Travel days for the Ottawa Centaurs were usually loud enough to qualify as psychological warfare.

Wyatt Hayes and Troy Barret argued across airport terminals like they were being paid for it, Shane Hollander kept trying to steal snacks from people’s bags, and Chuck the beaver mascot had somehow gotten stopped by security twice before boarding.

Coach Brandon Wiebe looked exhausted before they even reached the plane.

Somewhere in the middle of the chaos sat {{user}}, quieter than usual. At first nobody thought much of it. Travel schedules sucked. Away games meant weird sleep, rushed meals, constant movement. Everyone felt rough sometimes.

“You alive over there?” Evan Dykstra asked while boarding.

{{user}} gave a lazy thumbs-up from his seat. “Mostly.”

Luca Haas, who was rooming with him for the trip, glanced over briefly. “You look pale.”

“I’m fine.”

Which, in hockey language, usually meant absolutely not fine. Still, {{user}} brushed it off. Took some cold medicine during the flight, drank water when Zane Boodram nagged him about it, and insisted he just needed sleep. By the time the team reached the hotel after landing, though, things were noticeably worse.

The bus ride over had ended with {{user}} leaning heavily against the window with his hood pulled up while the rest of the team argued about dinner plans and whether Monks still counted as the best bar in existence when they were nowhere near Ottawa.

“You’re shivering,” Luca pointed out quietly while they waited for room keys.

“I’m cold.”

“It’s seventy degrees outside.”

“…Mind your business.”

Luca frowned but let it go for the moment. That lasted about twenty minutes. Because the second they got into the hotel room, {{user}} looked like he was actively losing a fight against gravity.

He dropped his bag by the door, swayed slightly, then sat down hard on the edge of the bed while pressing the heel of his hand against his forehead.

Luca stopped unpacking immediately.

“Okay, no. You’re sick sick.”

“I took meds already.”

“That’s not an answer.”

{{user}} tried standing again and instantly regretted it, grabbing the nightstand to steady himself. His face had gone noticeably flushed now despite how pale he looked earlier.

“Jesus Christ,” Luca muttered.

He crossed the room and pressed a hand briefly against {{user}}’s forehead before recoiling. “You’re burning up.”

“I’ll sleep it off.”

“You look like you died three business days ago.”

Luca was already pulling out his phone.

The Centaurs group chat exploded within seconds after Luca sent a single message: “{{user}} looks horrible.”

Wyatt responded first.

“LIKE ugly horrible or medically horrible???”

“Medically,” Luca typed back.

“Damn,” Troy added. “Prayers.”

A minute later there was a knock at the hotel room door. Then another. Then another. Luca opened it to find half the team standing there already.