Chapter 6
CHAPTER SIX
Maddox
The Vipers’ locker room, also called the Hiss Room, is loud.
Obnoxiously loud.
There’s no reverence, no order.
Just bodies and chaos and too many scents fighting for dominance—sweat, detergent, cedar planks, and cologne that smells like a tequila hangover in Vegas.
It’s a far cry from the reverent stillness I left behind. Boston was mahogany benches and history on the walls. You didn’t speak unless you had something worth saying.
Here, it’s slick, modern, and new with the walls vibrating from a Post Malone track blasting from a hidden speaker.
Half the guys are yelling over one another, and someone’s drawn a massive cartoon dick over the penalty kill setup on the whiteboard.
What the fuck did I sign up for?
I step in, gear bag over my shoulder, every sense stretched tight. No one rushes to greet me, not that I expected it. But every head turns, just for a beat.
Long enough to size me up.
“Hey, boys, look alive. Boston’s bad boy just wandered in—hope the penalty box here is reinforced.”
And the first barb is thrown.
By Riley Hunt no less, which doesn’t surprise me.
He’s all grin and ego, hair styled like he didn’t sweat through a warmup. Skates unlaced, posture loose, but his eyes are sharp—the kind of sharp that cuts just for the sake of it.
A peacock in hockey gear. All showy feathers and noise, waiting for an audience.
Laughter hits in a wave. Testing. Measuring.
“Should we bow? Or just roll out a walker and save the paramedics the trip?”
I keep my expression neutral. Let them bark. Let him flex. I’ve seen a dozen Rileys flame out by Christmas.
The room doesn’t stop, but it hums differently. A few guys laugh. A couple glance at each other.
Logan Beck whistles under his breath as he continues lacing up. Calm, composed, like he’s already in mid-season form while the rest of them posture. He’s polished as hell—one of those guys who belongs in every room, and he knows it.
Captain Jace Rourke—silent, solid, spine straight—doesn’t look away from his stick as he tapes the blade with military precision.
Eli Ramsey sits a few stalls down, tape winding methodically around his own stick. He doesn’t join the noise—from what I know of the man, he never does—but the hard edges in his silence carry weight.
The kind of guy who grinds until you forget he’s there, right up until he knocks you flat.
Beau Radford hangs back near the rookies, steady hum in the chaos. He leans over to help one of them sort out tangled straps, voice low, calm, like the caretaker role fits him even while he’s lacing up to break bodies.
They’re all ignoring Riley and his posturing, so I know what he wants from me.
He wants a reaction.
Hell, he’s fishing for it.
All confident swagger and gleaming teeth and that twitchy little gleam in his eye like he’s waiting to poke a bear and then duck.
But I don’t flinch. Just stare back at Riley.
“You need something, Hunt?” My voice is low. Controlled.
“Just making sure your pacemaker didn’t glitch on the walk down. Wouldn’t want the season to start with a eulogy.”
A ripple of laughter follows. Muted, but not insignificant.
I’m not put off by Riley or any of the other guys in this locker room. That’s how this works. Day one, someone always has to challenge the new alpha.
Finn McCade strides out of the showers like he owns the place, towel wrapped around his waist, steam clinging to his shoulders, tattoos dripping.
“Give it a rest, Hunt,” he says, shaking his head, flinging water everywhere. “If he wanted to drop gloves, you’d already be on your back. You forget how to read a room, or just like the sound of your own voice?”
The tension cracks just enough for the rookies to breathe again.
Riley turns away, temporarily shutting the fuck up.
Thank God.
Finn’s the chaos gremlin of the bunch. He stalks across the room half-naked like he’s on stage, slapping a rookie on the shoulder, and whistling off key to Post.
He winks at me on his way past. “Welcome to the snake pit, Lasker. You want whiskey or a blindfold?”
I don’t smile, but my shoulders settle by half a degree.
Glancing around, I find my stall on the far side. The nameplate still smells like new paint.
The number’s right, thirty-three, but it doesn’t feel like mine. It’s not the one I earned.
