The guys were finishing up some optional puck-handling drills. Tucker was at center ice, lazily flipping a puck into the air andcatching it on his blade, laughing at something Cash had said. The atmosphere was light, relaxed, the kind of comfort that comes from successfully pushing a threat out of the inner circle.
I didn't wait for a whistle, or ask for a turn. "Rookie! Get on the wall!"
His head snapped up, and the laughter at center ice died instantly.
"Practice is over," Tucker said, his voice dripping with bored condescension. "Go find a heating pad and some chamomile tea."
I ignored him, and found a puck near the boards, driving it hard toward the circle. “I said on the wall. We’re running the transition drill again. Properly this time."
"He doesn't have to do anything you say," Tucker said, skating toward me, his stick held loosely in one hand. "I told you—"
I didn't let him finish. I exploded into a crossover, closing the gap between us in three strides. It would have been too easy to hit him. Instead, I lifted his stick with a violent, surgical snap of my own, stripped the puck from his blade, and fired a no-look, tape-to-tape pass to the waiting rookie.
"Go!" I yelled at the kid.
Caught between my command and Tucker’s ego, the rookie chose me. He broke for the net. I followed, clearing the lane by physically moving Tucker out of the way with a heavy shoulder. A reminder of who had the higher center of gravity.
For the next fifteen minutes, I didn't play "guest" hockey. I played Michael Landry hockey. I was loud. I was heavy. I was everywhere. When Cash tried to poke-check me during a three-on-two, I stepped into his hands, taking the ice that belonged to me and leaving him stumbling. I wasn't looking for a "C" on any jersey; I was looking for the back of the net.
I fired a slap shot from the top of the circle that caught the crossbar with a deafeningping, the vibration humming through the ice. Coach stood watching, quiet but calculating.
"The senior tour just closed for the day, Tucker," I said, my voice rasping in my chest. "You want to play hero puck? Do it on your own time. On my shift, you move the puck, or you get moved."
The silence that followed was different than the one before. It wasn't the silence of exclusion; it was the silence of a team realizing the predator in the room had stopped pretending to be their pet.
After practice, I skated off the ice last, my lungs burning with the kind of fire I hadn't felt in months. My hip was screaming, and my shin was a map of purple bruises, but the "tourist" was finally gone.
The locker room was a cacophony of slamming stalls and the smell of ozone and sweat. I walked in, stripping my gloves and tossing them into my locker. The resentment in the air had a metallic tang to it that stuck in the back of my throat.
Coach walked in a minute later. "Lines for tomorrow against the Stars. First line stays. Second line: Shawn, and Michael."
The sound of a tape-cutter snapping was the only noise in the room. Mason threw his towel onto the floor, and Tucker’s jaw tightened so hard I thought I heard his teeth crack.
"Landry's on the second?" Tucker asked, his voice a low, dangerous growl. "After he spent half of practice hiding behind the rookies?"
"He stopped hiding," Coach said, his eyes locking onto Tucker’s. "Maybe you should try doing the same. He’s got second wing. Deal with it."
Coach walked out, and the tension in the room snapped like a high-tension wire.
I reached for my skate tool, focusing on the blade. I could feel Tucker’s stare from three stalls down. It was a physical heat.
"You think you’re something, don't you?" Tucker said. He stood up, still in his base layers, his chest puffed out. "You come in here, suck up to Coach, and suddenly you’re the savior of the franchise?"
I didn't look up. "I’m a hockey player. I’m here to win games. If that hurts your feelings, buy a diary."
"You’re a washed-up hack looking for one last paycheck," he spat, stepping into my space. He kicked my equipment bag, sending my spare laces skittering across the floor. "You don't belong in this room. You’re nothing but a kiss-ass rat."
I stood up slowly. I was taller than him, broader, and I had a decade of scars that he hadn't earned yet. "Move your foot," I said, my voice trembling with warning.
"Make me, old man."
He shoved me—a two-handed strike to the chest that caught me off balance. I hit the back of my locker with a hollow thud.
Years of restraint, the "nice guy" persona, the "guest" etiquette… it all vanished. I didn't think about the press box or the waivers. I recognized the smug, entitled sneer on his face, and I saw red.
Then I lunged for him.
I caught him by the collar of his thermal shirt and slammed him back against the center island of the locker room. Brushes, tape, and water bottles flew everywhere. Tucker swung, a wild, desperate right hook that caught me in the temple, but I didn'tfeel it. I drove my forearm into his throat, pinning him down while the rest of the team erupted into shouts.
