Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 86515 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 433(@200wpm)___ 346(@250wpm)___ 288(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86515 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 433(@200wpm)___ 346(@250wpm)___ 288(@300wpm)
As if on cue, Janine opens the office door and I turn that way, but Rowe’s voice stops me. “Juno.”
I glance back, eyebrows raised.
Rowe’s gaze holds mine, steady and direct. “Make it spectacular.”
I blink once, caught off guard not by the simplicity of it but because it’s so genuine.
I’ve decided that I like Patrick Rowe.
I smile. “Always.”
CHAPTER 3
Crosby
The locker room in the performance center is ridiculous, but I mean that in a good way. It’s not designed to overwhelm, but it doesn’t pretend to be modest either.
The room is massive with identical rows of stalls running parallel to each other. But these aren’t ordinary cubbies. Each locker is a fully integrated station and at the base of each unit is a built-in recliner upholstered in the same mocha-brown and black color combo as in the team auditorium. The seats are wide and structured to support large frames, and with the push of a remote button, they recline fully into a sleep pod, allowing players to rest between workouts and practices. Subtle lighting beneath each seat provides low-level illumination along the floor, keeping the room visible without overhead glare.
To either side of the stalls are storage compartments and cubbies. One side includes a vertical closet space for suits and personal clothing. The other side holds open, ventilated shelves for skates, gloves and smaller gear, with integrated drying channels to handle damp equipment.
Above each locker, a wide digital screen runs horizontally and will display a photo of the player with their name on it. I’ve been told it will eventually rotate player-specific information—number, stats, training metrics, recovery data and upcoming schedules. When not actively in use, they cycle through team branding and visuals at low brightness.
The floor is covered with the same sumptuous carpet that runs through the building with the Wildfire crest embroidered into the center of each aisle.
I hang my bag in my stall and take a moment to breathe it in. Training camp always carries this strange duality of optimism layered over dread.
Possibility sitting right next to potential failure.
Everyone comes in believing this year will be different, and everyone knows not all of us will walk out of camp with the roles we expect.
I strip off my jacket, hang it neatly, then pull the team-issued training top from the folded stack on the shelf. It’s crisp, still creased, but that won’t last long. I set it aside because we won’t be hitting the ice until this afternoon.
Behind me, a familiar voice cuts through the quiet hum of movement.
“Well, I’ll be fucked,” Arch Hewitt says. “If this isn’t the nicest locker room I’ve ever set foot in. I feel like royalty.”
He drops his bag at the stall beside mine, and like that… we’ve claimed our territory. I expect these stalls will be officially assigned to us when the season starts.
“I’m not sure if we should play hockey here,” I say without looking at him, “or host wine tastings.”
Arch laughs and stretches his arms overhead, rolling his shoulders like he’s already loosening up for the day. “Why limit ourselves?”
Boss Calloway strides through. “Tell me you saw the lounge area. It’s like we’re royalty.”
“See?” Arch exclaims, pointing at me. “Hockey royalty.”
Boss snorts, shifting his bag from one arm to the other. “Then where’s my crown?”
“Check your stall,” Arch deadpans. “They’re fancy enough to house the Crown Jewels.”
I indeed saw the lounge area earlier and it’s bananas. It sits immediately adjacent to the main locker rows, functioning as an extension of the space rather than a separate room. The seating is arranged in conversational clusters rather than rows with oversized leather sectional sofas in the same mocha and black leather, which is an obvious theme, with matching ottomans large enough to serve as footrests or informal tables.
A large, wall-mounted, flat-screen television anchors the lounge, recessed into a dark frame. It’s sized for group viewing—easily visible from every couch—and I imagine it will just as easily run sports coverage and film review as it would soap operas. The lighting throughout the lounge is intentionally subdued… recessed for soft illumination without glare and narrow strips of orange neon running along the baseboards to give it a contemporary look.
We’re being spoiled and I am here for it.
“Fucking royalty,” Boss murmurs before taking the stall next to Arch.
I love these early dynamics with my new teammates. Fueled by the excitement of the upcoming season, camaraderie is forming. It’s all banter and ease with no forced posturing yet.
Training camp isn’t about speeches or hype videos. It’s about systems, repetition and learning who shows up when no one’s cheering. It’s baseline testing, medical check-ins and drills designed to expose weaknesses before the season does it for you.
I quickly change into my workout gear, trading easy verbal jabs with Arch and Boss until Coach Monahan’s voice cuts through the room, authoritative without being loud. “All right, gentlemen. Gather up.”