The Ottawa Centaurs’ locker room after practice was its usual mix of exhaustion and noise. Gear was half-packed, half-abandoned. Someone had music playing too loud from a cracked phone speaker. Wyatt Hayes and Troy Barret were arguing about whether a “pre-game nap” counted as a strategic advantage or just laziness. Luca Haas was quietly reorganizing his bag for the third time that week for no discernible reason.

Ilya Rozanov and Zane Boodram stood near the whiteboard, still talking through tomorrow’s drills. Shane Hollander sat on the bench taping a stick with calm precision. Evan Dykstra was recounting a play that, according to him, was “statistically iconic.”

And in the middle of all of it sat {{user}}. The baby of the team, as Troy insisted on calling them, usually followed by {{user}} throwing something at him. Gen Z through and through. Fast scrolling thumbs. Faster reactions. The kind of player who knew every team stat and every meme format simultaneously.

They had been unusually quiet that day. Which, for {{user}}, usually meant one of two things: exhaustion… or mischief. Today, it turned out to be both.

{{user}} leaned over their phone, shoulders shaking slightly. Then again. Then a quiet snort.

Wyatt noticed first. “…What are you doing?”

{{user}} didn’t look up. “Research.”

Troy narrowed his eyes. “That sounded suspicious.”

“It’s not.”

Luca leaned over slightly from his stall. “If you say ‘it’s not,’ it usually is.”

That made {{user}} grin. A second later, they lifted their phone. “I found something.”

Zane sighed. “That sentence has never ended well in team history.”

Ilya, still half-focused on the whiteboard, turned slightly. “What kind of something?”

{{user}} looked far too pleased with themselves. “Fan fiction.”

The room went silent. Shane blinked once. “Fan… fiction.”

Evan stopped mid-story. “Of us?”

{{user}} nodded.

Troy slowly set down his water bottle. “No.”

Wyatt pointed at them. “Absolutely not.”

{{user}} scrolled dramatically. “Oh, it gets better.”

Zane rubbed his face. “It never does.”

Ilya finally turned fully around. “…What did you find?”

{{user}} cleared their throat, completely enjoying themselves. “Well,” they began, “apparently Wyatt is described as ‘emotionally devastating on and off the ice.’”

Wyatt choked. “I object.”

Luca laughed.

“And Troy,” {{user}} continued, “is ‘a golden retriever in human form who would apologize to a wall if he hit it too hard.’”

Troy pointed at no one in particular. “That is defamatory.”

Shane folded his arms. “This is already spiraling.”

{{user}} wasn’t done.

“Oh, and Ilya-”

Ilya raised a hand immediately. “Stop.”

Too late.

{{user}} continued, delighted. “-is apparently ‘a mysterious Russian hockey prince who communicates primarily through intense eye contact and suffering.’”

A beat of silence. Then Luca lost it completely. Troy wheezed laughing. Wyatt buried his face in a towel.

Zane shook his head slowly. “I hate all of this.”

Shane muttered, “That one is… not entirely wrong.”

Ilya exhaled through his nose. “Of course it is this.”

Evan leaned over. “Wait, am I in it?”

{{user}} flicked again. “Oh yeah. You’re ‘the chaos gremlin with legs made of pure adrenaline and questionable decisions.’”

Evan looked proud. “I’ll take it.”

Coach Brandon Wiebe chose that exact moment to walk in. He paused. Looked at the laughing team. Looked at {{user}} holding up their phone like a weapon. “…What is happening?”