Tonight, I had to live with the fact that I'd let it happen.
When I walked into the Rockford arena the following morning, I tensed. For the moment, it was enemy territory.
I'd been awake since five, scrolling through the continued dumpster fire on social media. The post had hit twelve hundred likes overnight. Someone had found Evan's private Instagram, with exactly thirty-seven followers and pictures of perfectly arranged cookies. They posted screenshots of his bio:Storm #23. Bakes when stressed. Alphabetizes for fun.
The comments on that were worse than the original post.
Around me, the usual morning routine played out—guys stretching, joking, and complaining about the early ice time.
"Riley looks focused this morning." Kennedy's voice drifted over from two stalls down. "Must've gotten some good news from home last night."
A few scattered chuckles. My jaw clenched.
"Yeah, bet his roommate sends the sweetest motivational texts." It was Klondike. Casual as fuck.
I looked up.
"All those cookies probably give him extra energy, you know?" It was a different voice—Lambert? "Lucky bastard's got his own personal chef."
More laughter. Klondikes's the loudest of all.
I walked up to his stall. He was lacing his skates, grinning, probably thinking he was an A-level comedian.
"Something funny, Klondike?"
He held up his hands in mock innocence. "Only appreciating the perks of domestic bliss, you know? Must be nice having someone waiting at home with fresh-baked cookies."
I fumed.
"You got something you want to say to me?"
The locker room held its breath. Twenty hockey players sensed blood in the water. Conversations died mid-sentence. Someone's music cut off.
Klondike straightened up. "Jesus fuck, Riley. Relax. I'm saying it's sweet. The whole domestic thing."
"Domestic thing?"
"Yeah. You know." His grin widened. "Cookie boy's got you whipped, huh? Skating faster, playing smarter. Maybe we should all get ourselves a—"
I was on him before he finished the sentence. I gripped his practice jersey, bunching the fabric in my fists as I drove him back against the lockers. Metal clanged.
"Say it again." My voice was low and controlled. "I fucking dare you."
Klondike's eyes opened wide. He shoved back, palms flat against my chest.
"Get the fuck off me, psycho."
"Not until you tell me who you shared that private conversation with." I leaned close enough to smell the coffee on his breath. "I know it was you. Same words, same fucking attitude."
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"Bullshit. You leaked it to that gossip account. Made him into a goddamn punchline for what? Internet points?"
Around us, the locker room was entirely silent. Twenty pairs of eyes watched and waited to see what would happen.
Part of me considered backing down, walking away, and handling it like an adult. It would keep my spot on the team, my shot at moving up.
More of me didn't give a fuck about my hockey future.
