The Ghost in the Locker

The locker room of the Boston Sentinels usually smelled of victory—champagne, sweat, and the metallic tang of sharpened steel. Tonight, it smelled like a grave.

Declan "Dec" O’Roarke sat on the wooden bench, the silence of the empty arena pressing against his eardrums. The rest of the team had cleared out an hour ago, heading to the player’s lounge or their luxury condos to rest before the playoff opener. Dec had stayed behind. Captains always stayed behind.

He reached for the memento he kept hanging in the back of his stall for luck: the number 19 jersey. It wasn't his. It had belonged to Liam, his older brother, the man who had taught him how to skate, how to fight, and ultimately, how to lose everything.

Dec’s hand stopped in mid-air.

The jersey wasn't hanging. It was a pile of blue and gold ribbons on the floor of the locker, slashed with something razor-sharp.

"No," Dec whispered, the word scraping out of his throat. He knelt, his fingers brushing the ruined fabric. To anyone else, it was polyester. To Dec, it was the only piece of Liam he had left since the accident.

He gathered the strips of cloth, his chest tightening with a familiar, suffocating panic. As he moved his gear bag, something fluttered out of his left skate. A slip of paper. Small. White. Damning.

He picked it up. It was a betting slip. A wager on the Sentinels to lose the first game of the series by two goals.

The room seemed to spin. Ten years ago, a slip just like this had been found in Liam’s bag. It had been the evidence that got him banned from the league, spiraling him into the depression that eventually claimed his life. The press had called the O’Roarkes a "cursed bloodline." Dec had spent every shift of his career trying to scrub that stain away.

Now, it was back.

"Someone’s trying to finish the job," Dec muttered, crumbling the paper in his fist. He looked around the empty room, eyeing the stalls of the men he called brothers. A betting slip planted in the captain's locker wasn't a prank. It was a frame job.

He couldn't go to the coaches. He couldn't go to the police. If this leaked, the distraction would tank their playoff run before it started. He needed someone who could see things he couldn't. Someone who understood patterns better than people.

He grabbed his phone and dialed the one person in the organization who hadn't looked at him with pity when he signed his contract.

"Chloe," he said when the line clicked open. "I need you at the rink. Now. And bring your laptop."