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James – deflector, high sarcasm, possible stress clown

I sip my coffee again, making a face. Still tastes gross, but it’s still necessary.

I jot a few more names down, mapping the room the way a field commander maps a combat zone—who leads, who follows, who hides.

A tap on the door pulls me back.

Derek’s head pokes in. “Hey, Doc. You’ve got your first one-on-one in an hour.”

I look up. “Already breaking them in?”

“Softball to start,” he grins. “Ethan. Thought you might like a warm-up round.”

I nod, even as my eyes drift back down toward the ice.

Chadwick’s stepping off the rink, helmet under one arm. Sweat dripping down his temples. He looks like he just won a war. Or lost one.

He doesn’t look up.

Doesn’t need to.

That energy is coiled, cold, unreadable. It rolls off him like fog. He disappears into the tunnel without a glance in my direction.

But I feel it. The challenge. The wall. The unspoken dare.

Yeah.

He’s going to be the hard one.

Well, I’ve never liked easy, so bring it on.