The Road Trip

ALEX

You ever get punched in the gut with a hockey stick?

Because that’s what walking into this locker room feels like.

The air’s thick with sweat and rage. Someone’s bleeding. Someone’s swearing. Someone’s probably pissing in the communal shower even though we’ve had this conversation at least three times.

I’ve got a headache blooming behind my right eye and a bruise forming on my left thigh the exact shape of some Chicago dipshit’s elbow.

It’s preseason reffing at its finest—aka, legally sanctioned war crimes.

I shove my helmet off and instantly regret it. My hair’s soaked. My head’s pounding. The only thing keeping me from committing homicide is the vague hope someone brought orange slices.

Spoiler: no one did. Assholes.

The door slams behind us as we drag ourselves in like war survivors. Pads clunk. Skates scrape. Tension’s so thick you could butter bread with it.

And then—

CRACK.

Brick storms in last, looking like a goddamn serial killer in goalie pads, and obliterates his stick against the cement wall.

Stick hits the floor with a hollow, dramatic clatter. The sound of all our dignity dying at once.

Brick doesn’t say a word. Just snarls, stomps past, and drops onto the bench like he’s personally offended by its existence.

Seth, a few stalls over, side-eyes him and tugs his gloves off with that slow, European menace that makes you think he’s either very chill or one deep inhale away from homicide.

I pray for homicide.

I squint at him. “Is my sweet little baby Seth about to say something?”

He blinks. Shrugs. Goes back to untaping his wrists like a disinterested Viking.

Disappointment slinks in right behind my exhaustion, flopping onto my chest like a weighted blanket full of shame.

“Damn,” I mutter. “What a letdown.”

I plop down, grab a water bottle, and nearly dislocate my jaw chugging it. My mouth tastes like metal and blood and the power bar I ate on the bus that was really gross. I pretend I’m hydrating for athletic performance, but really I’m trying to distract myself from the silent, seething mass of everyone else’s goddamn emotions.

Someone breathes too loudly. I glare.

Jaxon flops next to me. Still grinning like he hasn’t completely murdered my faith in humanity.

“Hey,” he says, elbowing me. “You remember when I brought that raccoon into our apartment? Thought it looked cold.”

“Yeah,” I grunt. “Pest control charged me five hundred bucks. And it bit your ankle.”

Jaxon shrugs. “Still think about him sometimes.”

I want to snort at that. But I don’t.

I stare at him. My former best friend. The man I once did a beer chug relay with on a roof. Now? He just seems…gross.

He ghosted Sarah like she was a Tinder date he forgot he met in real life. Two hours after she started dating Nolan, the guy was already sniffing around her again.

If that had been one of my sisters, I would’ve kicked his ass. Hell, I was half tempted to—and Sarah drives me nuts. She’s loud, dramatic, and once made me watch a six-part birthing documentary because she was “emotionally preparing me for unclehood.”

We’re not even friends. I stopped into that girls night to ask Lilypad something—Definitely not because I missed her.

But Sarah didn’t deserve what Jaxon did. I can still picture her cowering behind Nolan, terrified.

“Cool,” I mutter. “Maybe next time bring a possum. We can name it after your conscience.”

He blinks. I smile. It’s a very polite smile. One of those “don’t test me, asshole” smiles.

He finally shuts up.

Progress.

Somewhere down the line, Justin’s getting roasted by the rookies again. Loud enough to echo.

“Can you even get it up anymore?”

Ha. Nice.

“Is Caleb your grandson or your miracle baby?”

“How much do you pay your wife to stay with you?”

“Does she have a daddy kink?”

Hold the fuck up.

Justin and I both freeze. Like statues. Like cartoon dogs who just heard a squirrel. I’m not even breathing.

The locker room goes dead silent.

Then—some dumbass chuckles: “No, man. With Myers, it has to be a grandpa kink.”

I am halfway out of my seat. Justin beats me to it—grabs a Gatorade, unscrews it like he’s imagining it’s someone’s neck, and storms off without a word.

I blink. That’s new.

Usually there’d be a threat. A snapped stick. Maybe a reminder that he once legitimately tried to fight an opposing coach for calling Alyssa a “puck bunny.”

He got suspended for five games.

He’s never let anyone get away with that kind of shit.

“Listen up,” I say, mostly to the rookies, but loud enough to get the room. “I know from painful personal experience—don’t joke about Ally. Myers gets protective. It’s sweet. Also terrifying. And if he doesn’t fuck you up… then Seth will.”

Seth blinks. Completely confused. Looking slightly scared.

I conveniently leave out the part where Ally was my first love. And I actively tried to sabotage her and Justin when they got together. And then I married her older sister.

It’s fine.

Absolutely nothing to unpack there.

And, it’s not like I’m emotionally repressed or anything.

Anywaaaay.

