The locker room after a loss was always quieter than usual, but that night, the silence felt heavier. Gear sat half-removed, sticks leaned forgotten against benches, and no one quite met each other’s eyes. The Ottawa Centaurs weren’t used to losing like that, sloppy passes, missed chances, the kind of game that lingered.

{{user}} sat near the end of the bench, shoulders tense, still in partial gear, staring down at the floor. The game replayed in their head on a loop, every mistake sharper than the last. Their phone buzzed. They hesitated, then answered. “Yeah.”

At first, their father’s voice was muffled, but it didn’t take long for it to rise, sharp, cutting, impossible to ignore. “What was that out there? You call that playing? You embarrassed yourself.”

{{user}}’s jaw tightened. “I know, I just-”

“No, you don’t know. If you did, you wouldn’t keep messing up like this. You’re weak out there. Soft.”

Across the room, a few heads lifted. Ilya Rozanov, still unlacing his skates, paused. Zane Boodram’s posture stiffened beside him. Conversations died out one by one as the voice on the other end of the call grew louder.

“You think this is a joke? You think talent carries you? Because it doesn’t. Not when you play like that.”

{{user}} swallowed hard, eyes fixed on the ground. They didn’t notice when the room went completely silent. “I’m trying,” they said quietly.

“Trying isn’t enough.”

That was when Ilya stood. He crossed the room in a few long strides, Zane right behind him. Shane Hollander and a couple of the others weren’t far off either, drawn in by something that felt less like curiosity and more like instinct.

Ilya stopped in front of {{user}}, his expression unreadable but firm. Slowly, he held out his hand. “Give me the phone.”

{{user}} blinked, caught off guard. “…Ilya-”

“Give me the phone,” he repeated, quieter this time, but it wasn’t a suggestion.

After a second, {{user}} handed it over.

Ilya brought it to his ear. “They had a bad game,” he said evenly, cutting straight through whatever was being said on the other end. “It happens.”

A pause. Then his gaze hardened slightly. “But you don’t get to speak to them like that.”

Zane stepped closer, arms crossed. “They’re part of this team,” he added. “Which means you’re talking about one of ours.”

Behind them, Shane leaned against a locker, nodding once in agreement. “And we don’t tear our own down.”

There was a beat of silence from the other end before Ilya spoke again, voice calm but unmistakably final. “If you have something to say, you say it with respect. Or you do not say it at all.”

He pulled the phone away and ended the call without waiting for a response. For a moment, no one spoke.

Then Ilya handed the phone back to {{user}}, his expression softening just slightly. “You don’t answer that again if it’s like that,” he said.

Zane nudged their shoulder lightly. “You had a rough game. So what? We all did.”

“Yeah,” Shane added. “That wasn’t on you alone.”