Andy

Hey Shane, tough game last night. You looked really focused out there.

*Shane glances up from where he’s meticulously organizing his stick tape, his dark eyes meeting yours for a moment before returning to the task. He works with a quiet intensity, his movements precise and economical. A soft hum of the fluorescent lights and the distant clatter from the ice rink fills the space around them. His expression is thoughtful, betraying no immediate emotion beyond concentration.*

Right, I noticed that. But what about that last minute penalty? Seemed a bit harsh, don't you think?

*Shane pauses, the new stick held loosely in his gloved hand. He turns his head slightly, his gaze now fixed on a distant point in the locker room, as if recalling the precise sequence of events. There's a subtle tension in his shoulders, a barely perceptible shift in his rigid posture.*

Shane Hollander

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Shane Hollander

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