Page 28 of Pucking One Night Stand

We grunt our collective understanding.

Elevators ding one by one. The third one opens, and Thumper barrels in, knocking everyone out of the way.

I step in beside him, Peters and McAvoy pushing through behind me, Bishy and Brody close behind, Vasko, Monty, and Davis filling up the rest of the space.

Thumper lets out some wind, grins, and, as the doors close, he jabs floor thirty-one.

“Jesus,” Monty groans.

Bishy leans against the mirrored wall, blocking his nose and muttering, “You should be staying in a zoo, not a hotel.”

And me? I don’t say anything. I just stand, my arms down, my eyes fixed ahead, watching the floor numbers change. Cassy’s name still spins somewhere behind my eyes like a loose puck.

Maybe when we get back to Vegas, I'll ask her out. No matter what Coach McCullum says.

The elevator dings. Floor 31. We spill out, half the team still joking around, the other half dragging their feet like we’ve just marched back from war.

Brody and I head down the corridor to 3110. The carpet is thick under my boots, and the lights are dimmed like they’re trying to lull us into something softer than reality.

The card beeps, and our door clicks open.

The suite’s decent. Small foyer first, tiles underfoot, neutral walls, with a coat hook. Then the living area opens up, sleek lines, muted greys, and soft yellows from recessed lighting.

There’s a couch that looks modern and comfortable, although I’m sure it’s been broken in by a hundred exhausted guests before us, a coffee table with a glass top, and a desk pushed up against the wall like it wants to be useful but knows we won’t touch it.

A kitchenette is in the corner. A sink, a tiny fridge, and a coffee machine blinking like it’s already judging me for what I’ll do to it in the morning.

Brody flops onto the sofa like it’s home.

“Alright,” he mutters, cracking his neck. “Thirty minutes to lie down before the meeting, or I swear I’m going to fall asleep mid-tactics.”

I strip out of my jacket and fall into the other side of the couch. We rest, just enough to feel the exhaustion climb into our bones and then decide that’s enough.

Down on the seventh floor, the Garden Terrace has already been set up for us. McCullum is already at the front, whiteboard, marker, and that graveyard expression he always wears before a big game. Danny is next to him.

We talk systems. Defensive coverage. Forward pressure. Vancouver’s aggressive cycle game. Brody jots notes like we’re in class, elbowing me twice when I look like I’m zoning out.

After that, dinner in the hotel restaurant. Nothing fancy, carbs, protein, and something green so the dieticians stop side-eyeing us.

Back upstairs, everyone’s buzzing. Talking shifts, lines, possibilities. The hallway sounds like a pre-battle march.

“They double up on forechecks,” Thumper is saying.

“Yeah, but their D-line’s too slow on the recovery,” McAvoy argues.

“It’ll come down to second-period stamina,” Peters adds.

We pass Walt, Deeks, and Anton posted outside the elevators like human bollards. Everyone throws out their goodnights.

“Later, boys.”

“See you at breakfast.”

“Don’t let Thumper fart in the vents again.”

Brody unlocks our door, and we step back into 3110.

“They’ve got the same points as us.” He tugs his hoodie off. “Two wins, two losses. Same away record. Only difference is goal diff.”