Page 263 of Wild Card 13

Victor saw him last. His mouth twisted. “What, Müller? You got something to say too?”

Alois blinked once. “No,” he said. “I am enjoying watching jealousy destroy your last good sense.”

Victor flushed dark crimson. “I’m not jealous.”

Alois tilted his head a fraction, studying him like this was a disappointing medical scan. “Of the dog, maybe.”

Marco made a low sound into his fist.

Even Cam’s mouth tightened like he was fighting the wrong reaction.

Victor grabbed his bag off the floor. “This is bullshit.”

“No,” Cam said. “This our room.” Cam stepped closer, not in his face, not threatening. Just enough that leadership became physical. “You want to be pissed about being scratched? Be pissed. You want to be pissed at your minutes? Talk to Coach like a professional. You want to be pissed at Burns because he’s in the lineup and you’re not? Handle it on the ice if you get back there.” His voice hardened. “You do not drag staff into it. You do not talk about women in this organization like that. You do not make this room smaller because you feel small.”

Victor’s throat moved.

There it was.

Fear.

Because this was not a rookie saying something dumb in October and getting roasted until the lesson stuck. This was a depth player at the end of a hard season, already scratched, already on the wrong side of the lineup, making himself look like a liability in front of the men whose opinions traveled faster than paperwork.

Rooms remembered.

Exit meetings remembered.

Coaches asked captains what they could live with.

Cam glanced toward the door. “Get dressed. You’re coming with me.”

“To Coach?” Victor’s eyes flashed.

“You heard me.” Cam’s face did not change. “Get dressed.”

For a second, I thought Victor might double down. The old instinct in me hoped he would, which told me I was not as evolved as the stillness was making me look.

Then Victor looked around the room.

No one saved him. Not Milo, who had gone quiet near his stall, face closed in a way I could not read. Not Marco. Not Harry. Not Oliver. Not even the younger guys who usually laughed at anything if it kept them from being noticed.

Victor swore under his breath and shoved his gear into his bag with too much force.

The room stayed quiet while he changed.

That might have been the consequence that mattered first.

Not Cam.

Not Coach.

Not contracts or next season or the math of a roster spot already slipping through his fingers.

I sat down because my legs suddenly felt less reliable than they had during the third period.

My hands were steady. The anger was still there, but it had changed shape. It had not vanished. It was not noble. It had not become clean just because I had kept it contained. But it was mine now. Not the room’s. Not Lucy’s problem. Not something I had handed to everyone else and asked them to admire.

I reached for the tape beside my stall and started winding it around two fingers, then unwinding it again.