Chapter 8
eight
MORGAN
The sound hits first, male laughter that rattles through the cinderblock walls. My pen freezes mid-stroke over the playbook I've been studying for the past hour. The careful X's and O's blur as my hand involuntarily clenches, the ink bleeding into a small, accusing pool where I've pressed too hard.
Great. Now I'll have to redo the entire page.
I set the ruined paper aside, but before I can think of starting over, the door explodes inward and a sea of male hockey bros invades the small, meager locker room that my team and I have managed to make our own since the start of the semester.
Mason Nash leads the charge—six-foot-two of privileged hockey player, the kind of guy who probably has "Future CEO" in his Instagram bio despite a GPA that would make a houseplant weep.
Behind him, a half-dozen of his teammates spill into our sanctuary, their voices bouncing off walls in the too-small space.
The fury that floods through me is familiar, controlled. My breathing slows to match my game-day rhythm—in for four, hold for four, out for four. The same technique that helps me track five opposing players at once now helps me catalog every unwanted body violating our space.
Our locker room isn't luxurious. The lockers stick when you open them, requiring a specific jiggle-pull-yank technique we've all mastered.
Everything is painted the kind of institutional white that shows every scuff mark.
The shower pressure ranges from gentle mist to fire hose with no middle ground.
But it's ours.
Every temperamental locker. Every bench we've claimed with carved initials hidden underneath.
Every inch we've scrubbed clean after Galloway gave us a glorified broom closet and called it "adequate facilities.
" And, since the Ice War three days ago, we've only doubled down on our efforts to make this our fortress.
Now they're here.
Bri's on her feet the same instant I am, years of athletic instinct kicking in as we move without speaking, our bodies creating a human barricade in the doorway. Behind us, I hear Mills's sharp intake of breath and the scrape of cleats against concrete as my players shift, uncertain.
The wave of noise breaks against our wall of silence.
Nash's laughter stutters. Dies. The confusion ripples backward through their ranks, each player's expression shifting from cocky amusement to bewilderment as they realize we're not moving, not speaking, and not acknowledging them beyond the physical barrier of our bodies.
That's right, boys. Your existence requires our validation, and we're fresh out.
Another junior, Stiles, pushes forward, and I instantly know his type: an end-of-the-bench defenseman who confuses his father's donation checks with actual talent, and who doesn't question why he gets four minutes a game as long as he gets to 'hang with his boys' at practice and parties.
His face shifts to that particular shade of red that toddlers get when denied candy at checkout. "What's the problem, ladies? You lost?"
The condescension in his voice is so thick I could spread it on toast. I don't dignify it with a response. Don't even shift my gaze to acknowledge he's spoken. My eyes stay fixed on a point just past his left shoulder, waiting for him to appear, because I know he's coming.
The silence stretches for a few seconds and becomes uncomfortable. Clearly, it's unbearable for people who need constant validation like plants need sunlight, because the male team has lost all their boisterous volume in the face of a pair of women standing in their way and saying no.
Finally realizing what's happening, the reinforcements arrive. Mills materializes at my shoulder. All five-foot-four of her radiates controlled violence. She plants herself beside me, and I can feel the tension coiled in her compact frame. Behind us, others rise from the benches.
Then the others. Sarah grips her stick like a weapon, knuckles white. Jen cracks her neck—once, twice. Rachel's already got that look in her eyes, the one that precedes someone getting checked into next week. They've all got sticks in hand, as if they'll go to war if they need to.
The Morgue, indeed.
The nickname they've given me has become our whole team identity.
Nash barks out another laugh, but it's forced now, uncertain. "Easy there, Stiles. They might bite."
Only if provoked. And we don't eat junk food.
Stiles flushes deeper, takes another step forward, his finger jabbing toward the hallway. "We were told this is our locker room now. So unless you—"
"Like hell it is," I finally say something, scoffing in disgust as I do. "Get the fuck out of here, children, because you're not welcome."
"Oh, scary," Nash drawls, but his voice wavers just enough to betray him. "What are you going to do, file a complaint?"
"No," I say, my voice dropping to something quieter, more dangerous. "I don't file complaints. I solve problems."
Then Bri's phone buzzes, the sound cutting through everything. She glances at it, and I watch her shoulders drop, watch defeat replace defiance in one heartbeat. For one moment, she'd been another brick in my wall, but now it's clear there's a crack in her resolve.
She turns the screen toward me. The words blur, then snap into focus, a message from Galloway:
Accommodate the men's team immediately. This is not a request.
The timestamp reads one minute ago. The bastard waited, knowing the bros were on their way to make a ruckus, letting us simmer just long enough to feel powerful, then crushing us with a single message. My stomach clenches hard enough that I taste bile at the back of my throat.
Bri steps aside.
The gesture is small—a simple shift of weight—but it feels seismic. The men surge forward, and suddenly our space isn't ours anymore. Equipment bags thud against our clean floor. Sticks clatter against walls we painted ourselves during a team-building weekend. Their voices fill every corner.
And at the rear of this conquering army is James Fitzgerald.
