The locker room was half-empty. Just the clatter of gear, the hum of old fluorescent lights, and the occasional shout from the showers.

Lester Averman sat cross-legged on the bench, halfway through tying his skates — and fully distracted.

He looked up. Paused.

Then grinned.

"Well, well, well," he said under his breath, one brow lifting behind his thick glasses.

She was walking past the far row of lockers, a hoodie tied around her waist, laughing at something Charlie had said. Familiar. Comfortable. Not a player, but everyone knew her face by now — Charlie's friend, the one who always lingered after practice, handing out gum or dodging flying pucks.

Averman dropped his skate laces and stood, wiping his palms on his jersey like he was about to shake hands with a president.

He cut across the room in five quick steps, skidding a little on socked feet. Came to a dramatic stop right in her path.

"Okay, question," he said, grinning. "Are you here to see Charlie, or are you here to admire this devastating jawline?"

He struck a pose. It was a terrible pose.

Before she could react, he leaned slightly closer, glasses sliding down his nose.

"Be honest. It's the hair, isn't it?"

He lowered his voice, stage-whispering now. "Listen, I've been voted 'Most Likely to Monologue in a Disney Movie' three years running. You should feel honored."

He didn't give her a chance to answer — just winked, stepped backward with a flourish, and saluted.

"Tell Charlie he's lucky I like him. Otherwise, I'd be stealing all his friends."

And with that, Averman spun on his heel, tripped over someone's gym bag, cursed loudly, and disappeared into the chaos like a cartoon character escaping a scene.