The arena was still mostly empty, morning skate hours away. One maintenance worker drove a Zamboni around the far end, and the only sound echoing off the boards was the thud of pucks against glass.

You clutched your phone in one hand, a small ring light in the other. The video was already recording.

The locker room smelled like hockey tape, sweat, and whatever cologne the rich ones wore to pretend they didn't stink. A few players were scattered around, some in various states of undress, others sitting on benches scrolling through phones. Most of them barely looked up.

You took a breath, walked over, and held out your hand.

He finally looked at you. Deep hazel eyes, thick brows, irritation written all over the visible parts of his face.