“We don’t have to know why right this second. He told us what he came to tell us, and we have practice in” — I check the clock — “eleven minutes, so we’re going to be on the ice ready to go, because that’s what we do.”
“Is it?” Niko says, his first words. He looks up with the dry expression he wears when he doesn’t plan to be talked out of his point. “This seems pretty fucking unusual.”
“It’s going to be fine.”
Niko studies me, then shrugs.
Seb’s voice carries across the room. “Listen to him.”
The room does, because while Seb doesn’t speak much, when he does, it has gravity. Theo nods, Luca nods, Mason doesn’t — but he doesn’t argue, either — and the rest of them fall into line.
I lean down, pull on my right skate, and lace it. My hands are steady, but something goes tight under my ribs. Because while I may have kept the lid on the panic for the next little while, I know how fragile locker-room morale can be.
As if to illustrate the point, Theo is at the whiteboard now, staring at the lines.
“Is this still PP1?” he says. “Who runs the point without Gavin?”
“Just leave it for now, Theo.” Luca clamps a hand on his shoulder.
Mason laughs once. “Going to be a long afternoon, Captain.”
“Don’t call me that,” I say.
He smiles, but says nothing else.
Eight minutes after Gavin walked out, Coach Franklin walks in.
It’s not dramatic. He comes through the doors like he’s walking into a meeting he was scheduled for, and he stops on the same spot Gavin stood. The coincidence probably isn’t intentional, but the room feels it anyway.
“Gavin has elected to leave the program.” He pauses, shifting his clipboard from his right hand to his left. “I’m not going to get into the details, because frankly they’re not your business. What is your business is how you handle the news and what happens next.”
He looks at me the same way he’s been looking at me all season.
Like I’m the solution to a problem he’s been solving in advance.
That’s how I know.
“This team needs stability. It needs someone the rest of you trust, who knows the system, and who the coaching staff trusts to take the team forward,” he says. “Hale, you’ll wear the C for the rest of the season, and we’ll talk about next year when we get to next year.”
“Yes, Coach,” I say, feeling every person’s stare.
Because what else am I supposed to say?
“Good,” he says. “This program has been here for ninety-one years. We’ve had captains break their legs in November and lead from the press box, and we’ve had captains get drafted and sent off to war. The letter doesn’t make the team, and you’re all expected to be leaders.”
There’s a chorus of “Yes, Coach.”
Franklin’s hand lands on my shoulder. “On the ice in three.”
And then he’s gone, and this is all mine.
Someone — Luca, I think — lets out a noise that’s somewhere between a whoop and a battle cry. Then there’s a lot of sound, the room surging forward, a locker room reaching for something good to feel.
Theo punches my arm harder than he probably means to. Luca starts a chant of HA-LE, HA-LE. I sit there for a moment, stunned, even though I should feel something cleaner. Pride, maybe. But what I feel is the weight of everyone needing me to be okay.
I stand up, and the room goes quiet much faster than I want it to. They’re not joking anymore, not really, even Luca. They’re looking at me the way a team looks at the guy who has all the answers.
“Schedule’s the same, system’s the same, and practice today is practice, not group therapy,” I say. “We’ve got a game Friday, and we’re going to be ready for it, because nothing about this team changed today except one piece of lettering on a jersey. That’s it.”
