I sat on the bench and started pulling gear out of my bag. The zipper sounded like a chainsaw. My shoulder pads hit the floor like a thunderclap. Even my breathing was loud.
Evan finished with his skates and started re-lacing them. Same methodical approach. I watched his hands move, steady and sure, like they'd performed the sequence a thousand times before.
He looked up.
Our eyes met across the three feet of space between us, and for a second—only a second—I thought he saw me. Not the memes or headlines. Just me.
And fuck, of course he had to be hot. Not movie-star hot. Not Instagram-filtered hot. The hot that sneaks up on you—clean lines, tired eyes, and veins popping out on those forearms.
Then he went back to his laces.
I forced a grin and tried one more time. "Well, this is cozy. Hope you don't mind a messy neighbor. I'm not the label-maker type."
This time, he looked up with a sharp expression.
"I noticed."
His voice was quieter than I'd expected, but he had perfect diction.
I noticed.
Was it only the lack of labels? What else did he notice? How I was trying too hard? The fact that I was twenty-six years old and sitting in a minor league locker room, still explaining myself to people who'd already made up their minds?
The shoulder injury flashed through my head—that split second when I'd hit the boards wrong and something tore apart inside the joint. Months of rehab, watching other people take the ice time that should have been mine.
Then, I relived the moment I'd watched "Puck Life" hit a million views and understood that a million people were laughing at me, not with me. At that moment, I accepted that I'd already missed my window. I was one of those guys who peaked at twenty-three and spent the rest of their lives telling stories about what could have been.
I heard my heartbeat over the locker room's background noise.
Keep it light. Keep it moving. Don't let them see the cracks.
I cleared my throat and went for the save. "Well, at least I wasn't the one who threw up on a Zamboni during junior camp."
A few guys chuckled. Someone behind me—sounded like Pickle—let out a sympathetic "Oof." Hog's booming laugh echoed from across the room.
Evan? He stared at me with his gray-blue eyes, and I had the uncomfortable sensation he saw precisely what I was doing. The deflection, performance, and desperate scramble to turn everymoment of genuine emotion into a punchline before someone else could use it against me.
He didn't laugh. He didn't smile. He looked at me, waiting for something real to happen.
The moment passed. He went back to organizing his gear.
As I started pulling on my equipment, I heard a low voice from the corner.
"—fucker better not meme our asses viral."
I kept my head down and kept adjusting my gear.
"I mean, what's next? TikTok cellys during warmies?"
Someone joined the conversation. "Nah, man. Rusk wouldn't let that shit fly."
"Still, we finally start getting some decent coverage from theTribune, and now we're gonna be the team with the reality TV guy. You know they're gonna ask about him in every interview."
I wanted to turn around and see who was talking so I could file their faces away for later. Everyone would see that. And they weren't wrong, were they? I was the reality TV guy. I was the walking punchline who somehow convinced management I still had enough game left to be worth a roster spot.
Evan started watching me again. I imagined him taking notes to write a report later.
Subject appears agitated when confronted with an accurate assessment of his impact on team dynamics.