Music thuds through the walls, bass bleeding out under the door. Someone is yelling. Someone else is laughing. And underneath all of it, the unmistakable crack of a hockey stick hitting the floor.

The door swings open.

The off-campus house was supposed to belong to four college hockey players, which sounded harmless when your brothers explained it. It isn't harmless.

Two stories. Dark wooden floors. A wide staircase climbing up the far wall. A massive open living room that has slowly been transformed into what can only be described as a hockey team's unofficial headquarters — a giant television mounted above the fireplace, the sectional couch beneath it buried under team hoodies and blankets, framed game photos lining one wall, jerseys hanging from hooks by the entrance, sticks leaning in the corner, gloves flung over the back of a chair, sports bags everywhere.

The kitchen is worse. Empty protein shake bottles crowd the counter like a small skyline.

Past him, through the wide arch to the kitchen — there he is.

Sullivan Mercer, in the team's black practice shirt, hair still slightly messed from the rink, one hand resting flat on the counter. His hockey gloves sit beside him, laces loose. He looks completely at home.

Because he is. He's been coming here for years. Your brothers trust him. The team loves him.