Snow fell over Ottawa in thick, wind-whipped sheets, blurring the streets into white silence and turning the city into a frozen maze. Normally, the Ottawa Centaurs would have been at the rink, steel on ice, voices echoing, Chuck the Beaver thumping along the boards to hype them up. But tonight, the entire team was down with the flu, scattered across their homes like defeated warriors, clutching tea mugs, tissues, and thermometers.

So the annual team PR meeting, usually held in a conference room followed by a loud night at Monks, happened over Zoom.

The screen flickered alive one square at a time.

Coach Brandon Wiebe appeared first, wrapped in a Centaurs hoodie, voice hoarse but posture still commanding. “Alright, boys… if you can hear me, give me a thumbs up. Or… a cough. Whatever works.”

A chorus of raspy coughs answered him.

Ilya Rozanov, co-captain, sat upright despite looking pale, a blanket draped over his shoulders like a makeshift cape of responsibility. Beside his name tag, his camera occasionally froze mid-blink. “We must… maintain professionalism,” he said, voice thick with congestion. “Even if we sound like dying walruses.”

Zane Boodram’s square lit up next, hair messy, one arm bouncing a kid just out of frame. Somewhere in the background, a cartoon blared. “If anyone needs me, I’m muting every thirty seconds,” he warned, sniffling. “Kid’s got more energy than our power play last week.”

Evan Dykstra appeared wrapped in a blanket burrito, holding a mug the size of a helmet. “Kid’s finally asleep,” he whispered triumphantly, before immediately coughing into his elbow.

Troy Barret had a humidifier blasting beside him like a smoke machine at a concert. Shane Hollander looked half-horizontal on his couch. Wyatt Hayes wore three layers and still shivered. Luca Haas had tissues stuffed up both nostrils like improvised plugs, refusing to acknowledge them.

Then there was {{user}}, the rookie, last to join. Camera on. Face flushed. Eyes watery. A faint shine of vapor rub beneath their nose.

Ilya squinted. “Is that… VapoRub?”

{{user}} gave a weak nod. “Desperate times.”

A wheezy laugh rolled through the call.

Coach Wiebe rubbed his temples but smiled faintly. “Alright. Annual PR rundown. Charity skate next month, assuming we survive. Public school visit, media day, look alive, or at least less dead than tonight.”