Linder shifts his weight. Petrov is still folded.
“Clearly,” I say, “we hate losing.”
“We hate it,” Matteo agrees, lazy, from where he has reclaimed his perch on the couch arm.
“We also,” I go on, “are not douchebags.”
A few quick nods. A handful of heads that do not nod and that I watch and file. Hargrove specifically. Murray, slower, getting there.
“This house is large enough to absorb one more person. We have an unused storage room at the back of our sector’s wing. Bare walls, bare floor, a window that opens. Convertible to abedroom inside an afternoon with the four of us and a trip to the hardware store. I am offering it to Iris. I would like the offer to come from the room rather than around it. So.”
I sweep the team.
“Any objections, you bring them to me. Now. Out loud. Not in a group chat. Not in a hallway. Now.”
Silence.
The good kind. The kind where every man in the room runs the math, considers the captain in front of him, and decides not to be the example.
“Ground rules,” I say, before the silence can shift. “One. Same as it was this morning. You will be civil. You will not chirp her in the kitchen. You will not chirp her in the laundry room. You will not chirp her, period. Two. The storage door is her door. You knock. You wait. Three. You bully her, I will be unhappy. And me unhappy is a logistics problem none of you want.”
From the couch arm: “And I will break a limb of yours, and Coach will bench you a minimum six weeks for fighting in-house, and the medical staff will start a wager pool on the recovery time.”
I cut Matteo a sidelong look.
I do not contradict him.
Matteo’s grin widens. From the kitchen doorway, Rémi’s mouth tilts, fractional, the version of a smirk he only ever issues with the lights low.
“Objections,” I repeat. “Speak now.”
Petrov clears his throat from the floor.
