Page 112 of Her Player

Then Jett stood up from his bench, slow and theatrical, and started clapping.

"Gentlemen," he announced to the room, "our captain. Our center. The hub that keeps the spokes together." He gestured at me like a goddamn gameshow host. "And apparently, the man who's been quietly cuffing the boss lady for God knows how long while the rest of us sat here completely in the dark."

The locker room erupted.

Half the team was laughing. Moose had his face buried in his hands. Langley was shaking his head with a grin that spread ear to ear. Someone in the back row started slow clapping, which immediately became actual applause, which became the entire team on their feet making more noise than they made when Jett sank the wildcard winner.

I stood in the doorway and let it wash over me.

"Are you done?" I asked.

"Absolutely not," Jett said cheerfully. "Stone. Brother. Captain. My guy. How long?"

"Jett."

"Ballpark. I won't hold you to it."

I crossed the room, dropped my bag in front of my locker, and sat down. "We've got the Canadian Dynamites in four hours. Their center is six-foot-nine and their coach runs a locked left side defense with an open right that we need to exploit in the second period before they adjust. That's what we're talking about right now."

Jett dropped into the seat next to me. "We'll get to that. How long, Stone?"

I looked at him sideways. That grin of his was practically splitting his face in half. Three years of me growling at him every time Victoria walked by and the son of a bitch knew it. He'd always damn well known it. He just waited.

"Three years," I said.

The locker room lost its goddamn mind all over again.

"THREE YEARS!" Jett shot to his feet. "This man has been suffering in silence for THREE YEARS while I had to watch him glare at every single one of us for existing near her in a fifty foot radius⁠—"

"Sit down, Jett."

"—and not ONE of us knew⁠—"

"Jettson." Coach's voice cut through the chaos from the doorway like a blade through ice.

Dead silence.

Coach Mercer walked into the locker room with the same expression he always wore before a big game. Jaw set. Eyes forward. That kind of stillness that came right before something loud. He crossed the room without looking at anyone and stood in the center of it, hands in his pockets, and let the quiet build until it was damn near uncomfortable.

Then he looked at me.

"You good?" he asked.

"Yes, Coach."

He held my gaze for one more second before he nodded and turned to address the room. "Then we're not talking about anything that happened outside this building. Not today. Today we talk about Canada." He looked around at all of us. "The Dynamites have been waiting for this game since September. They've watched every single one of our games. They know how we play. They know our patterns. They know our tendencies." He paused. "What they don't know is what we're capable of when someone gives us a reason to be angry."

The room was completely still.

"The whole country is going to be watching this game," Coach said. "Every sports network. Every analyst. Every person who spent this entire season telling us we were a joke. A charity project. A disgraced coach and his roster of castoffs." His voice didn't rise. If anything it got quieter, which was somehow goddamn worse. "Every single person who has written something about this team in the last twenty-four hours that had nothing to do with hockey is going to be sitting in that arena tonight watching us play."

He let that land.

"So let's give them something to write about," he said. "Something that has everything to do with hockey. Understood?"

"Yes, Coach," the room answered.

He nodded once and stepped back. "Calloway. Walk us through what we know about their defense."