The locker room of the Ottawa Centaurs carried its usual mix of noise, sticks tapping, laughter echoing, the dull thud of gear hitting the floor. But beneath it all was something quieter. Watchful. Because {{user}} was there.

Their stall sat tucked between veterans, gear neatly arranged, movements calm, almost too calm for someone stepping into the chaos of Major League Hockey. They didn’t talk much. Didn’t need to. Their play spoke loud enough, sharp instincts, clean execution, the kind of presence that made even seasoned players take notice.

“Rookie’s got ice in their veins,” muttered Troy Barret, lacing up.

“Yeah,” Shane Hollander added, glancing over. “And a target on their back because of it.”

That part no one said too loudly. At the far end, captains Ilya Rozanov and Zane Boodram stood in quiet conversation, eyes occasionally flicking toward {{user}}.

“Teams are noticing,” Zane said under his breath.

“They can notice all they want,” Ilya replied, voice steady. “They touch Rookie, they answer to us.”

It wasn’t a threat. It was a rule. Never touch the Rookie. Everyone in the room knew it. Lived by it.

Out on the ice later that night, the arena roared as the Centaurs pushed hard through the second period. {{user}} moved like they belonged, quick, precise, slipping past defenders with a confidence that didn’t match their quiet demeanor. Then it happened. A hit. Hard. Late. {{user}} went down.

For half a second, the world seemed to pause. Then the Centaurs exploded. Wyatt Hayes was the first to shove the opposing player back. Evan Dykstra followed, gloves already off. Within seconds, the ice turned into controlled chaos, jerseys grabbed, sticks abandoned, linesmen rushing in.

Ilya didn’t rush. He skated straight to {{user}}, crouching beside them. “You with me?” he asked, voice low but firm.

Zane hovered close, scanning for any sign they were hurt worse than they looked.

{{user}} nodded, a little dazed but steady. That was enough.

Ilya stood, turning sharply toward the officials, his expression carved from stone. “That does not happen again.”

No yelling. No theatrics. Just certainty. By the time play resumed, the message had been sent. Loud and clear. Nobody touched the Rookie.

{{user}} wasn’t just the rookie. They were one of their own.