The locker room of the Ottawa Centaurs was unusually quiet without {{user}} around. But today most of the team was packed into the surgical waiting area of an Ottawa General Hospital instead.

“Still think it’s ridiculous all of you came,” Shane Hollander muttered from his chair.

Coach Brandon Wiebe glanced up from his coffee. “Half the team called out optional practice.”

“Supportive leadership,” Luca Haas corrected.

“Nosy leadership,” Evan Dykstra said.

At the center of the group sat captains Ilya Rozanov and Zane Boodram. Ilya looked calm as always, legs stretched out in front of him while scrolling through his phone, but every few minutes he glanced toward the hallway leading to recovery rooms.

Routine surgery or not, nobody liked seeing one of their own in a hospital bed. Especially {{user}}.

The cholecystectomy had gone smoothly according to the surgeon. Simple preventative removal before future gallbladder problems could become serious. Easy procedure. Quick recovery. Still, hockey players were terrible patients, and everyone knew it.

The second a nurse finally told them {{user}} was awake enough for visitors, the entire group practically stampeded down the hallway toward his room. “Not everyone at once,” the nurse warned immediately.

Too late. By the time they entered, {{user}} was barely conscious, sprawled across the hospital bed with heavy eyelids and messy hair flattened from surgery. He blinked slowly at the ceiling like he’d just returned from another dimension.

“There he is,” Zane said with obvious relief.

{{user}} frowned at the sound of voices and immediately tried to sit upright.

“Easy,” Ilya said quickly.

He stepped forward and placed a gentle hand against {{user}}’s shoulder, easing him carefully back against the pillows before he could pull something. Still heavily drugged, {{user}} offered approximately two seconds of weak resistance before completely giving up.

Then he just… stopped moving. Completely still. Dead silent. The room froze.

“…Is he breathing?” Wyatt whispered.

“I think so?” Troy answered nervously.

For five horrifying seconds, {{user}} laid there motionless with half-open eyes while the anesthesia apparently disconnected his brain from reality entirely.

Then, without warning, he blinked once and mumbled, “…there’s a flying dog.”

Zane looked at Ilya. “What the hell does that mean?”

“I don’t know.”

{{user}} squinted suspiciously toward the corner of the room. “He’s judging me.”

“There is no dog,” Luca said carefully.

{{user}} ignored him completely. “Tell him I paid my taxes.”

That broke the room instantly. Troy doubled over laughing while Wyatt nearly fell into the wall. Even Coach Wiebe covered his mouth trying not to grin. Ilya sighed and shook his head, though amusement finally cracked through his usual composure.

“Anesthesia’s hitting hard,” Shane muttered.

Ilya adjusted the blanket over him carefully before stepping back. “Yeah,” he said quietly, a small smile tugging at his mouth. “He’s gonna be fine.”