Nolan’s been hunched over since we got in—elbows on his knees, thumbs flying across his phone like he’s diffusing a bomb. He hasn’t said a word. Not a grunt. Not a chirp. Not even his usual post-period growl.

That’s how you know it’s bad.

I watch him out of the corner of my eye, because full eye contact feels like poking a bear mid-hibernation. The man’s got “fuck around and find out” radiating off him like a migraine aura.

Justin strolls over, casually, like he’s not about to poke the bear. He leans down. Mutters something low.

Nolan doesn’t look up. Just snaps something back—sharp and fast and low.

Whatever it is, Justin flinches. His jaw tightens like it’s trying to wrestle his whole damn face into calm.

I lift a water bottle to my lips and don’t even drink. Just watch.

And now we play our favorite locker room game: “Are They Gonna Fight or Kiss?”

Spoiler alert: it’s always fight. But I still hold out hope for some romantic tension. For the vibes.

Justin mutters one more thing—probably a “pull your head out of your ass, Cap”—and then stalks off, Gatorade in hand and shoulders squared in big brother disapproval mode.

Ya know, when he gets like this— I get why Ally chose him and not me. He’s hot when he’s mad.

He stops in front of the team. The Gatorade cap clicks twice in his hand. Then—

“We’ve been down worse.” His voice is even. Measured. Practiced. “Stay sharp. Stay clean. Don’t let them bait you.”

Classic Myers. The man could be bleeding from the neck and still talk like a PE teacher trying to motivate seventh graders.

A few guys nod. One coughs. The room shifts in that awkward, restless way that screams we all know you’re the captain. Why don’t you have the title? But no one wants to be the asshole who says that.

I glance at Nolan.

Still hunched. Still texting.

Normally this is where Justin keeps quiet and lets Nolan do his stoic brooding thing. But tonight? he’s pissed about it.

Not loud-pissed. Myers-pissed. The kind where you hold it in and let it rot your organs.

Can’t wait for that to implode sometime in the third period.

A rookie—Miller or Mercer or whoever the hell we called up this week—pipes up from the bench with the worst timing known to man.

“Yo, Captain—” smirk. “You gettin’ TikTok notifications or what?”

Silence.

Then—

“I should fucking be at home.”

Nolan’s voice cuts through the room like a snapped skate blade.

“My girlfriend is due any day. But I had to fucking be here, alright?”

The silence after that? It’s loud. Deafening. Sits heavy in my chest like the bench press from hell.

Brick freezes, still hunched over his gear like he might murder it.

McBride looks up from his glove tape. Eyes wide. Which means nuclear-level panic brewing beneath the surface.

Justin just stands there.

Frozen. Stone-faced. Like someone hit his Off switch.

And then, right on cue, Coach walks in.

Of course he does. Perfect timing, like always. He catches the tail end of Nolan’s shout and raises one of those “seen it all” eyebrows.

“You’re here, Nolan,” Coach says, calm but hard. “Be here.”

Oof.

I fight the urge to echo ‘yeah, Nolan.’ Like a ten year old.

The room settles into a weird, unstable silence.

I scan the faces. Tension. Exhaustion. Regret.

“Jesus Christ,” I mutter under my breath, dragging a hand down my face. “I’m surrounded by simps.”

A few guys chuckle.

It’s not even an insult at this point. It’s a fact.

Like gravity. Or the fact that if I wear the same socks for three wins, I can’t ever wash them again without triggering a losing streak and the wrath of every man in this room.

I love my wife. Don’t get me wrong. Lilypad owns me. That woman says jump and I’m halfway in the air doing backflips. But this? This is pathetic.

Cue the mental montage:

Justin and Lily whispering on the couch at family dinner like high schoolers who just discovered they can get horny from knee-touching? Disgusting.

Jaxon flirting with Lily at that party years ago? Rage-inducing. I still have the urge to body-check him into drywall every time I think about it.

And don’t even get me started on Lily calling Seth cute. Seth. Who blushes when a woman hands him a paper towel.

I want to punch a wall just thinking about it. Preferably the one next to his locker.

And then—oh, no. Oh God.

Am I as bad as Myers?

I glance over at Justin.

No. No. No one is as bad as Myers.

The man’s whole personality now is “husband who would die for his wife and kill for his kids.” I’m pretty sure once he retires, he’s going to permanently attach himself to Ally’s side like a labrador in a baby bjorn.

Because apparently pumping her full of kids isn’t enough.

Ew— now I’m picturing them having sex.

Ugh.

I’ve walked in on that one too many times during family vacations. Traumatizing. Every time I see a red bikini now, I get PTSD. And horny. Huh.

I clear my throat, loud enough to break the weird tension, and say to no one in particular:

“Can’t wait to get back out there and earn a few more bruises for love and country.”

A couple chuckles. Even Brick cracks half a snort.

Me? I take a swig of water, and hope we don’t all get murdered in the third.