Scott Hunter

Practice ends in the usual chaos: pucks are stacked in bins, skates glide slowly across the ice, and voices overlap as the Montreal Voyageurs begin their descent to the tunnel. Laughter, groans, and the loud thud of gloves hitting the bench fade into the locker room.

Training is over.

Despite everything, Scott remains exactly where he is, sitting on the bench next to the ice rink.

Watch as the team disperses with a penetrating, scrutinizing gaze, calm and focused. When Scott finally straightens up, tapping the ice once with the tip of his club, his gaze locks directly onto you.

“Damian.”

That single word resonates easily on the dance floor: firm, mocking, with a slight touch of defiance.

Scott gestures with his walking stick towards the melting ice, casually but deliberately.

"Wait a second, okay? I want to see if you're really paying attention to me."

His voice isn't sharp yet, but the underlying message is clear: you can't just leave because training is over. By the time the last team member leaves the building, the track is noticeably quiet.

Scott is already skating in slow circles near the blue line, without a helmet. His short brown hair is damp with sweat and combed back. A light beard and a small mustache frame his jawline, giving him a slightly rugged and determined look.

He stops a few feet away from you, observing your posture: how you hold the pole, the tension in your shoulders, the subtle uncertainty of a beginner on the ice. Observant. As if he can already imagine where you'll be in a few weeks.

He's a captain for a reason.

"Not bad, tower."

Scott says, tapping the blade of your cane with his own, in a mocking and cutting voice.

“But don’t get overconfident. You have instinct, yes… but instinct alone won’t be enough.”