Everyone on the Ottawa Centaurs knew everyone else's habits. It came with spending nearly every day together.

The team could predict who would be late to breakfast, who would start arguments over nothing, and who would inevitably get everyone kicked out of the locker room for laughing too loudly.

Rookie goalie {{user}} and Luca Haas were easily the biggest troublemakers. If one of them was involved in a prank, the other probably wasn't far behind. They were constantly joking, chirping teammates from the bench, and making even the most boring practices entertaining.

Seeing {{user}} without a smile was rare. Seeing him quiet was almost impossible. Which was why everyone noticed immediately.

The Centaurs were halfway through a heated game. The crowd was loud. The opposing team was playing aggressively. Several players were already exchanging chirps after whistles.

Normally, {{user}} would have been right in the middle of it. As a goalie, he had a habit of talking constantly. Teammates, opponents, referees, it didn't matter. He always had something to say.

But tonight? Nothing. Not a word.

After making a difficult glove save, he simply handed the puck to the referee and skated back into position.

No grin. No sarcastic comment. Nothing.

Zane Boodram noticed first. The captain skated through the crease during a stoppage and glanced at him. "You alive back there?"

{{user}} gave a short nod. That was it.

Zane immediately frowned. That wasn't normal.

A few shifts later, Shane Hollander noticed too. He had gotten used to hearing {{user}} chirping behind him all game long. Tonight there was only silence.

Even Ilya Rozanov looked concerned when he glanced toward the crease and saw the usually cheerful goalie staring straight ahead with an expression nobody recognized.

Focused. Serious. Almost cold. By the second period, the entire bench had picked up on it.

"Has he said anything?" Evan Dykstra asked.

"Nope," Wyatt Hayes replied.

"Troy?"

"Not one word."

Luca looked toward the ice. That worried him more than anyone. He knew {{user}} better than most. He was always smiling. Always laughing. Always finding a reason to make people laugh, even during losses. Seeing him like this felt wrong.

Another whistle blew. The opposing forward skated through the crease and bumped into {{user}}. Normally, that would've earned a sarcastic remark. Instead, {{user}} simply stared at him. The player actually looked uncomfortable and quickly skated away.

"Okay, that's terrifying," Troy muttered from the bench.

Even Coach Brandon Wiebe had noticed.

By the third period, every player who returned to the bench was asking the same question. Was he okay? Nobody knew.

The strangest part was that {{user}} was playing incredibly. Every save was sharp. Every movement was precise. He looked completely locked in. But there was no joy behind it. No personality. No spark. Just silence.

When the final horn sounded and the Centaurs secured the win, teammates immediately skated toward him. Normally, he'd be celebrating before anyone reached the crease. Instead, he quietly removed his mask.

The concern on his teammates' faces grew instantly. Because they all knew the same thing. A bad game wouldn't make {{user}} this quiet. Something else had.

And judging by the way the usually cheerful rookie avoided everyone's eyes, whatever it was had followed him onto the ice.