Page 7 of Broken Blades

The locker room had mostly cleared by the time I reached my stall. A few stragglers remained—Carter on his phone, Rodriguez examining a cut on his forearm, Williams rewrapping his ankle.

I stripped off my practice jersey, hung it on the hook. Sweat cooled against my skin.

"You planning on retiring soon, old man?"

Williams tossed the question across the room like a grenade wrapped in a smile.

I grabbed my towel. "Not until I collect what I'm owed."

The words came out heavier than I'd intended. Williams' smile faltered. The room went quiet for half a breath too long.

Rodriguez cleared his throat. "Who owes you?"

"Everyone."

I headed for the showers before anyone could ask what I meant.

The water hit my shoulders in a rhythm I'd memorized years ago—five seconds hot, shift left, five seconds center, shift right. Muscle memory stripped down to its most basic function.

Steam clouded the tile walls. Footsteps echoed somewhere beyond the shower stalls, then faded. A locker slammed. Voices carried from the hallway, muffled and distant.

Good. They'd all cleared out.

I preferred it this way. No forced conversation. No performance. Just water and silence and the kind of solitude that didn't demand anything.

The heat loosened muscles I'd punished during practice. My ribs protested where the rookie had landed that hit—not broken, just tender. I pressed my thumb against the spot, testing. Pain flared sharp and immediate.

Perfect.

I shut off the water.

The towel hung where I'd left it, rough against scarred skin. I dried methodically—shoulders, chest, legs. Each motion deliberate. Controlled. Dark slacks. Button-down, charcoal gray. Watch on my left wrist, the leather band worn soft from years of wear. I fastened each button with the same precision I used to tape my stick.

My phone sat on the bench where I'd left it, screen dark.

I reached for it lazily, expecting nothing. A dozen notifications usually waited—PR requests, media tags, team updates I'd ignore until someone made me respond.

The screen lit. One alert sat at the top. Not sports. Not PR. Not the usual noise.

I went still.

The tracker I'd set up three years ago—buried deep enough that no one would find it unless they knew exactly what they were looking for—had triggered.

Chastity Harrington: Location Updated - Fraser, MI

The timestamp read 4:47 PM. Two hours ago.

I stared at the notification.

My thumb hovered over it.

She was home. Winter break. Of course. College kids always came home for the holidays, returned to their perfect houses with their perfect families and their perfect illusions about how the world worked.

I set the phone down. Picked it up again. Deleted the notification.

The information stayed locked in my head where it belonged—filed away with every other detail I'd collected over the past three years. Her class schedule. Her favorite coffee shop near campus. The route she took to her morning lectures.

She didn't know I existed. Didn't know her father's merger partner had once been married to a man who'd burned his entire world down. Didn't know her precious family legacy had cracks deep enough to swallow everything she thought she understood about loyalty.