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Noah snorted. “Funny, coming from a man who wipes out on a blue line like it’s his sworn enemy.”

“That was one time.” Trick threw a roll of tape at him.

“Three times.” Noah caught it and threw it back. “If we count preseason. And practice. And warmups.”

A couple of guys laughed. Trick pointed a warning finger at Noah. “Keep talking, Gunny, and I’m stealing your pregame playlist and replacing it with polka.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“Try me.”

Their chirping bounced around the room—easy, familiar, warm. It should have felt inviting. Instead, it curled around me like something I wasn't allowed to touch, a reminder of everything I didn’t know how to step into.

I didn’t join in.

I didn’t know how.

I sat in my stall and slowly stripped my gloves, found my watch, put it on, and folded and unfolded the clasp with my thumb. The click-snap-click built a rhythm in my head I could breathe to. Coach was chatting to Cap, and Cap glanced over at me—the kind of quick look saying a decision had been made. This was it. The moment I got told I was headed to the AHL for conditioning or some shit. I wanted so badly to belong that it ached, a deep, hot pressure under my ribs, something stupid and childish and humiliating, but real all the same.

People moved around me. Some nodded. Others… didn't. Noah tried to talk to me, and I knew I answered, but it was distant.

Cap walked past, gave me a quick, solid knock on the shoulder pad. “Nice work today, Jari. Coach wants you in his office.”

My heart dropped. “Yes, Cap.” I stripped off my pads, down to a T-shirt, pulled on shorts and running shoes, and headed out—laughter following me. They must have known I'd been canned. It was only a matter of time.

Coach Morin gestured me in, shut the door behind us, and leaned on the edge of his desk.

“I won't make you wait,” he began, and I steeled myself for rejection. “You made the roster.”

I stared at him. Blinked.

“Coach?”

He smiled—a quiet acknowledgment I’d earned this. “You’ll dress for the first two games. I want you on the fourth line with Mules and Becks. After that, we reassess. Congratulations.” Niklas Müller and Tobias Becker had a year of Railers hockey under their belt, a solid fourth line pair who'd lost their wing to a retirement, and even though Becks pretty much ignored me, Mules was friendly enough. Something fluttered in my ribcage—small, trembling, unfamiliar. Hope, maybe.

“Thank you, Coach,” I murmured.

“And,” he continued, sliding a printed schedule across the desk, “your first welcome session with Dr. Hale is today in two hours. Top floor, admin wing. Gives you time to shower, eat something, breathe.”

My stomach twisted. “Yes, Coach,” I said, although I probably sounded defeated. Every player here saw the sports psychologist, and I was no different, but I’d already understood that for me it wouldn’t be one appointment and done.

“This isn’t punitive, Jari. It’s support,” Coach said. “Everyone on this team sits in that office at some point. You’re not alone.”

I nodded.

He dismissed me kindly. “Go decompress. Take a walk. Get out of your head.”

If only it were that simple.

The locker room was emptying now—guys filtering out, gear dumped, showers running in the distance—but Cap was still there, along with Noah and Trick. A couple of other players hovered nearby, watching, curious.

Cap was the first to cross the room to me. “Congrats, Jari. You earned it,” he said, gripping my hand firmly.

Noah fist-bumped me, grin wide. “Awesome.”

Trick clapped a hand on my shoulder, solid and surprising. “Fourth line’s about to scare the shit out of goalies again.”

Then Mules and Becks came over—Mules grinning like a kid at Christmas, Becks less sure but trying.