Hold it up over my face.
Look at it again.
I’m not mad about it. I want to be clear about that — not to anyone, just to myself, standing in my kitchen at seven AM with my coffee going cold and Brick on the counter watching me do nothing about it.
The photo doesn’t lie.
That’s the thing about Aurora’s shots — she catches what’s there, not what you want there. And what’s there is a man who turned in the middle of everything and found that one woman across the room without trying.
I put the phone face down.
Brick looks at it.
Looks at me.
“Don’t,” I say.
He blinks.
The Conference Final opponent gets announced at nine.
Three-time champions. Five names on every All-Star ballot. I pull up the expert panels on my tablet while I finish breakfast — standing at the counter, same as always — and I read every single one.
Unanimous.
Nobody picking the Cyclones.
Too young. Too new. Expansion team in year three, great story, not ready for this stage.
I read the whole spread twice.
Something lights up in my chest that has nothing to do with anger and everything to do with three years of being exactly this — the team nobody takes seriously, the goalie nobody talks about until they have to, the franchise that shouldn’t be here yet according to everyone who doesn’t play in it.
I’ve been written off my whole career.
I know exactly what to do with it.
I fold the tablet. Rinse my cup. Go get my gear.
Liam calls the team in before practice.
Doesn’t announce it. Doesn’t ask. Just walks to the center of the room and stands there and when Liam Steele stands somewhere and waits the room goes quiet fast — even Brody, which is saying something.
Five sentences.
Same thing they said when this franchise started. Same thing in Round 1. Same thing in Round 2. Write the spread on your tape. Bring it on the ice.
Four seconds of quiet.
Brody’s stick hits the boards.
Then Aiden’s. Then Caleb’s. Then Sebastian and Marcus and the whole room one after another until it sounds like the building is shaking from the inside out.
I go to my locker.
Pull the expert panel printout from my bag — I printed it this morning, same as I always do when nobody’s picking us — and tape it inside the door. Four seasons this building, this team, this specific group of men who decided to believe in something the league didn’t take seriously until we made them.
Thirteen wraps. Left to right.
