Page 135 of Game Misconduct
Logan and Eli peel off next, quiet and efficient, mid-conversation about zone entries and defensive breakdowns.
Jace lingers a little longer, throwing me a sharp look like he wants to say something, then thinks better of it and leaves without a word.
That just leaves Cal.
He finishes the last bite of his protein bar, crumples the wrapper, and drops it into the trash. Then he walks over—not close, but just enough that I can’t ignore it.
“You good?” he asks.
It’s not nosy. Just simple. Direct. Like he actually gives a shit.
I nod. “Fine.”
Cal doesn’t move. Doesn’t push. Just watches me for a second longer, then says, “You’ve been different lately. Quieter.”
I arch a brow. “That your subtle way of saying I’m off my game?”
“No.” He shakes his head. “You’ve been sharp in net. Just… different. Like something’s shifted.”
I lean back against the couch, eyeing him. “You ever think maybe the shift’s just settling in?”
He shrugs. “Maybe. Or maybe it’s something else.”
There’s a pause, just long enough to make me feel like he’s trying to read me.
“You don’t talk much,” I say. “Most rookies won’t shut up.”
He smiles faintly. “I talk when it matters.”
That actually earns a quiet laugh from me. “Smart.”
Cal nods again, then glances toward the hallway. “Night, Lasker.”
“Hey.”
He turns back.
“Don’t let them break you,” I say. “The noise, the pressure, the bullshit. You keep skating your game, and you’ll last.”
He holds my gaze. “I know. Thanks.”
And just like that, he’s gone.
I sit there a while longer. Long after the last joke fades, the last screen clicks off, and the lounge settles into silence.
By the time I make it back to my room, my legs are heavy, and my shoulder’s already starting to stiffen.
I grab an ice pack from the mini freezer, a fresh towel and drop it on the ache, before crashing back against the mattress like the night’s been waiting to cave in around me.
After a while, the ice pack’s gone warm against my shoulder, sweat beading where it’s soaked through the towel. I should get up and swap it.
Move. Shower. Sleep. Something.
But I don’t.
I lie there in the dark, one arm draped across my chest, staring at the faint green glow of the clock on the nightstand.
1:47 a.m.
