I began registering faces, how I always did in new locker rooms—survival instinct. Figure out the peckers from the pack, and the jokers from the genuine threats.
Hog was obviously the latter—6'3" of beard and good intentions, probably knitted his own mittens and could bench press a Zamboni. He was the kind of guy who'd fight three men for calling his teammate a name and then buy them all a beer afterward to short-circuit any hard feelings.
He was dangerous in a positive way. Danger that made you feel safer, somehow.
Travis "Pickle" Picarelli, the mullet kid, was still watchingLove on Iceclips on his phone, completely absorbed. He was a human energy drink in skate socks. Looked about twelve. Talked like a TikTok algorithm. The kind of rookie who brought glitter glue to gear labeling and somehow made it work.
The trainers—Luka and Jamie, according to the name tags on their polo shirts—whispered behind a clipboard, glanced at me, and laughed. Not malicious, good humor—I think. I figured they were placing bets on how long I'd last before having another public breakdown.
There were others—guys stretching hamstrings and adjusting shoulder pads, a goalie in the corner having what looked like a spiritual crisis with his mask, and someone arguing quietly with his stick. Normal hockey nonsense. Comforting, almost.
A glove hit the back of my head. Not hard.
"Hey, Vegas," a voice grunted. "You gonna sit there lookin' sad, or you gonna play?"
Coach Donny Rusk.
He stood in the doorway, chewing gum. Hat backwards, hoodie zipped halfway over a polo.
"Planning on dazzling you with my stickhandling after the interviews." I offered a salute.
He didn't blink. "Dazzle me with punctuality next time."
The room fell quiet in that twitchy way it does when the alpha dog enters. Even Hog straightened up a little.
Coach's eyes swept the room. "Media hits in fifteen. If they approach you, smile, lie, and don't say anything that'll get us fined."
He looked back at me. "Save the sparkle, Vegas. Prove you’re not just a Hollywood highlight reel."
Then he was gone, gum cracking in his wake.
"Yes, sir."
I grabbed my duffel and looked for my assigned stall, checking the name tags taped above each cubby. HAWKINS. PICARELLI. KOWALCZYK. And then, wedged between a water-stained MURPHY and a suspiciously pristine CARTER: RILEY.
My nameplate was new and clean, added at the last minute.
My stall neighbor was already suited up, sitting on the bench near me with perfect posture—dark hair, close-cropped and neat.
Evan "Cereal" Carter. I'd googled the whole roster on the plane.
He had his space clean, quiet, and immaculately arranged. Water bottles with color-coded stickers. A pair of extra laces looped neatly over the hook, and a small, rectangular Tupperware container sat on the bench beside him, labeled in black Sharpie:
Carter – Thursday – Do Not Touch
I was tempted. Immediately. Even if it was poison, it was probably neatly organized.
I dropped my duffel on the floor between our stalls. It landed with a loud thud.
Evan didn't look up.
I tried my best at a casual introduction. "Hey, looks like we're neighbors."
Nothing. He started unlacing his left skate, fingers working with mechanical precision. Each loop got the same amount of attention, like he was defusing a bomb instead of loosening footwear.
I tried again. "I'm Jake, by the way. Though I'm guessing you already know that, given the whole..." I waved vaguely toward where the "Puck Life" dance party had happened.
Still nothing. Then, a slight pause on the laces. He was listening but ignoring.
