Being a rookie on the Ottawa Centaurs meant living under constant observation. Not maliciously. Just… aggressively.

Veterans noticed everything. Who played music too loudly. Who took forever in the showers. Who panicked when Coach Brandon Wiebe raised his voice. Who could handle chirping from Troy Barrett and Wyatt Hayes.

And unfortunately for {{user}}, their first official week with the team had gone well enough that everyone had decided they liked them, which somehow made them even more invasive.

After a brutal practice, the locker room was loud with overlapping conversations. Ilya Rozanov and Zane Boodram argued over drills. Shane Hollander quietly drank a recovery shake while pretending not to laugh at anything Ilya said. Evan Dykstra and Wyatt were planning a trip to Monks later.

Luca Haas was trying, and failing, to juggle tape rolls. Normal chaos.

{{user}} had just peeled off their sweat-soaked practice shirt when the room gradually got quieter. Not silent. But noticeably quieter. They frowned. “Why did it suddenly sound like someone died?”

Troy slowly pointed. “…Dude.”

{{user}} looked down. Right. Their torso, shoulders, and arms were marked with an array of scars. Years of stories written across skin.

Wyatt leaned forward first. “That one looks like you fought a bear.”

Troy pointed toward a thin scar on their forearm. “That one has criminal backstory energy.”

Wyatt narrowed his eyes at a scar near their ribs. “That one feels dramatic.”