Lucky steps smoothly into frame, body relaxed, hips moving effortlessly to the rhythm. He starts dancing—actually fucking dancing—right there in the locker room, lip-syncing along to the words with the ease of someone who’s clearly done this many, many times before. He twirls, points dramatically at the camera, spins again, even drops before popping back up with an exaggerated flourish.
The guys are stunned silent for a beat, but I do my duty, keeping him in the frame. Then Bain lets out a loud bark of laughter, shattering the silence. “Holy shit, he’s good.”
A mix of chuckles, head shakes, and “What the hell” murmurs follow, but no one stops Lucky. He finishes strong, sliding gracefully out of frame as the song fades. The music stops, and as ordered, I tap the button to stop the recording.
He takes it from me with a knowing wink. His fingers fly over the screen as I watch dumbfounded.
“And… posted.” He looks up, grinning widely, completely unfazed by the astonished stares. “TikTok dance trend fiend here, boys. Get used to it. I have followers who rely on me.”
Atlas laughs, popping off the bench. “That was awesome. Totally going to follow you, dude.”
Lucky points a finger at him, tossing his phone on top of his gear bag. “LuckyBranson69. Give me a follow and a like.”
Everyone goes back to their pre-game rituals and Lucky starts to undress. I resume wrapping my stick, but curiosity gets the better of me. “What’s the 69 signify? A superstitious number or something?”
Lucky’s grin is devilish. “Nah, man… 13’s my lucky number.” He points to his jersey where the large purple one and three glare back at me. “But 69 is definitely my second favorite, and I’ve never had a lady complain yet.”
I walked right into that one, and I can’t help but chuckle. I shake my head, attention going back to my stick.
“So… heard you’re kind of closed off and unapproachable. Any truth to that?” he asks, plopping down on the bench to unlace his dress shoes.
The locker room quiets noticeably as heads swivel toward us. I lean back slightly, a smirk tugging at my lips, fully aware I’m about to shock every damn guy in this room. “Only if I don’t like you, Branson. Jury’s still out.”
Several jaws literally drop because it’s the most generalized conversation I’ve probably ever had with a teammate. King stifles a laugh, and Stone looks like he might choke on his water.
Lucky chuckles appreciatively. “Fair enough, man. Fair enough. Guess I better keep working on winning you over.”
I shrug, still amused, and I wonder how much of this easygoing feeling I’ve got circulating has to do with Mila and the night we spent together. “Keep dancing like that, you might have a shot.”
A chorus of laughter erupts from the guys, but Lucky just flashes another carefree grin and continues gearing up.
“What’s the story, anyway?” I ask after a beat, curiosity getting the better of me. “Why ‘Lucky’?”
Lucky glances sideways, his expression open. “My grandmother swore I was cursed at birth. Born on Friday the thirteenth during a full moon. Everyone figured I was doomed, but turns out, the opposite happened. Weirdly good shit always finds me. Scholarships, trades to playoff-bound teams, girls throwing themselves at me, lucky bounces on the ice… and, apparently, a shit ton of TikTok followers.”
I huff out a laugh. “I don’t believe in luck.”
“Most people don’t until they see it in action.” He taps the rabbit’s foot necklace hanging loosely from his neck. “This thing hasn’t let me down yet.”
“Sounds more like superstition.”
“Hey…” Lucky points a finger my way, mock serious. “Whatever works.”
I shake my head, genuinely entertained. This guy’s a gust of fresh air, oddly compelling in his relentless positivity.
And all of a sudden, I realize… I don’t feel that oppressive weight that I’m normally carrying everywhere I go. It’s often even more burdensome when I’m around my teammates because of the inherent distrust I have among them. My past haunting me, refusing to let me be more.
But maybe it’s time to try something different. Walls broke open last night with Mila and I’ve peeked through. Maybe Lucky’s absurd dance and the team’s acceptance of such a thing is a sign.
I glance over at him, taking in the shamrock tattoos peeking over his opened collar and the rabbit’s foot necklace.
There’s no deep thought put into what I’m about to do. I just know that now is the time to do it. Going to rip that motherfucking Band-Aid off and expose the wound.
I push up from the bench, place my stick in my cubby and then call out, “Can I have everyone’s attention?”
The chatter is loud and I might not ordinarily be heard in such an environment, but the novelty of Penn Navarro asking his teammates to listen to him has the locker room falling immediately silent. I realize not everyone can see me, some of the players coming around their cubbies to get a better look. I hop onto the bench, placing myself higher so I can be seen.
“Um… I need to talk to you all about something.”
