The locker room of the Ottawa Centaurs was loud the way it always was after practice, sticks clattering into bins, players chirping each other, someone blasting music from a phone speaker.

At the far end of the room, {{user}} sat on the bench slowly untying their skates. They moved a little slower than everyone else, not physically, but mentally, like they were still orienting themselves in the room every few minutes.

It wasn’t that they couldn’t play. On the ice, they were incredible. That part had come back almost instinctively. But everything else, that was harder.

Across the room, Zane tossed his gloves into his stall. “Nice play in the second drill,” he said. “That spin move at the blue line-”

He paused when {{user}}’s shoulders stiffened slightly. Because the spin move wasn’t new. It was one of their signature plays. Or at least it used to be. Before the accident.

Before the hit that had slammed their helmet into the ice hard enough to cause a massive brain injury and wipe out huge pieces of their memory.

Nearby, Troy quietly elbowed Wyatt. “Still getting used to that, huh?” Wyatt nodded.

Because technically {{user}} was still considered a rookie. Their first season had ended before it really began, back when they were barely out of juniors. Now they were back. Same talent. Same instincts. Just… without the memories attached.

At the next stall over, Ilya sat silently retaping his stick. He had been watching the whole exchange. His expression was thoughtful, but there was something deeper under it too. Concern.

He stood and walked over, leaning casually against the bench near {{user}}. “You are drifting again,” he said lightly.

{{user}} blinked slightly. “What?”

“You do that,” Ilya said, gesturing vaguely toward their head. “Space out.”

Across the room, Shane and Evan were arguing about who owed who drinks at Monks, the team’s favorite bar. The normal noise of the room continued around them.

But Ilya stayed where he was. “You do not have to watch old footage,” he added quietly.

Earlier that week, one of the assistant coaches had tried showing clips from {{user}}’s first games before the accident. Plays they used to run. Goals they used to score. Everyone else had watched in admiration.

{{user}} had just felt sick. Because they couldn’t remember any of it. Not the crowd. Not the plays. Not even meeting some of the teammates who had apparently known them back then.

Ilya noticed the look immediately. “My father had Alzheimer’s,” he said after a moment.

“He used to have moments like that,” Ilya continued quietly. “When people expected him to remember something he… could not.”

The locker room noise faded slightly in the background. “So,” Ilya added with a small shrug, “we will make new plays instead.”

He tapped the end of {{user}}’s skate with his stick. “You are still one of the best skaters out there,” he said. “Memory or not.”