The arena's familiar soundtrack wrapped around me almost immediately. Equipment managers moved through the hallways with carts loaded with gear. Staff members hurried from one end of the building to the other, carrying clipboards and tablets. Somewhere deeper in the building, metal scraped against concrete, a sound I'd heard so many times over the years that I barely registered it anymore.
Today, they felt different.
Every person I passed seemed to look at me for a second longer than usual. Most offered a smile or a nod. A few stopped to say they appreciated what I'd done. Others looked as though they wanted to say something, but couldn't quite find the words before I continued walking.
By the time I reached the locker room, my shoulders were already tight.
The room fell quiet for half a heartbeat when I stepped inside.
It just felt as though everyone was figuring out how to stand around a new piece of furniture that had appeared overnight.
Coach Reno was standing near the whiteboard with one of the assistant coaches. He glanced my way as he sipped from a travel mug. "Hale."
"Coach."
That was it. No speech. No awkward conversation. No carefully chosen words. Just the same greeting he'd given me a hundred times before. Oddly enough, that helped.
"Morning, Halestorm."
I looked up to find Wayne Briggs leaning against his stall. The veteran left winger studied me for a second before nodding once. "Good job yesterday." The words were simple. Coming from Briggs, they carried weight.
"Thanks."
He grunted as though that settled the matter and went back to lacing his skates.
Others followed.
A fist bump.
A pat on the shoulder.
A few awkward attempts at conversation that died almost as quickly as they started.
Most of the guys were trying. I could see that. Some were more comfortable than others, but most were making an effort. A handful avoided eye contact entirely. One or two looked irritated for reasons that had nothing to do with hockey.
Professional sports had rules, written and unwritten. Whatever personal opinions existed, nobody was stupid enough to start a fight in the middle of an NHL locker room two hours before a game.
Still, the room I'd walked into thousands of times suddenly felt both familiar and unfamiliar.
The door opened again, and Tannen T-Mills Miller walked in.
The effect was immediate.
Nobody snapped to attention. This wasn't the military. But the energy changed because, whether he wanted the responsibility or not, Tannen Miller was the captain of the Seattle Orcas.
He carried that presence with him.
Tannen moved through the room with his usual calm confidence, exchanging greetings and checking in with a few of the younger players before making his way toward the stall beside mine.
When he finally glanced my way, our eyes met briefly.
Normally, one of us would have cracked a joke by now. Tannen would have made some smart-ass comment, or I'd have said something to break the ice. Instead, neither of us seemed entirely sure where to start.
The silence wasn't hostile.
If anything, it felt uncertain.
"Mornin'," he said.
