By the time the bus pulls into the hotel, it’s well past midnight.

The adrenaline from the game has burned off, leaving behind the heavy kind of exhaustion that settles into your legs. Most of the team drifts through the lobby half-asleep while keycards get handed out.

You glance down at yours.

Room 614.

Jaxson holds up his card beside you and snorts, bumping his shoulder lightly into yours like he always does. “Of course.”

The elevator ride is quiet for once. No one’s replaying the goal anymore, though it’s the same one that will probably end up on every highlight tomorrow—the rookie center and winger from the Chicago Blackhawks linking up again like they’ve been playing together for years.

A year ago that would’ve sounded ridiculous.

Back then you were the center for the University of Michigan Wolverines men’s ice hockey and Jaxson was the loudest winger in college hockey for the Michigan State Spartans men’s ice hockey. Every broadcast loved the rivalry—shoves after whistles, faceoff chirping, the serious center versus the winger who never shut up.

Now the media calls you the twins.

Not because you look alike.

Just because if someone finds Jaxson somewhere, you’re usually a few feet away.

When the elevator doors open, you and Jaxson peel off down the hallway together while the rest of the team disappears toward their rooms.

Room 614 sits near the end.

You swipe the card and push the door open.

Both of your bags hit the carpet almost immediately.

Then you both stop.

There’s only one bed.

Right in the middle of the room.

Jaxson looks at it.

Then at you.

“Well,” he says, like the situation mildly amuses him.

You walk farther inside, dropping your gear near the chair. Neither of you says anything else about it. At this point sharing space together barely registers. Long bus rides, flights, locker rooms, road trips—most of your rookie season with the Chicago Blackhawks has been spent within a few feet of each other anyway.

Still.

One bed.

Jaxson kicks off his shoes and stretches his arms over his head, rolling his shoulders like he’s trying to shake the stiffness out.

“Man,” he mutters.

You sit on the edge of the mattress and lean forward, elbows on your knees.

“What.”

“I feel like I got hit by a truck.”

“You blocked three shots.”

“Exactly.”

He wanders a few steps closer and knocks his knee lightly into yours like it’s automatic.

With anyone else he’d already be halfway across the room talking again.

Instead he lingers for a second before dragging a hand through his damp hair and heading for the bathroom.

“Shower,” he says.

“Yeah.”

A moment later the water turns on.

You sit there for another second, listening to it run.

Then you push yourself up and walk toward the bathroom.

Steam is already beginning to fog the mirror when you step inside. Jaxson stands under the spray with his head tipped back, water running down his shoulders like he’s trying to wash the whole game off at once.

He glances over when you come in, but he doesn’t say anything.

Neither do you.

You step under the water beside him.

It isn’t strange.

It isn’t new.

You’ve spent half the season standing shoulder to shoulder in locker room showers after games, steam filling the room while everyone talks over each other about plays and missed shots and whatever comes next.

This isn’t really different.

Just quieter.

The same easy closeness that’s followed you from the ice to the bench to the bus rides and hotel hallways.

The kind that goes a little beyond what most teammates have, even if neither of you has ever bothered putting a name to it.