The sight of him hits me suddenly and jarringly, leaving me breathless for reasons I refuse to examine. That wide grin is plastered across his face, but for half a second it falters when his eyes find mine, and he clearly sees the visceral disgust in my eyes.
"Ladies!" His voice booms across the room, and something low in my stomach tightens at the familiar sound. Three years, and my own body still remembers the way he used to whisper terrible jokes against my neck just to feel me laugh. "Looks like we're going to be roommates!"
The guys roar as if they're trained lions.
Clearly, they're all amused by the development, their invasion of our space.
And not for one fucking minute have any of them stopped to think about how we might feel about it, or how it might impact our start of the season with games starting in a few days.
I don't yell, but when I speak, my voice cuts through their celebration clean and sharp. "If you're going to be here, there will be rules."
The room quiets to that particular hush of people preparing to be entertained.
Someone snickers, clearly not recognizing my resolve and the danger in this confrontation, and I catalog it for later retribution.
Because I'm good at that, finding ways to deliver elegant revenge when someone least expects it.
"Quiet hours from noon to two. That's when we study tape.
Your equipment stays on the east wall and ours stays on the west. No crossing over.
No 'borrowing.' No exceptions." I let the words hang.
"And if any one of you acts like a creep with any one of us, I'll personally cut you with a skate blade. "
Behind Fitzgerald, someone mutters something about "mom laying down the law."
"Mom? That's adorable." I smile, sickly sweet and one hundred percent fake. "Moms bake cookies and kiss boo-boos. I break spirits and collect tears in mason jars for my morning coffee. So listen to me when I tell you, don't fuck with me or my girls, and we'll be fine. Now, the shower schedule—"
"Whoa, whoa, whoa." Fitzgerald throws his hands up in mock surrender, and I hate that I notice the way his fingers are still slightly crooked from old breaks, and the chipped tooth from when he tried to prove he could open a beer bottle with his teeth.
"Easy there, Morgue. We get it. You run a tight ship. "
Morgue.
The nickname lands like a slap, and I know he sees me flinch because a shadow of awareness crosses his features. Something flickers behind his eyes—regret, maybe, or just the realization that he's crossed a line he didn't know existed.
His mouth opens like he's going to say something else, or maybe apologize, but then he swallows whatever words were forming and looks away.
I wonder if it's regret, but then I disregard the thought, because Rook doesn't do recognition, he does deflection.
In response, the anger that floods through me now is different.
Hotter.
Personal.
I look at him, really look at him for the first time since that night three years ago when he showed me exactly who he was.
He's still beautiful in that careless way that probably gets him out of speeding tickets.
His hair is still a disaster, styled by what looks like aggressive towel-drying and good genetics.
He's still that same boy who made me laugh until my stomach hurt, then made me cry until I couldn't breathe. And the thought brings a strange kind of peace. There's no confusion anymore. No 2:00 a.m. wondering if maybe I misread everything.
Without another word, I turn my back on him. The gesture is deliberate, final.
Behind me, Nash whoops. "Damn, Rook, she really doesn't like you!"
"Story of my life," Rook replies, but his voice sounds too high.
Good.
I walk to my locker and begin gathering my things. Tablet. Playbook. Water bottle. Each movement is controlled while inside my mind races through Galloway's next moves. Because this isn't just about locker room space, but rather about reminding us that we exist at his pleasure.
Mills appears at my elbow, voice low. "Captain, this is bullshit."
"Yes," I agree, sliding my tablet into my bag with perhaps excessive force. "It is."
"We can't just—"
"We can't do anything." I meet her eyes. "Not right now. Not like this."
Her jaw clenches, but she nods. Around us, the men are settling in like an invasive species. Someone's already commandeered our Bluetooth speaker, replacing our carefully curated pump-up playlist with something that sounds like toxic masculinity gained sentience and started a band.
I give it two days before one of them asks if we can make them sandwiches. Three before someone suggests a wet-t-shirt contest "for team bonding."
And Fitzgerald?
He's standing in the middle of it all, directing traffic with desperate energy, careful not to look at me. But I can feel his awareness like heat on my skin, the way he angles his body to track my movements even as he babbles to anyone who will listen.
"Kellerman, over here," he calls out. "Try not to touch anything. I think they've got it organized by… I don't know, a monthly cycle calendar?"
The joke lands flat, and I'm getting the sense that even his teammates are picking up on the weird energy between us. Kellerman looks from him to me and back again, his mouth opening in what's probably going to be an incredibly awkward question, but Rook cuts him off with a too-loud laugh.
"Anyway! Moving on!" he says. "Let's just, you know, settle in and try not to die."
In response, I roll my eyes and address my team. "Practice in twenty, ladies. Full gear."
They move immediately, efficiently navigating around male bodies and carelessly placed gear. We've practiced in worse conditions. Hell, we've practiced in a parking lot when Galloway "forgot" to notify us of an ice time change. And, once I'm changed, I head to the door.
I notice how Fitzgerald shifts to let me pass, how he angles his body to give me more space than necessary. Three years ago, I thought his inability to be still or quiet was charming. Now I know it's just fear of the quiet moments when the truth might accidentally slip out.
The door closes behind me with finality.
The war has begun.