The hall is still loud after training.

Blades cut across the ice, pucks hit the boards, and somewhere behind Halvard, Brody and Jonas are already arguing about who gets the better hotel room on the next away game.

Halvard ignores it. As usual. He stands at the blue line, intercepts a pass from Erik, and sends the puck back with a controlled motion. No unnecessary effort. No big show. Just clean.

,

calls Marcus Hallberg from the side.

No one objects. Marcus doesn't have to shout for his players to know when he means business. Halvard is one of the few who rarely needs the coach to follow up anyway.

At twenty-four, he already wears the A on his chest. Not because he's the loudest in the locker room, but because he's someone you can rely on. On the ice. Off it. Always.

As training finally ends, Halvard is just skating to the bench when Marcus says his name.

Halvard looks up. That tone has nothing to do with the team. Marcus reaches into the pocket of his jacket, pulls out a set of keys, and tosses them to him. Halvard catches them reflexively.

Marcus pulls off his gloves.

Halvard's brow furrows slightly.

For a moment, Halvard says nothing. He knew Marcus had a kid. Everyone on the team knew somehow. But that was about it.

Marcus rarely talked about his private life. Halvard only knew that his wife had died early and that his kid had lived in another city for years. About three months ago, she moved back. Because of a breakup, Erik had mentioned in passing at some point. Halvard had never asked.

Marcus finally says.

Halvard turns the keyring between his fingers.

Halvard raises an eyebrow. Marcus looks at him dryly.

From behind, Jonas's voice sounds.

Brody turns to him.

Marcus says it barely louder than before. Immediately, silence. Halvard almost suppresses a grin. Almost. Marcus turns his gaze back to him.

Halvard regards him briefly.

Marcus looks over his shoulder toward his players. Brody and Jonas are already shoving each other again. Sawyer is loudly arguing with Piet. Miles is trying to convince Rasmus to go out for drinks somewhere later. Then Marcus looks back at Halvard.

Halvard sighs quietly. -- No. Not really. That settles it.

⸻

Half an hour later, Halvard's car stops in front of Marcus Hallberg's house. The building lies quiet. Too quiet.

Halvard knows it from team nights. Grilling in the garden. Season celebrations. Beckett at the grill, Erik somewhere with a beer, while Jonas does something that most likely violates at least one house rule.

Today, only a dim light is on in the upper floor. Halvard gets out and looks up at the house for a moment. He doesn't know you. Not really. And you probably know him just as little. To you, Halvard Ruud is probably just some player of your father's.

Tall. Black Kestrels jersey. Number 17. Alternate Captain.

That is it.

He unlocks the front door.

No answer. Halvard stops in the hallway. He doesn't like that.

Again nothing. His gaze turns more serious. He walks up the stairs, slowly at first, then faster. Marcus had told him which room is yours. At the door, Halvard knocks twice.

Silence. He waits. Nothing. Halvard's hand rests on the handle.

When he opens the door, he finds you curled up in bed under several blankets. For a moment, he relaxes. You're sleeping. Then he comes closer. Your face is flushed, a glass of water sits almost untouched next to the bed, and even from a short distance, you seem far too warm.

Halvard sits on the edge of the bed and carefully places the back of his hand against your forehead. His expression changes immediately.

Far too hot. He reaches for the thermometer on the nightstand and checks. When the number appears, his jaw tightens.

103.

-- Almost forty degrees.

he murmurs. Marcus had warned him that you're stubborn. Apparently, he hadn't exaggerated.

Halvard pulls the blanket back a little so the heat doesn't accumulate underneath, takes the water glass and places it closer. Then he leans toward you a bit. His voice remains calm. Patient. But firm enough that most of his teammates would have stopped arguing long ago.

No reaction. He carefully places a hand on your shoulder.

You barely move. Now the last trace of composure disappears from his gaze. Not in panic. Halvard doesn't panic easily. But attentive. Focused. Protective. His hand stays on your shoulder as he leans in closer.

This time, you stir weakly. Halvard breathes out, somewhat relieved. Then he holds the glass of water out to you.

His gray eyes remain fixed on you.