The locker room buzzes around me with pre-practice energy—my teammates talking shit, equipment bags unzipping, the snap of tape being wrapped around sticks—but I filter most of it out, methodically prepping my gear the same way I always do. I’ve been doing this same routine for so long that it’s pure muscle memory at this point, and I don’t let my mind wander.

Routine means control. Control means success.

“Come on, man, that was totally your fault.” Theo’s voice rises up above the background noise as he tugs his jersey over his head. “You left the passing lane wide open. Might as well have rolled out a red carpet for that winger.”

Reese grunts, lacing up his skates with quick, practiced movements. “My fault? Where the hell were you, Camden? Taking a nap? You were supposed to be covering him.”

“I was too busy bailing your ass out, as usual,” Theo shoots back, his grin taking any real sting out of his words. “Someone has to keep you in line.”

“Whatever helps you sleep at night.” Reese laughs as he straightens up. “Your memory is as bad as your backcheck. If that puck had eyes, it would’ve been looking right at your sorry ass failing to cover your man.”

“Big talk from a guy who was a minus-two the other night,” Theo counters.

“Minus-one,” Reese corrects him immediately, tossing a roll of athletic tape back into his bag. “And that second goal was because Sawyer couldn’t keep the puck in at the blue line.”

“Don’t drag me into your pissing contest,” Sawyer calls from across the room, barely even looking up as he tightens his shoulder pads.

I adjust the straps on my leg pads, checking the tension with practiced precision. Three fingers should fit between the strap and my leg. No more, no less.

“Hey, did you see Declan’s interview in Sports Monthly?” Maxim asks from his locker. “They’re calling him the future of hockey.”

The man in question keeps his head down, focused on taping his stick, but I catch the flush creeping up his neck.

“Future of hockey?” Theo snorts. “More like future of hair product modeling.”

“Fuck off,” Declan mutters, although there’s a hint of a smile playing at his lips.

“Our rookie’s gone big time on us.” Noah chuckles, nudging Declan’s shoulder. “Don’t forget us little people when you’re accepting your Vezina Trophy.”

“I play defense, dickhead,” Declan shoots back, finally looking up with a reluctant grin. “At least read the damn article before you start giving me shit about it.”

More laughter erupts in the locker room as the buzz of conversation continues, the easy camaraderie of men who trust each other implicitly, both on the ice and off it.