Page 27 of Game Misconduct
All confident swagger and gleaming teeth and that twitchy little gleam in his eye like he’s waiting to poke a bear and then duck.
But I don’t flinch. Just stare back at Riley.
“You need something, Hunt?” My voice is low. Controlled.
“Just making sure your pacemaker didn’t glitch on the walk down. Wouldn’t want the season to start with a eulogy.”
A ripple of laughter follows. Muted, but not insignificant.
I’m not put off by Riley or any of the other guys in this locker room. That’s how this works. Day one, someone always has to challenge the new alpha.
Finn McCade strides out of the showers like he owns the place, towel wrapped around his waist, steam clinging to his shoulders, tattoos dripping.
“Give it a rest, Hunt,” he says, shaking his head, flinging water everywhere. “If he wanted to drop gloves, you’d already be on your back. You forget how to read a room, or just like the sound of your own voice?”
The tension cracks just enough for the rookies to breathe again.
Riley turns away, temporarily shutting the fuck up.
Thank God.
Finn’s the chaos gremlin of the bunch. He stalks across the room half-naked like he’s on stage, slapping a rookie on the shoulder, and whistling off key to Post.
He winks at me on his way past. “Welcome to the snake pit, Lasker. You want whiskey or a blindfold?”
I don’t smile, but my shoulders settle by half a degree.
Glancing around, I find my stall on the far side. The nameplate still smells like new paint.
The number’s right, thirty-three, but it doesn’t feel like mine. It’s not the one I earned.
I stare at the stick and jersey hanging in my locker. It’s shiny and new, and when I touch it, stiff and unfamiliar.
Not mine.
I drop my gear bag and start unpacking in silence. It’s the same ritual I’ve done a thousand times, but every movement now feels like I’m putting on someone else’s gear.
Gloves, pads, shin guards, skates.
I glance over to the far edge of the room, where it’s quiet in the midst of all the noise.
Cal Reid, the newest rookie to the league.
He’s got good stats for a young player, better than I saw out of Peacock in his rookie year.
But judging by the way he’s in the corner like he’s trying to disappear into it, he’s got confidence issues.
Which will get him clearing waivers sooner than later.
His hoodie nearly hides his face while he laces and re-laces his skates over and over, the way nervous rookies do when they need their fingers to outrun their thoughts.
It hits too close.
He reminds me of?—
Nope. Not going there.
I turn back to my stall, strip down to compression shorts and a sweat-warmed undershirt.
