"They'll be clothed, Zo." He's laughing as we stride onto the concourse. "Mostly. Probably. Some of them."
"Mostly?!"
"Mom!" Morgan tugs at my sleeve. "Mom,please. I'll cover my eyes. I'll wear a blindfold. I'll bring sunglasses. I'll—"
"Alright, alright." I throw my hands up. "Fine. But if I see one bare butt, Lane, I'm sending you the therapy bill."
"Deal."
We weave through the crowd, ducking past fans and fluttering purple flags as the passage beneath the arena thrums with a wholly different energy than the stands.
We pass between concrete walls, the thud of bass still rattling up through the floor from the arena above. There's an odor that'spart sweat, part rink, part something I don't want to think about, and Morgan is basically yanking me along by the wrist while Colt taps a badge against a steel door.
"This is the inner sanctum," Colt whispers conspiratorially to Morgan, wiggling his eyebrows. "Are you prepared, kiddo?"
"I was born prepared."
"That's the right answer."
The door swings open and—
Oh, sweet mercy.
The Snow Leopards locker room ischaos.
The dark charcoal walls are glowing from the claw marks etched into the vaulted ceiling, and each individual stall glows in leopard gold along every wall. The floor has a steel plate embedded in the center that readsSTRIKE FIRST. STRIKE FAST.
And the players?
The players areeverywhere.
Cade Jensen is shirtless in the middle of the room, hat trick puck in one hand, a half-empty bottle of Gatorade in the other, dancing to a song blasting from a speaker that Colt very loudly mutters is "fucking Bluetooth-hijacked again."
Theo is firing a red candy snake across the room at Silas, who catches it in his mouth like a trained seal. The entire team erupts in cheers.
Samuel is standing at the whiteboard in just a towel and compression shorts, marking up plays for a game that ended fifteen minutes ago because apparently that man does not know how to relax.
"BEHOLD!" Colt announces, throwing his arms wide. "I bring you a VIP!"
Every head in the room snaps toward us.
And Morgan?
Morgan makes a tiny squeaking sound, both hands flying to her mouth in both shock and awe at the entire scene laid out before her.
"That's—" she whispers, voice cracking. "That'sSamuel Voss."
Samuel sets down his marker, takes in the situation with one quick captain-level sweep, and immediately drops to one knee.
"Hey," he says softly, the rough captain voice gone, replaced by a steady hand held out to shake. "You must be Morgan."
Morgan stares at his hand and just…nods.
Colt shuffles back in beside me, crossing his arms over his chest as he watches Morgan unable to form words. She can't speak. She literally cannot form words.
"Colt's told me about you," Samuel says, and she makes another squeak.
Samuel reaches behind him into his stall and produces a Sharpie like he keeps one for exactly this occasion. "Want me to sign that jersey?"
