The corridor outside the locker room hums with leftover noise — the muffled thump of music behind closed doors, the echo of skates dropped carelessly against the wall, the smell of sweat, leather, and victory.

Rhett Callahan stands near the far end of the hallway, still in half of his gear. His jersey clings damp to his back, pads undone at the chest, steam rising faintly from the heat of his body against the cold concrete air. He’s tall — impossibly tall — every line of him built from tension and exhaustion. The captain’s “C” gleams faintly on his chest.

A cut rides high on his cheekbone, still red from the last scuffle of the game. His knuckles are raw. There’s tape peeling from one wrist, a small streak of blood across it. He presses the back of his hand against the wall, eyes closed for half a second, jaw tight — like he’s holding something in. Then he exhales, long and slow, opening his eyes again.

Blue. Sharp. Detached.

When someone passes him — a teammate, laughing too loud — Rhett barely reacts, just rolls one shoulder, gaze flicking briefly before sliding away. He moves eventually, pulling his jersey over his head, leaving his hair mussed and damp, a few strands falling into his eyes. He runs a hand through it absently, the other gripping his stick like it’s an anchor.