Page 92 of Gap Control

It was loud in the locker room, how only half-dressed hockey players could be—music clashing with three separate conversations, two towels snapping mid-air, and the unmistakable squelch of someone stepping in a puddle of melted ice.

"Mercier, I swear to God, that's my towel." Lambert stood in the center of the locker room, dripping water with a scowl on his face.

"You can't leave your scent on everything like a tomcat," Mercier called back, holding the towel hostage like a flag of war.

I sat on the bench, tying my laces and trying not to smile. My arms still ached from practice, and the adrenaline hadn't totally worn off.

TJ breezed by in only compression shorts and an unzipped hoodie, hair damp and curling at the nape. He offered a finger-gun salute in my direction that I ignored on principle. He was still smug about scoring in the final drill. Rightly so. It was beautiful.

Coach MacPherson clapped twice at the front of the room. Loud and sharp.

No one noticed.

He tried again, stepping in front of the dry-erase board and raising his voice. "Okay! News time. Eyes up, ears open, mouths preferably shut unless you're chewing something important."

Still too much noise.

Lambert cupped his hands and stage-whispered, "Guys, Dad's doing announcements."

That got everyone to shut up.

Coach pointed his marker at Lambert like a game show buzzer. "That's right. And today's prize is instant fame broadcast in HD."

A few raised eyebrows accompanied by shaking heads.

Coach grinned. "The league's sending a media team. Documentary-style. You know, behind-the-scenes, gritty boys chasing glory vibes.Friday Night Lightson ice. They'll be filming practice, interviews, maybe some day in the life stuff. So, if your life is mainly naps and protein powder, congrats—you're finally gonna be famous."

More noise. Monroe let out something between a cheer and a turkey gobble.

Coach kept going. "They're calling it—get this—Forging Ahead."

Dead silence.

Then Lambert: "No."

Monroe: "YES."

Coach shrugged. "Hey, don't look at me. I wantedForged in Sweat.They chose corporate."

Someone in the back asked if it meant they needed new headshots. Mercier shouted, "My close-up better come with a wind machine!"

Coach ignored them and pushed forward, tapping the whiteboard with his marker for emphasis.

"Look, I know some of you think this is a distraction, but it's also a chance to tell your story. Or at least show people we're not the team that folds when the stakes get real. We don't have flashy stats or viral clips, but we have grit. We've got heart. We've got Monroe, which counts for something."

Monroe saluted with a water bottle. "America's sweetheart, right here."

"Seriously, though. This season, you've built something out of nothing. People are starting to notice. Let them. You've earned it."

Lambert raised a hand. "Do we get makeup or not?"

Coach sighed like a man whose tostada had just fallen, topping-side down. "Get out of here before I make you all do a burpee montage."

The room broke apart into laughter and motion—guys heading for the showers, phones, and a mirror or two. TJ stopped next to me and tapped my shin guard with his stick.

"Bet you're a natural on camera."

I shook my head. "I sketch. I don't talk."

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