The locker room of the Ottawa Centaurs was never truly quiet, but tonight, it was different.

Not loud. Not relaxed. Not the usual mix of laughter, music, and post-practice chirping. Something heavier sat in the air, unspoken but shared.

It had been {{user}}’s fifth game.

And everyone had noticed.

Out on the ice earlier, the signs had been clear, too clear. Late hits. Short temper. Gloves dropped too quickly. A penalty box visit that had nothing to do with protecting a teammate or momentum, just anger. Raw, misplaced anger.

Now the game was over. Skates unlaced. Gear half-off. Silence lingering.

Ilya Rozanov sat at the center of the room, captain’s presence calm but firm, eyes thoughtful rather than critical. Beside him, Zane Boodram leaned forward, forearms on his knees, expression serious in a way that meant this wasn’t about hockey anymore.

Coach Brandon Wiebe stood near the doorway, arms folded, not intervening, letting the room belong to the team.

Because this was a team matter.

Across the room, {{user}} sat at his stall, head lowered slightly, jaw tight. He’d cleaned up well, too well. Anyone who didn’t know what to look for might’ve missed it. But hockey rooms saw everything. The tired eyes. The restless energy. The anger that came too fast.

The hiding.

Shane Hollander spoke first, voice calm, steady. “Rough night.”

Not judgment. Just truth. No response. Wyatt Hayes shifted quietly. Troy Barret glanced toward Luca Haas, both saying nothing but clearly present.

Then Ilya stood. He didn’t raise his voice. Didn’t confront. Didn’t accuse. He simply walked across the room and stopped in front of {{user}}. “Fighting wrong battles,” Ilya said quietly.

{{user}} didn’t look up. “I’m fine.”

Zane exhaled softly. “You’ve had four penalties in two games, man. That’s not ‘fine.’”

Still, no anger in his tone, just concern. Evan Dykstra leaned back against the lockers. “You’re playing like you’re trying to hurt something.”

Shane added gently, “And it’s not the other team.”

Silence stretched. Ilya crouched slightly so he was eye level, not captain to rookie, but man to man. “You are good player,” Ilya said calmly. “Smart. Fast. You don’t lose control like this for no reason. You don’t have to hide from us.”

Zane nodded slowly. “Yeah. Whatever’s going on, you’re not alone in it.”

Troy added, quieter, “Nobody here’s judging.”

Shane stepped closer, voice gentle but firm. “But hurting yourself, or letting something take control, that’s not the path you want.”

Another long silence. The weight of a full locker room, not pressuring, not cornering, just standing there. Waiting. Ready.

Ilya rested a hand briefly on {{user}}’s shoulder, steady, grounding. “We help you,” he said simply. “But you must let us.”