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“Got it,” he says smoothly as he lowers the camera.

His attention lingers on me for a few seconds longer than necessary before he finally checks the shot.

Cole releases my neck and steps back, clapping me on the shoulder. “What’s gotten into you, dude?” he asks, studying my face with growing suspicion.

I don’t answer.

He considers me for another second, then apparently decides I’m not worth the brainpower. “Whatever. I gotta go tape my stick before Damian starts yelling,” he says, already turning away. “Try not to look completely fucking miserable in the group photo later, yeah?”

He walks off without waiting for a response, leaving me standing there.

I clench my jaw and head back toward my stall, pretending none of that happened.

Damian’s voice cuts through the locker room. “Everyone over here. Now.”

The team starts moving toward the center of the room where he and Elias are standing. I grab my water bottle and start heading over with everyone else, until I spot Santi positioning himself near the front with his camera raised.

Without thinking twice, I change direction. I slide in behind Viktor, trying to make myself as small as possible. He’s massive, so it’s not hard to mostly disappear behind his back and shoulders. I keep my head down, pretending to check something on my phone while the briefing starts.

It works for about thirty seconds. Then Viktor slowly turns his head, glancing back at me over his shoulder. He raises one thick eyebrow, clearly unimpressed. “What are you doing?”

“Nothing,” I mutter, trying to stay hidden. “Pay attention, Petrov.”

Eventually he shakes his head and turns back around, but I can tell he’s still confused.

From where I’m standing, I can see Santi moving around the group, taking pictures. Every so often his eyes flick in my direction, and that smirk appears again.

I sink a little lower behind Viktor.

This is ridiculous. I know it’s ridiculous. But with playoffs starting in a few hours and Santi suddenly everywhere, hiding behind the biggest guy on the team feels embarrassingly close to a reasonable plan.

“Alright,” Elias says, clapping his hands together. “Let’s go kick some Icehawk ass!”

The energy shifts instantly. Everyone starts moving toward the tunnel as the familiar horn blares through the arena, calling us out for warm-ups.

I check the room one last time. Santi is gone. I don’t know when he slipped out, but the relief is immediate and almost embarrassing. For the first time all day, I can breathe without that constant awareness of him somewhere nearby.

I follow the rest of the team onto the ice.

The noise hits the second we step out. Fans are already on their feet, the lights are bright, and the entire arena is buzzing with playoff energy.

As I skate my usual loop, I search the stands and find them almost immediately. Lena is sitting between my parents, all three already yelling and waving, dressed in Reapers jerseys with my number across the back. Seeing her there between Mom and Dad, comfortable enough to belong with them, pulls a smirk out of me before I can stop it.

Cole skates up beside me and follows my line of sight. He lets out a scoff the second he sees what Lena’s wearing. “Pft… traitor,” he mutters, loud enough for me to hear over the crowd.

I glance at him. “She looks good in it,” I say, unable to help myself.

Cole shoots me a betrayed look, but there’s no real heat behind it. “She’s supposed to be wearing mine,” he complains, even as he skates backward to line up for warm-ups. “I’m her actual brother. Where’s the loyalty?”

I just shake my head and keep skating.

Lena catches my eye and grins, holding up her hands to make a heart shape. My dad is already yelling something I can’t quite hear, while my mom sits there looking elegant and amused by all of it.

Both teams spend fifteen minutes on the ice for warm-ups. The energy is different now—sharper, heavier. Every movement feels like it matters more. When the horn sounds again, we head back into the locker room one last time.

Elias moves through the group, stopping in front of the rookies. He saves Roman for last. He steps in close, eyes locked on the goalie.

“You’re starting tonight,” Elias says. “You wanted this. You earned this. So go out there and prove it. And if you let in a soft one in the first period, I’m going to personally make sure you regret it for the rest of your natural life. Understood?”