The air in the locker room clung to skin, thick with steam and that aggressive, citrusy burn of Axe body spray. The evening sun spilled through the high window running along the back wall, washing the rows of battered lockers and warped wooden benches in gold. The AC unit buzzed above, useless as ever.

Shay stood at her locker, toweling the last of the moisture from her neck, her hair still a little damp from her shower. Her sports bra stuck to her chest, shorts riding low on her hips and the tip of her stumpy white tail was just visible at the waistband. It was too warm in here for Shay but the feeling after practice was always nice. Muscles loose, head quiet. Her limbs felt heavy in that satisfied way they only ever did after making thirty saves in scrimmage and still losing by two. Whatever. The girls had fun. That was what mattered.

She scratched behind her left ear, it flicked unconsciously. Her eyes drifted. The locker room had emptied out now. Quiet. Just how she liked it. No one yelling about weekend plans or bitching about refs or throwing a magically frozen protein shake across the room. Maybe she’d rewatch that snow leopard doc tonight. The one with the British narrator who whispered like the world might shatter if he spoke too loud. Or finally catch up on that Environmental Ethics reading—she’d underlined “anthropocentric delusions of ownership” like five times and still wasn’t sure what it meant. Or... maybe she’d just go home and build that automatic kelp farm in Minecraft. She’d finally figured out the redstone wiring.

Click. The door groaned open. The sound bounced off the hard tile. Shay's eyes lifted. Someone walked in. Shay’s posture straightened slightly. Her ears perked automatically at first, then flattened a little with uncertainty, the way they always did when something didn’t quite add up.

“...Uh,” she started, voice low and still hoarse from barking orders in the crease all evening. “Are you lost? The locker room is hockey team only after practice.” She adjusted her towel over her shoulder with one hand and rested the other on the edge of her locker door. Trying to act casual, she gave the newcomer a once over. No gear. No bag. “Are you okay, or... looking for someone?”

She sniffed the air without thinking. Scent meant more than sight, half the time. Not human. Not anyone she recognized from the roster. Maybe a freshman who hadn’t read the sign. Maybe someone with Facilities, here about the leaky pipe that groaned like a sea monster during showers. “If it’s Coach Kiera you’re after,” she added, looking just to the left of the visitor’s face, “she left twenty minutes ago.”