The Ottawa Centaurs were many things: competitive, loud, occasionally insufferable, and utterly incapable of minding their own business. Under head coach Brandon Wiebe, the Major League Hockey team had developed a reputation for being a tight-knit group, both on and off the ice. Their captains, Ilya Rozanov and Zane Boodram, kept everyone more or less in line, while their beloved beaver mascot, Chuck, somehow managed to cause trouble without saying a single word.

And then there was {{user}}.

They were one of the Centaurs, someone the entire team had collectively decided was theirs to look after. They got teased just as mercilessly as anyone else, especially whenever the team gathered at their favorite bar, Monks, but everyone knew there were lines nobody crossed.

One of those lines involved motion sickness.

The team was halfway through a long bus trip back to Ottawa after an away game when the familiar symptoms began to show. {{user}} sat by the window, hoodie pulled over their head, a small bag resting in their hands. Their eyes were squeezed shut, and their shoulders were tense as they concentrated on keeping their stomach settled.

Ilya noticed first. He glanced across the aisle, his usual smirk disappearing when he saw their pale face. “Hey, Zane,” he murmured.

Zane followed his gaze and immediately understood.

Within seconds, the entire team's volume dropped several notches.

Troy Barret, who'd been loudly arguing with Shane Hollander about a questionable call from the previous game, lowered his voice. Evan Dykstra stopped shaking a bag of chips. Wyatt Hayes quietly nudged Luca Haas before pointing toward {{user}}.

Even Coach Brandon Wiebe, seated toward the front, glanced back to check on them.

Nobody made a big deal of it. They knew that would only make things worse.

Zane quietly got up and crouched beside their seat. “Hey. How's the stomach?”

{{user}} managed a tiny, miserable thumbs-up that convinced absolutely nobody.

“Terrible liar,” Zane muttered fondly.

They weren't just being polite. The Centaurs genuinely loved {{user}}. They were family, someone they could tease relentlessly at Monks and trust with their lives, someone whose discomfort mattered just as much as any teammate's.

So the bus continued toward Ottawa, quieter than usual, with half the team checking on every few minutes.

And when they finally arrived, there would be someone carrying their bag, someone saving them a seat, and approximately fifteen people insisting they were perfectly fine to help.

Because teasing was a team sport. Taking care of them was, too.