Page 192 of Wild Card 13

Cam glanced over from near the whiteboard. “They do it until you shut them up.”

“Love that for us.”

“You wanted the league,” Liam said dryly, wrapping tape around his stick blade with slow, brutal focus. “This is the league.”

The room laughed again. I bent to check the tape on my shin pad, mostly because my hands still wanted something to do and because I could feel Alois looking without looking.

That was one of his worst talents.

You did not need to catch his eyes to know he was aware of you. The man had the emotional range of a locked bank vault and somehow still managed to make observation feel like a contact sport.

I kept my head down.

Across the room, Victor Petrov sat in team-issued sweats with his shoulders hunched, one leg bouncing beneath him. He was not dressing tonight. Depth forward. Scratch. Salty as hell on a good day, and this was not shaping up to be one.

He had been chirping since the plane landed like talking enough might make Coach reconsider the lineup.

It would not.

Coach Holloway enjoyed many things. Structure. Defensive responsibility. Coffee strong enough to restart a dead tractor.

Desperation was not on the list.

Victor leaned back against the wall near the equipment bags and nodded toward the hallway. “Hotel was better than this room.”

Milo glanced over. “That is because hotel rooms are designed for guests. Visiting locker rooms are designed for punishment.”

The door opened again. This time Dylan from communications stepped inside with a tablet tucked against his chest and a credential swinging from his neck. He looked around the room the way civilians looked around locker rooms when they had been told not to touch anything and were terrified something would touch them first.

“Travel schedule update,” he said, already speaking too fast. “Postgame media is reduced. Coach first, then selected players. Buses will load immediately after media and medical clearance. No lobby stops. No outside food runs. Player Ops wants everyone accounted for before we leave the arena.”

A groan moved through the room.

Marco pressed a hand to his chest. “No outside food runs?”

Dylan blinked.

Cam pointed his tape roll at Dylan. “Who sent that?”

Dylan glanced at his tablet. “Operations.”

“Obviously operations,” Milo said. “Which operations?”

Dylan hesitated because he had the self-preservation instincts of a damp napkin. “It came from Sarah’s office.”

“Sarah’s office,” Zee repeated. “That means Lucy wrote it.”

My hand stopped against the tape on my glove.

“Probably,” Dylan said. “She updated the travel compliance notes this morning.”

“From Northbend?” Marco asked.

“She’s not on this trip.”

“Tragic,” Marco said immediately. “Who will professionally disappoint us in person?”

“Sarah can disappoint you remotely,” Jonah said.