Page 260 of Wild Card 13

“You would miss,” De Luca cackled.

Harry smiled without warmth. “You want to test that theory?”

Zee, who was lying flat on the floor with his legs propped up against the wall like he had been assembled incorrectly, raised one hand. “I support violence if it improves morale.”

“It will not,” Hale snapped, unwinding tape from his wrist with the slow patience of a man who had seen too many locker rooms eat themselves alive. “Historically, morale drops when people start bleeding indoors.”

“Depends who is bleeding,” Milo sneered.

“Thank you,” Marco replied. “Nuance.”

Across the room, Cam Dunne sat at his stall still half-dressed, elbows on his knees, staring down at the floor between his skates. He had not said much since Coach left. That was usually worse than yelling. Cam could bark with the best of them when the room needed it, but quiet Cam meant captain-level math was happeningbehind his eyes. The kind with accountability and video review and who needed to get called into whose office before things rotted.

Alois sat two stalls down from him, fully dressed except for his tie, which hung loose around his neck. He was not looking at anyone in particular, which meant he was aware of everyone.

I shoved my damp hair back with both hands and reached for the clean shirt folded beside my stall. My ribs ached where I had taken a cross-check in the second. My left shoulder felt like someone had wedged a screwdriver under the joint and left it there as a souvenir. My legs had the heavy, sour burn of a game that had gone badly enough to make every shift feel twice as long.

Three games left.

Barely alive.

Basically dead.

I pulled the shirt over my head and told myself those were not the same thing.

“Burns,” Marco called.

I did not look at him. “No.”

Marco pressed a hand to his chest. “I was only going to ask if you needed us to wrap this up quickly so you could get to your second job.”

I grabbed my socks. “I don’t have a second job.”

“Sure you do,” Harry hissed. “Professional pup-cup delivery boy.”

The room stirred.

There it was.

I bent over to tug one sock on and felt, against my will, the corner of my mouth move.

For weeks, I had managed to keep the routine small. Coffee at her threshold when I was in the building. A pup cup for Dottie, because Dottie had terrible loyalty and excellent taste in dairy products.

I had thought the team would miss it. That had been optimistic, considering the team noticed when a guy changed deodorant brands and treated it like a trade rumor.

Zee rolled onto one elbow from the floor. “I heard Dottie has a better postgame recovery routine than all of us.”

“She does,” Jonah said. “Whipped cream, nap, emotional manipulation.”

“That’s just Marco’s routine,” Harry said.

Marco pointed at him. “I do not nap.”

“You should. It might fix whatever this is.”

I leaned back against my stall and crossed my arms. “Are we done?”

“Oh, absolutely not,” Zee said. “I have questions.”