The word haunts me.
Captain.
I lie awake that night staring at the ceiling, unable to shake the way it sat in that message—deliberate and mocking, as if the sender knew exactly how it would burrow under my skin.
Not Asher or Carpenter or even asshole. Captain. My title. My responsibility. The thing that defines me to my team.
Someone who knows me is doing this.
The realization sits in my stomach like a stone, heavy and indigestible. I've been looking for some faceless enemy, some stranger with a grudge against my public persona.
But this feels personal and intimate. The kind of cruelty that comes from proximity, from understanding exactly where to aim the knife.
I replay conversations from the past few weeks, searching for clues I might have missed. Casual comments that seemed innocent at the time, looks that lasted a fraction too long. The paranoia tastes metallic in my mouth, but I can't shake it.
At practice the next morning, Jackson greets me with his usual "Good morning, Captain," and my stomach plummets. The casual way he says it, that easy smile—suddenly it all feels loaded with hidden meaning.
I force myself to respond normally, but every nerve in my body is on high alert.
Before I can process the paranoia properly, Tyler skates past during warm-ups with a cheerful "Looking sharp today, Captain!"
Then Marcus calls out from across the ice: "Captain, want to run that power play sequence again?"
It's normal. It's my fucking title. I've been captain for three years. My teammates have called me that thousands of times without it meaning anything more than acknowledgment of my role.
But suddenly every utterance feels like a taunt, a reminder that someone on this team has been watching me unravel for months. Feeding on my isolation. Taking pleasure in my pain.
I find myself cataloguing behaviors with new eyes as we move through drills. Who's been acting strange lately? Who's made comments that seemed innocent but might have carried double meanings?
Jackson's been almost too supportive—always there when I'm struggling, always ready with advice that somehow makes me feel worse instead of better. But the messages started before he really inserted himself into my life, didn't they?
Chad barely talks to anyone, keeps entirely to himself. His distance could be natural antisocial behavior, or it could be the cold calculation of someone who enjoys psychological warfare from the shadows.
Tyler's been completely normal. Same stupid jokes, same easy camaraderie we've had for years. But maybe that's exactly what someone would want me to think.
The paranoia gnaws at me, sharpening into frustration I can barely contain. Every laugh from the guys sounds potentially sinister. Every casual interaction could be hiding malicious intent.
During a passing drill, when Tyler cuts in front of me at the wrong angle, I shove him harder than necessary. Much harder. He stumbles, nearly loses his balance, shoots me a confused look that's part surprise, part hurt.
"What the hell, Ash? That was completely unnecessary."
"Sorry," I mutter, skating to the back of the line. "Just focused on the drill."
But Coach's voice cuts across the ice like a whip: "Easy there, Carpenter! This is your team, not the enemy. Save the aggression for game day."
A few guys laugh, but I catch the concerned looks they exchange. Great. Now they think their captain is losing his shit over routine practice drills.
Which, to be fair, I probably am.
I mutter an apology and try to refocus, but my mind keeps racing through possibilities. Analyzing every interaction from the past few months. Who has access to my schedule? My emotional state? My private moments of vulnerability?
The list is longer than I want to admit. My teammates see me at my worst—exhausted after brutal games, frustrated with poor performance, isolated and drinking alone after team events.
Any one of them could have been cataloguing my weaknesses, waiting for the right moment to exploit them.
After practice, I linger in the locker room while the others shower and change.
The usual post-practice chatter echoes off the tile walls—complaints about the coach's new defensive strategy, plans for tonight's dinner, someone's girlfriend drama that everyone pretends to care about.
Normal sounds. Normal conversations. But I can't shake the feeling that one of these voices has been whispering poison in my ear for months.
Most of the guys have cleared out by the time I make my decision. The locker room is nearly empty, just the sound of running water from the showers and the hum of the ventilation system.
I can't sit with this paranoia anymore. Can't keep jumping at shadows and suspecting every teammate of psychological warfare. The uncertainty is eating me alive, turning every friendly interaction into potential manipulation.
I need to know. Need to take back some semblance of control over this nightmare.
I pull out my phone and navigate to the chat with the unknown number. My thumb hovers over the call button, hesitating.
This is insane. What am I going to do if someone actually answers? Demand they confess to months of harassment? The smart play would be to involve security, maybe even the police.
But I can't live like this. Can't keep wondering which friendly face is hiding a knife behind their smile.
I press call. The line rings once. Twice.
Then I hear it—faint but unmistakable. A phone ringing somewhere in the locker room.
My blood turns to ice. The sound is close. Too fucking close.
For a moment, I think I might be imagining it. Paranoia manifesting as auditory hallucinations. But no—there's definitely a phone ringing nearby, the melody slightly out of sync with what I'm hearing through my speaker.
I follow the sound like a bloodhound, heart hammering against my ribs so hard I'm surprised it's not echoing off the walls. The ringing leads me toward the back row of lockers, away from where most of the veterans keep their stuff.
It's getting louder. Definitely coming from this section.
Chad emerges from the shower area just as I'm narrowing down the source. He's got a towel wrapped around his waist, water still beading on his shoulders, moving with that casual efficiency that's defined every interaction I've had with him.
He heads straight for his locker, the one where the ringing is loudest, and retrieves his phone without any apparent urgency.
I watch in growing horror as he glances at the screen, sees an unknown number, and swipes to answer.
"Hello?" His voice comes through my speaker with a slight delay, creating an eerie echo in the nearly empty locker room.
I'm frozen in place, phone pressed to my ear, staring at Chad as he repeats "Hello?" several times into what must sound like complete silence on his end. My voice has abandoned me entirely.
After a few more attempts, he hangs up and slides the phone back into his locker. When he turns around, still in just his towel, he finds me standing there like a statue, face drained of all color, phone still raised to my ear in a trembling hand.
His expression shifts to what looks like genuine concern as he notices my state—the way I'm staring at him, the obvious shock written across my features.
"What's the matter, Captain?"
The word lands like a blade between my ribs.