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Baxter himself sprints out wearing one shoe.

Within thirty seconds, the locker room holds exactly two people.

Audrey walks over, and I immediately want to slide my hands beneath that coat, pull her against me and kiss the worried little line forming between her eyebrows.

She glances at the phone in my hand. "Everything okay?"

"Yeah. Just some farm stuff." I pocket it and force a smile. "Nothing a burger won't fix."

She studies me long enough to make it clear she believes exactly none of that. Then she tips her head toward the restaurant. "Come on, Captain. I have no doubt that team will eat everything, including the tables, if we're not there in five minutes."

We walk together through the resort, past the towering lobby tree and the reception desk where Stevie waves without looking up. When a family crosses our path, Audrey shifts closer and her shoulder brushes my arm, and I have to physically stop my hand from reaching for hers.

The impulse feels alarmingly natural.

That's the problem.

The twenty-four-hour restaurant has gone full Christmas.

Garlands thick as rope wind around every timber beam, miniature trees glow on the tables, and a fire crackles along one entire wall while floor-to-ceiling windows frame the snowy rink below.

The Wildcards have claimed the longest table in the room, and Chef Priya herself is directing the delivery of wooden boards the size of sleds.

She's wearing a chef jacket patterned with dancing gingerbread men, red high-tops, and tiny snowman earrings that swing when she talks.

"Winners eat first!" she declares, planting a board in front of Aidan. "Losers also eat, but with less enthusiasm. Today we have burgers with cranberry relish and melted brie, rosemary-parmesan fries, maple-glazed wings and pretzel buns. If anyone tells me they're skipping lunch, I will follow them to their room."

Priya needn't have threatened anyone, because the spread is obscene.

The burgers arrive glistening, brie melting down the sides in golden rivers, with the colorful cranberry relish bleeding jewel-red into toasted pretzel buns. The fries come in mountains, dusted with parmesan snow, and the wings shine with maple glaze under the firelight.

"Okay. Wow." Audrey picks up a burger and inspects it. "They found a way to put Christmas inside a burger."

"Cranberry relish is technically fruit," Coach Dave announces, already two wings deep. "Which makes this entire meal nutritionally responsible. You're welcome."

Down the table, Baxter attempts to fit an entire wing in his mouth while Nate holds a fry out toward Eden.

"Try this," Nate says.

Eden, clearly against every survival instinct she owns, leans in and eats it directly from his fingers. Nate's expression goes somewhere no best friend's expression should go, and Eden immediately stares hard at her plate.

"So," Baxter says through his wing, "what's everyone eat for actual Christmas Day? My mom does a lasagna. Don't ask why. Nobody knows."

"My family used to travel," Aidan says, and something in his easy tone makes me look over. "Every year, somewhere different. Beaches, mountains, whatever. My mom made us take a photo we all hated."

"Used to?" Eden asks.

Aidan shrugs and reaches for the fries. "Hockey. You know how it is."

He says it lightly, but he says it to his plate, and I make a mental note to drag that man to whatever the farm does for Christmas whether he likes it or not.

Then Dylan arrives from Music Lounge rehearsals, still carrying his guitar case, and steals fries off three separate plates before he's even sitting down.

"Alright, everyone! Tonight," he announces. "Music Lounge, eight o'clock. Me, Stevie, acoustic set, festive but tasteful. Wildcard attendance is mandatory."

"Says who?" Nate asks.

"Says the man who knows what happened in Ski Bar last Thursday, Nathan."