DRAFT DAY

[ Scarlett POV ]

The locker room smelled like men's deodorant and old ambition, and neither of those things was going to stop me.

I stood in the doorway for exactly three seconds. Long enough to take inventory, short enough that nobody could call it hesitation. Metal lockers, rows of them, every hook already taken by someone who had not expected company. Fluorescent light buzzing overhead like it had something to apologise for. Through the far wall I could hear a shower running, and underneath that,underneath the white noise of water and the distant clang of something metallic,I could hear voices cutting off the precise moment my door opened.

They knew I was here.

My locker was number seven. Coach Briggs had told me this three times in our last phone call, with the careful repetition of a man who understood that information delivered under stress didn't always land. The assistant equipment manager had confirmed it twice when he'd handed over my kit. The campus newspaper had run a photo of the locker with my name taped underneath it before I'd even arrived on campus,which was the kind of coverage I hadn't asked for, couldn't control, and had learned in the last two weeks to treat as background noise rather than a thing I had feelings about.

The tape on my nameplate had been replaced. Someone had written WRONG ROOM on a fresh strip and pressed it over the top, neat as a correction.

I peeled it off. Smoothed the edge clean. Found a fresh strip in my bag, wrote NICE TRY in block letters, and pressed it down corner to corner. Took my time with it. Made sure the edges were even.

I hadn't met a single person on this team yet. I'd been on campus for eleven hours. I'd unpacked half a duffel bag in a room that smelled like someone else's laundry, eaten a granola bar in the parking lot because I'd missed dinner, and driven here on three hours of sleep and a very specific kind of anger that I had learned a long time ago to keep quiet and useful. My dad used to call it the right kind of anger. The kind that doesn't burn out fast. The kind that goes into your feet.

I thought about him for exactly two seconds,his hands on my shoulders before my first competitive game, his voice saying you're going to be better than all of them, Scar, and the complete, uncomplicated certainty with which he'd meant it,and then I put it away. I was good at putting things away. I'd had years of practice.

I hung my bag on hook seven. Sat down on the bench, which was cold through my jeans. Pulled my skate bag onto my knees and started unlacing it with the focused calm of someone who was absolutely, completely fine and would not be demonstrating otherwise to anyone in this building today.

The shower turned off. Footsteps somewhere. A door banged open and then shut. The buzz of the lights filled the silence.

And then I felt it,that particular pressure, the weight of someone watching from a doorway with enough stillness and intention that it registers on the back of your neck before you've consciously noticed anything.

I looked up.

He was standing at the far entrance of the locker room. Tall, dark jacket, arms crossed over his chest with the settled ease of someone who had been standing in exactly that position for a while before I'd noticed him. He had the jaw of someone who'd been clenching it since childhood, and eyes that were doing a slow, methodical, entirely unsentimental assessment of everything I was and everything I represented on his ice.

He didn't say anything. His expression didn't change. He just looked at me the way you look at a problem you've already decided is going to cost you.

I looked back. I held his gaze for five full seconds, because flinching first was categorically not something I was prepared to do on day one or any day after it. Then I turned back to my skates, pulled the lace through the first eyelet, and kept working.

Behind me, after a long moment, I heard him walk away. His footsteps were even. Unhurried. The footsteps of a man who had decided he didn't need to say anything yet.

My hands, I noted with some satisfaction, were completely steady.

I finished with the first skate, set it down, and started on the second. The locker room was still mostly empty. Voices had started up again somewhere deeper in the building, low and careful, the sound of people recalibrating.

I was going to have to earn every inch of this. I had known that before I got here. What I hadn't fully understood, until about thirty seconds ago, was what it was going to feel like to have it confirmed by a single look from a man I'd never spoken to.

It felt like fuel.

I finished lacing. Stood up. Checked the tape on my stick, which didn't need checking, and checked it anyway because my hands needed something to do while the rest of me settled.

***

The look on his face had told me everything I needed to know about the next four months. What I didn't understand yet,what I wouldn't understand for a long time,was that it was going to tell me something about the four months after that, too.