The ballroom of the Major League Hockey Midseason Leadership Gala in Ottawa was the exact kind of place the players from the Ottawa Centaurs hated. Too many suits. Too many cameras. Too many sponsors pretending they understood hockey.

At a round table near the back, several Centaurs players had clustered together like a pack avoiding a storm. Captain Ilya Rozanov leaned back in his chair, expression carefully neutral but clearly unimpressed with the speeches happening on stage.

Beside him, co-captain Zane Boodram was scrolling through his phone under the table. “This is worse than preseason conditioning,” Zane muttered.

Across from them, Shane Hollander quietly laughed into his drink. “You say that every year.”

“I mean it every year.”

Further down the table sat Troy Barret, Evan Dykstra, Wyatt Hayes, and Luca Haas, all varying degrees of bored. Someone mentioned sneaking out early and heading to Monks, the team’s unofficial headquarters after games.

That suggestion immediately improved morale. Coach Brandon Wiebe had already warned them not to embarrass the organization tonight, but no one had said anything about leaving early.

Then Troy’s attention drifted across the ballroom. “Hold up,” he said quietly.

Zane followed his gaze. A few tables away sat {{user}}.

Every Centaur at the table recognized them instantly. Not because they played together. But because everyone in the league knew who {{user}} was.

On the ice, {{user}} had a reputation. Aggressive. Relentless. Infuriating. They were the kind of player who chirped through an entire shift, grinning the whole time. If someone dropped gloves with them, {{user}} usually looked like they were having the time of their life. Never dirty. Never trying to injure anyone. But reckless enough to make opponents furious. And cocky enough to enjoy it.

“They’re here?” Wyatt murmured.

Zane leaned forward slightly. “Thought they didn’t do PR stuff.”

“They don’t,” Shane said.

Which was true. {{user}} almost never appeared at league events. No interviews. No sponsorship panels. No charity showcases. Agents always claimed it was “strategic brand positioning,” but the league rumor mill had a simpler explanation: They just didn’t care. Or worse. They were exactly the kind of arrogant, aggressive personality people assumed they were.

“That’s the guy we’ve been scouting, right?” Troy asked quietly.

Zane nodded once. “Contract’s up soon.”

Several teams were circling. Including Ottawa.

From the outside, {{user}} looked exactly like expected. Suit slightly rumpled. Sitting alone. No attempt to mingle with sponsors or media. But then something strange happened. A staff member from the event approached their table. The guy looked nervous, juggling a stack of paperwork and a tablet. He spoke quickly, clearly apologizing for something.

{{user}} listened. And instead of brushing him off the way someone with their reputation might, they nodded. Calmly. Patiently. Then they helped the guy organize the stack of folders he’d nearly dropped.

“That’s not the same person,” Troy said flatly.

“They hate this,” Shane said quietly.

Ilya had been silent the whole time, watching. Now he spoke. “Not hate,” he said. Everyone looked at him. “Endure.”

“Imagine that guy chirping you for sixty minutes,” Wyatt said.

Shane smirked. “Now imagine him on our side.”

That got everyone’s attention. “…we should definitely talk to management,” he said.

Ilya’s expression was thoughtful now. Not skeptical. Interested. Because the league thought {{user}} was an arrogant, reckless menace who thrived on chaos. But sitting here, in neutral territory, the Centaurs had just seen something different. And players like that? Those were often the most dangerous.