“I still can’t believe that save you made in the third during our last game,” Reese tells Declan, tossing a chest protector in his direction. “Even Parker couldn’t have stopped that one.”

His aim is off—way off. The pad sails wide, missing its intended target and smacking me in the back of the head before dropping to the floor. The locker room goes momentarily quiet, a few players glancing my way.

But I don’t let it break my rhythm or my focus. I stoop quickly to pick up the pad, hand it back to Reese, and then continue stretching my shoulders and rolling out my neck.

“Holy shit, the man doesn’t even flinch.” Theo shakes his head in amusement. “He got hit with a projectile and barely even noticed.”

“I swear, Parker isn’t human,” Maxim adds, checking his laces. “Has anyone here ever seen him blink? I haven’t. Not once all season.”

Declan tilts his head, studying me with mock seriousness. “Maybe he’s an android. Or a cyborg. That would explain the reflexes. The height. The complete lack of normal human emotions.”

“And the personality,” Owen Ashford, another one of our defensemen, adds with a snort. “Programmed for maximum save percentage and minimum social interaction.”

Their friendly teasing doesn’t bother me, but I can’t resist a dig of my own. “If you put as much energy into your defense as you do into your jokes, we might not let in so many shots.”

“He speaks!” Owen clutches his chest in fake amazement. “Alert the media! The Parker 3000 has been upgraded with speech capabilities!”

“His model number is actually 6700,” Noah deadpans. “Get it right.”

I finish adjusting my gear and then straighten up, my six-foot-seven frame towering over most of my teammates. “You guys gonna talk all day, or are we playing hockey?”

They laugh again, but I don’t mind. It’s comfortable, this dynamic. They’re good guys, and the fact that they’re all a bit amused by my intense focus doesn’t bother me. I’ve got a reputation as the team grump, but they know I’ve got their backs when it counts.

The chill air in the arena surrounds me as we step onto the ice, a welcome shock to the system that instantly sharpens my focus. This is the moment I live for. The clean, precise scrape of blades against fresh ice. The weight of the pads, the mask hanging from my hand, the simple clarity of purpose. Everything narrows to this single focus.

Coach Dunaway stands at center ice, his whistle hanging from his neck and the overhead light gleaming off his bald head as he glances down at the clipboard in his hand. When everyone has gathered, he clears his throat and surveys all of us.