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The Centaurs locker room had never been quiet, but this was… different. A different version of energy ever since the news had dropped.
Like the air before a storm, except instead of lightning it was a bunch of grown men pretending very badly not to lose their minds.
“Don’t be weird about it,” their assistance captain, Bood said for the third time, tying and retying the same skate lace, throwing glances at his phone where the media post was pulled up as if he was making usre it didn’t disappear in the three seconds he stopped looking at it for. “We all knew this was a possibility since Rozy and Hollander were outed. We all knew Hollander might come to the Centaurs.”
“I’m not being weird,” Dijkstra shot back immediately, which was the kind of thing only a man being extremely weird would say.
Across the room, two of the younger guys were hunched over a phone.
“I’m just saying,” one whispered, not actually whispering at all, “that goal against Toronto—”
“I know which goal you mean,” the other hissed. “Everyone knows which goal you mean.”
“Imagine that on our team. With Rozy!”
“Hey,” Hazy cut in, pointing a roll of tape at them, “if either of you quotes his stats at him when he gets here, I’m benching you myself.”
“You can’t bench us.”
“I’ll ask coach Wiebe nicely.”
“That’s worse.”
There was a beat.
Then, quieter, almost reverent:
“He’s really coming here, right?”
That question had been floating around for days now, ever since the news broke, It seemed something unreal. It was only a short time ago the Centaurs were considered the worst team in the league with no future. And admittedly they were the worst team in the League but now they apparently had two generational talents so things were looking up. If it were real that is. Maybe this was some sort of really early April fools day prank.
“Yeah,” Bood said, this time not joking. “Management doesn’t make calls like that for nothing. They wouldn’t let Harris post that unless it was real.”
Another player leaned back against his locker, scrubbing a hand over his face. “Jesus.”
“Yeah,” someone else echoed.
Luca looked between them. “Are we—” he started, then stopped, then tried again. “Are we supposed to act normal? About this? Hollander and Rozy on the same team?”
The entire room turned to look at him.
“No,” Tanner Dillon said flatly. “But you’re going to pretend to cause we don’t want to scare Hollander off. Rozy would kill us and I would kill myself if we throw away this shot at the Stanley Cup.”
“That seems hard.”
“It is.”
From the corner, Wyatt finally spoke. “I played against him and he is terrifying.”
That got everyone’s attention. They had all played against Hollander, of course, but it was different, facing off his goals and having to defend against them the way Wyatt had too.
“And?” Bood prompted.
Wyatt stared straight ahead, like he was reliving something traumatic. “I blinked,” he said.
There was a pause.
“…okay?” someone said.
“I blinked,” the goalie repeated. “And then the puck was behind me. I didn’t even see Hollander hit it. He was halfway across the rink.”
A moment of silence.
“Cool,” someone muttered. “Love that for you. Really gives us faith in your goal blocking abilities.”
“Shut up.”
Boyle leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “I heard he doesn’t even realize how good he is, he does seem like such a nice guy.”
“That’s a lie.”
“No, seriously. My buddy played a tournament with him years ago—said Shane just kept apologizing every time he scored.”
“That’s worse,” LaPointe said faintly.
“That’s terrifying,” someone else corrected.
Bood sighed, dragging a hand down his face. “Alright. New rule.”
No one liked the sound of that.
“No one is allowed to ask him about highlight reels, childhood posters, ehm Luca, or life-changing goals.”
A few guys shifted guiltily.
“No one,” Bood repeated, sharper now.
“What about asking for a stick? Like maybe one that he can sign?” someone tried.
The entire room groaned.
“Absolutely not,” Bood said.
“What if it’s subtle?”
“How do you subtly ask a man for his stick? Ilya will think you are propositioning him, and then we will have to jailbreak our Captain. And find another player to replace you after your untimely murder.”
“I don’t know, I’m brainstorming.”
“Stop brainstorming.”
Another beat.
“…can we at least mention that he’s—”
“No.”
“Not even a little?”
“No.”
“Not even if he brings it up first?”
Bood paused.
“…if he brings it up first,” he allowed carefully, “you can acknowledge it. Briefly. Like normal human beings and say you think he is a good player and look forward to working on the ice with him.”
There was a collective, deeply skeptical silence.
“Define normal,” someone said.
“No,” Bood snapped. “Figure it out yourselves.”
Across the room, Young was staring at his phone, mouth open in shock.
“What?” someone asked him.
He turned it around.
It was a video.
Everyone went silent as they watched Ilya and Shane skating together, playing a game of what seemed to be keep away. They moved so quickly they were almost a blur, slamming each other into the walls and talking off with the puck only for it to be snatched by the other. It was terrifying.
The room went quiet again.
“Yeah,” Wyatt said softly. “That’s the guy who made me blink. Thank god I won’t have to guard my goal against him again.”
Luca swallowed. “He’s going to be, like… right there. They are going to be working together.”
“Yep.”
“On the ice.”
“Yep.”
“With us.”
“Yep.”
Luca looked like he might pass out.
From the doorway, a Wiebe’s voice cut in. “You all done losing your minds in here, or—”
“Yes!” the entire room answered immediately.
Wiebe eyed them. “You look terrible.”
“We’re fine,” Bood said.
“Mm,” their coach hummed, unconvinced. “Get out there. We aren't starting practice late just cause yall are having a mental breakdown.”
They filed out.
A little too stiff. A little too aware.
Trying, very hard, to be normal.
It lasted exactly thirty seconds.
Because the second the doors opened to the rink, someone hissed, “Oh my god, what if he watches practice and thinks we are terrible and convinces Rozy to switch teams?”
“Do not spiral,” Coach Wiebe warned.
“I’m spiraling.”
“You’re always spiraling.”
“Yeah, but this is different.”
They spread out onto the ice, forcing themselves into routine, stretching, skating, passing.
Normal.
Totally normal.
Completely normal.
So normal it didn’t even need to be said.
Normal.
Normal.
Normal.
Right up until Dykstra skated past and muttered, just under his breath—
“…we’re getting Shane fucking Hollander. And Ilya Rozanov. On the same fucking team. Good Lord above, we are going to be unbeatable.”
And just like that, the entire team dissolved back into barely-contained, wide-eyed, holy shit energy, trying, and failing, not to be completely, utterly starstruck.
We are going to get that fucking Cup, Wiebe thought and grinned, so incredibly happy that he wasn’t in the shoes of the coaches on other teams. They must be sweating their socks off right now.