Tyler Bennett   pov

I turn left, making a metronome squeak as my rubber soles hit the tile. There are no people in the hall. As I turn the corner, a stark white wall is broken by a doorway.

The logo of the Montreal Viper. I lift my arm to touch it, and a shiver of excitement shoots up my spine. I'm surprised that the medallion is somewhat larger than my hand when I extend my fingers as wide as I can. I had anticipated it being larger. The metal feels cold to the touch, and the relief etching is smooth over the letter and shield and uneven and gnarled as I trace over the viper. I feel like I shouldn't be here for the first time in a long time. Like I'm not where I should be.

As if I were trespassing. It strikes so forcefully that I glance over my shoulder, half expecting to see security approaching me, prepared to expel me. But nobody is coming. No one is coming, of course. This is where I belong. My squad is actually waiting for me. My group. The Bears are my team, holy sh*t.

They were the first squad I ever fell in love with. The first team I supported. The group that altered my physiology, my life, and my heart rate. To me, they remain that team. Yes, he is here.

He offers reporters an honest assessment of my performance each and every time they enquire about me. "Hogging the puck is his fetish as a clown." I'm not kidding. In fact, Moretti made that statement on ESPN. For more than a week, it was played repeatedly. Really though it makes my anger boil, I've always been able to respond with a nod and a little forced grin, using all of my self-control to deny that our rivalry really exists. My mother refers to it as "rising above."

I'm not suggesting that I don't make an effort to defeat him. Yes, I do. I research his plays and am familiar with both his and my own statistics. They're close, but I'm superior, in case you were wondering. As long as the previous season is excluded.

Yes, I acknowledge that my mouth tastes delicious after defeating Moretti. But unlike him, I don't make a special effort to give him or his assholism a lot of room, and I'm not going to start doing so right now. Being a native Montrealer, I can't say that I'm ecstatic to be on the same team as him, but I'm really thrilled since this is the Bears. The Bears vs. Montreal Mounties was the first live game I ever saw.

I was seven years old. I rode the bus to the arena with my dad. My dad held my hand while we waited in queue to get our tickets punched, and we strolled the final few streets to take in the ambiance. I didn't mind for once. It took us an eternity to get past the throng and find our seats. Everything around me fell silent when the wave of people separated and I first saw the rink.

Hell, I hardly blinked. At church or in the outdoors, some people have a deep relationship with God. I see it as an enclosed area with boards, flashing spotlights, and walkable water.

The stark white-and-gold practice jerseys that hang beneath each player's number are the only thing that breaks the gloomy, dismal atmosphere.

I still get the same sense as I had all those years ago when I look around the room. The same but worse because, holy crap, they're here and it's real.

Something clever, perhaps, or at least somewhat intelligent. However, no. I have nothing. My mind creates a vacuum that erases all of my words when I open and reopen my mouth two or three times, fear rising quickly. I remind myself, "Look, just say something."

"Jaceeeee," I responded, matching and even surpassing his zeal. It's been a long time, buddy. How are you doing? Together, Jace and I came up. He is a strong defensive player. Solid as hell. still stocky but taller now. A brick wall with a broad smile and the disposition of a bony dog. It's not a wild dog or anything.

Over the last ten years, the game has led us in various directions across the nation, but we have remained in touch and have always made the effort to get together for a drink when we are in the same location.

Carter is able to pass through the circle that surrounds me. If you've been living under a rock, it's Jean "Carter" Ludovic, the Bears' captain and a living legend in every way. It's nearly overwhelming to declare that I'm a fan once more. With a constipated croak that nearly sounds like my name, I am able to stifle it. Although it's not my greatest work, I'll accept it because it's an improvement. "Bennett."

My soul almost escapes my body, I swear. Since the team's founding in 1940, the snake song has been a custom. It's something I've seen in advertising videos and documentaries, and it's something I wanted to experience as a youngster.

Faces all around me break into carefree grins. The striking exception is the visage of a man seated behind a big, gold number eight, just opposite from my stand. A damaged lip is pulled into a frown, and thick black brows are furrowed. I was judged and found wanting by black eyes that stared at me. 

"Nice of you to join us, Bennett," he replies with a sharp glance at his wrist. Okay, so this is my first day, and the traffic was worse than I anticipated. I'm running seven and a half minutes behind schedule. Sue me. I offer him a half-hearted nod and a faint grin.