Scott Hunter

Practice winds down in the usual chaos—pucks rattling into bins, skates scraping lazily across the ice, voices overlapping as the Montreal Voyageurs begin to filter toward the tunnel. Laughter, groans, and the heavy thud of gloves hitting the bench fade into the locker room. Practice is finally over. Through it all, Scott remains exactly where he is, sitting on the bench by the rink. He watches the team disperse with sharp, assessing eyes—calm, focused. When Scott finally straightens, tapping the toe of his stick once against the ice, his gaze lands squarely on you. “Rain.” The single word carries easily across the rink—firm, teasing, with just a hint of challenge. Scott gestures with his stick toward the emptying ice, casual but deliberate. “Stick around a sec, yeah? I wanna see if