I stare at the stick and jersey hanging in my locker. It’s shiny and new, and when I touch it, stiff and unfamiliar.
Not mine.
I drop my gear bag and start unpacking in silence. It’s the same ritual I’ve done a thousand times, but every movement now feels like I’m putting on someone else’s gear.
Gloves, pads, shin guards, skates.
I glance over to the far edge of the room, where it’s quiet in the midst of all the noise.
Cal Reid, the newest rookie to the league.
He’s got good stats for a young player, better than I saw out of Peacock in his rookie year.
But judging by the way he’s in the corner like he’s trying to disappear into it, he’s got confidence issues.
Which will get him clearing waivers sooner than later.
His hoodie nearly hides his face while he laces and re-laces his skates over and over, the way nervous rookies do when they need their fingers to outrun their thoughts.
It hits too close.
He reminds me of—
Nope. Not going there.
I turn back to my stall, strip down to compression shorts and a sweat-warmed undershirt.
My body runs hot, and I’m way too aware of every scar under the skin. The left shoulder pulls tight from the old rotator cuff tear and my right knee clicks when I shift.
It’s the kind of damage that doesn’t show up on the stat sheet but lives in your bones.
“You always this quiet, or just biding your time?”
Jace’s voice cuts through the low buzz, calm and unreadable.
I glance his way. “Ask me after practice.”
His nod is barely perceptible, but I catch it.
Respect, maybe. Or a warning.
Hard to tell.
Peacock Hunt isn’t done.
“Boston finally trade you in for a newer model? Can’t imagine they’ll miss the penalty minutes.”
I let the silence stretch until I feel him start to squirm. Then I turn just enough for him to see the look in my eyes.
“Careful, kid. Keep chirping like that, and I’ll start treating you like the newer model. And you won’t last a shift.”
Finn hoots from across the room. “Damn, Hunt. You just got buried in the locker room. Wear a helmet next time.”
Riley’s smirk falters—just a flicker—but enough to make it worth it. He leans back like he’s unbothered, but the tight set of his jaw says otherwise.
Coach Holt barrels in, voice like a war drum. “Five minutes! Move your asses or I’ll move them for you.”
That’s the cue. The room erupts into organized chaos—helmets snapped on, sticks grabbed, skates thudding against rubber flooring.
I slow my pace on purpose. Let the pack surge ahead.
Cal fumbles with his jersey, shaking hands missing the head hole on the first try. No one helps.
No one ever does.
He finally gets it on, but he’s trembling.
And it’s not the cold.
I look away again.
He’s not mine to save.
I lace up last, boots tight enough to cut off circulation. I like the pressure. Like the silence of it.
Lace. Loop. Knot. Repeat.
As I rise, the overhead lights flicker slightly, humming against the thump of blood in my ears.
My feet carry me toward the tunnel like they remember something my brain’s trying to forget.
It’s just practice. Just drills.
But my spine is a loaded spring. My hands won’t unclench, my chest too tight to fully breathe.
Sloane’s name flashes across the back of my eyes like a warning label.
The curve of her lip when she handed me that contract. The frost in her voice when she walked away.
The fire she left behind.
I bury it. I have to.
This is the only place I’m still mine.
I step out onto the rubber mat, shoulder to shoulder with the rook.
Cal doesn’t look at me. But his knuckles are white around his stick.
“Keep your head down,” I mutter, voice too low for anyone else to hear. “And skate like you mean it.”
His head jerks up. Just for a second.
Then he nods. One quick, sharp movement. Like it costs him something.
The first edge of my blade hits the ice, and every noise dies.
Cold rushes up my legs. Familiar. Brutal. Perfect.
The rink is a blank slate. But it remembers everything.
I take a breath that feels like a blade down my throat.
Let them watch. Let them doubt.
Riley wants a show? He’s gonna get it.
Jace wants answers? I’ll write them in fucking blood.
Finn wants chaos?
I’ll give him fire.
Out here, I don’t owe anyone a word.
Just the game.
And that’s the only language I’ve ever spoken fluently.