Marco: La famiglia chiede di te. Quando torni a casa?
I read it in English before I answer.The family asks about you. When are you coming home?
I move the stick to my off hand and type with one hand without breaking stride.
Me: Dopo la stagione. Dì a papà che sto gestendo tutto.
After the season. Tell Dad I'm handling things.
The phone goes back into my warmup pocket, and the weight of the words sits heavier than the device.
The locker room hits me all at once when I push through the door—tape tearing, pads hitting tile, metal lockers slamming—the later-skate routine, everyone's hands slower and the talklooser, like we've already survived the hard part of the day. I drop my bag on the bench at my stall and pull the tape roll from the side pocket.
Stick, tape, blade. I wedge the stick between my knees and lay down three wraps at the base, two across the middle, one final strip along the edge, tight enough the shaft creaks. The cotton tape bites into my fingertips, adhesive tack and rough grain. I run my thumb along the seam until the air pockets are gone, smooth and exact, because anything less is a weakness I can't afford.
Adrian's locked in two stalls over, eyes shut, that pre-skate jaw set I know meansdon't fucking talk to him. In the corner, Declan's working the grip on his stick like he's trying to strangle it, and Gio's hunched so tight over his phone by the door that the strain of him reaches me across the room. The Whisperer posts have him wound like a spring. I have a few names in mind for whoever's running the account, and the thought sits buried behind my ribs.
Cole's in the middle of the room with one skate on, stick on his shoulder, running some goddamn sandwich story for the freshmen again—third time this season. Their laughter hits the exact beat he expects, and something tightens behind my ribs at the sound.
"Sit down." My voice carries without volume. "Skate in ten."
He finds me across the room. "You went to the Chronicle."
"Yeah."
"How'd that go?"
"She didn't say yes. She didn't say no."
"To Elm House."
"To anything."
I take the chest pad from my bag and set it on the bench. "Sit down, Cole."
He doesn't sit. He plants one foot on the bench and laces the skate faster than I've ever seen, each tug snapping tight, and when his eyes come up to mine they don't move. The force of it lands across my chest like a shove.
"She's coming."
"You think."
"I know." He drops onto the bench, pulls the second skate on, ties it, stands. "She heard Elm House. She's coming."
"You think she takes orders from me."
"I think she takes notes." He shoulders his stick. "Press room first. Four-thirty. After that, we go."
The room around us keeps moving—tape ripping, locker doors slamming, Adrian counting his breaths four in, four hold, four out—but none of the sound carries across the bench between Cole's stall and mine. He tilts his head a fraction, the way he does at night in the hallway outside my door.You good?
I nod once. He gives me the smaller version of his smile, the one that only shows up there, and the tension along my shoulders lets go just enough that I can fucking breathe again. I lift the stick off the stall and shoulder it.
I head out through the tunnel.
Cold air hits my lungs the moment I step onto the ice, clean and sharp. It's cleaner than morning, the surface fresh from the Zamboni, the gouges from the last skate scraped smooth. Cole steps out behind me and slides into my periphery on the second lap, matching stride without a word. Our skates hit the ice in the same rhythm. Third lap, I cut left a half-stride early, and he reads it before the blade lands, crossing behind me to take the space I just opened.
The next sixty minutes grind through drills. The morning's four goals sit in the hollow under my ribs like stones. They were too clean. Easy means someone let me score. Three sophomore defenders giving ground before I made them, and the hollowstays cold no matter how hard I drive on a loose puck in the corner.
Coach blows the whistle on a transition rep. I plant the inside edge to cut, and the quad locks for half a second, the morning skate catching up, and I force through it until the muscle burns. My shoulders are tight in a way they weren't this morning. My lungs don't burn for any of it, which means the problem isn't my body.
