General Information

Full Name
Ronan Greenberry Wycliffe
Meaning of Name
Ronan means little seal
Greenberry means Green Hill
Wycliffe means white cliff
Nicknames
Cliff (shortened version of his last name, often by his teammates)
Gender
Male
Sexual Orientation
Homosexual
Date of Birth
December 20, 1990
Age
Twenty four
Zodiac
Sagittarius
Nationality
British
Language(s)
English
Russian (Learned)
Hometown
Stockport, Greater Manchester, England

Hockey Information
Team
Nottingham Panthers (Formerly)
Toronto Maple Leafs (Currently)
League Level
Elite Ice Hockey League (EIHL) (Formerly)
The National Hockey League (NHL) (Currently)
Position
Forward (best at Center)
Team Position
Captain
Jersey Number
#12

Physical Appearance
Height
6’0
Weight
197 lbs
Build
Athletic and well-proportioned, solid, not bulky, but for explosiveness and stamina. Strong shoulders and chest, forearms, grip strength, core stability. Not as powerful in his lower body, but decently muscular thighs and calves. Lean
Dominant Hand
Right
Hair Color
Jet black
Hair Style
Low Taper Fade Curly Hair (short, smooth sides that slowly fade near the ears and neck, with thick curls left longer on the top) (little messy from running hand through)
Eye Color
Ice blue eyes (eyes the color of winter sky just before snowfall) (angry/intimidating = cold, cutting blue like frozen steel, glacial stare, beautiful but unforgivable) (soft/happy = a cool, gentle blue that brightens and seems to thaw when he smiles)
Skin Tone
Olive-Toned (subtle, with earthy sun-warmed skin, and quite possibly from a nude tanning)
Facial Hair
Likes to remain almost clean-shaven, usually a hint of stubble. A faint shadow of stubble, just enough to add definition to his face
Distinguishing Features
Freckles (hard to see, but a smattering of light freckles along his cheekbones, easy to see when the sun hits it right)
A dimple (a slight dimple in his right cheek when he really smiles)
Scars
He has a few scattered along from hockey and childhood shenanigans.
Jaw/Chin Scar (from a fight on the ice, a thin scar from his jaw towards his chin)
Shoulder Scar (a faint, pale slightly puckered scar over his shoulder from a past hockey collision that nearly ended his career. Still twinges sometimes and locks up occasionally at the worst possible moments)
Tattoos
He has one small-ish tattoo on the right upper chest. He didn’t want it too big, nor too small. Phoenix wings partially extended with his father’s initials just underneath the right wing.
Jewelry
Always wears a silver necklace with a small silver cross on it (family heirloom)
On-Ice Appearance
Standard hockey uniform, padded shoulders, and elbow guards. Hockey pants, shin guards, gloves, and skates. Helmet with visor, though a few of his jet black curls peek out from underneath. He fidgets a lot more than he thinks when he is not in motion, chewing on his mouthguard. However, when the action is happening, he is precise, and remarkably focused.
Off-Ice Appearance (casual wear, formal wear, game-day fit)
Casual: He likes jeans and joggers, typically more in sports wear since he likes to work out. Usually does t-shirts, and when it gets chilly, he likes hoodies in neutral tones. Most often in sneakers
Social/Formal: a dark color tailored, slim-fit suit, complete with dress shoes. Usually leaves the first few buttons of the white dress shirt unbuttoned. If he is out of the jacket, the sleeves are usually rolled up to reveal his forearms. Not his favorite fit
Game Day Fit: usually in a somewhat nice top of some kind that sports the team’s color or logo. With nice jeans or athletic pants. Sometimes a watch seems fancy, but usually forgets it.
Voice
His voice is slightly deep, yet smooth with a tint of richness. He usually remains very calm and authoritative. It lightens when he is teasing or being playful, and gets deathly intimating when he gets angry. His accent is heavy enough to tell he’s from Great Britain, but not so much you cannot understand him. Short, crisp vowels, clear consonants, and a friendly Northern lilt

Personality
Outward
Charismatic and composed (always calm and collected during interviews or public appearances, hard to rattle)
Polished and professional (thoughtful, careful, not very open)
Slightly Playful or witty (he knows how to entertain, amuse, and charm)
Ideal athlete (a little on the cocky side)

Vulnerable
Loyal (loyal to a fault)
Protective (has started fights for his teammates and family)
Playful (much more playful, on a more vulnerable level)
Emotional (expressives himself better, rare smiles, laughter, touching quiet gestures)

Impressive
Resilient and persistent (didn’t let anything stop him, not even the career threatening injury)
Intelligent and strategic: quick thinker on the ice
Observant (on the ice and off, very few things escape his notice)
Instincts (highly developed for hockey)

Weaknesses/Flaws
Overthink (can drown in overthinking, worries he’s not living up to the right images)
Bottle Up (its hard for him to open up emotional, for example, he will never let anyone know how much his father’s death affected him)
Anxiety (his old injury bothers him more often than he’s comfortable with, and anytime the same situation starts to arise, he gets antsy. It is hard to see, but he fidgets with his hands, gets tense, those ice blue eyes seem to get colder)
Isolation (it is easier for him to isolate himself during emotional turmoil than to open up)
Temper (it is very hard to knock him off his pedestal, but when he gets mad, he gets mad. Not violent, but the quiet flare of temper is a little terrifying)
Physical limitation (his old shoulder injury can sometimes flare at the worst possible moments, causing him to miss shots or passes)
Perfectionist (adds more stress because he feels like he has to be perfect

Fears/Insecurities/Mental Health
Lost (he’s already lost his father, and rarely gets to see his mother. So he doesn’t like to form emotional connections due to fear of losing more people he loves)
Injury/Inability (fear of losing his career, it's the only thing he’s ever done good at and it made his parents so proud)
Doubt (easily doubts himself, especially during games)
Pressure (feels like he has to live up to the public image people see him as)
Anxiety (he has managed to gain control over his anxiety attacks and it is hard to tell when he is having one. But he absolutely spirals. Gets quieter, doesn’t look at anybody, seems to stare off into the distance. Gets tense.)
Grief/Guilt/Depression (the depression that hits around anything that involves his father can flatten him. Especially since his father’s death was unexpected)

Strengths
Mental Resilience (can handle pressure and criticism, it is hard to unnerve him)
Strategic Thinking (exceptional awareness on and off the ice)
Physical Skill/Build (he is built to be a center and he does it phenomenally. He’s adapted and learned how to combine strength, agility, and balance)
Leadership (he is a great captain, he knows how to lead his team. He gives great speeches, and is surprisingly an incredible motivator)

Relationships
Connor Wycliffe

Riley Dellorio | F/D/G 21 | Ronan

Riley got off the plane a little after ten that morning, pulling his jacket tighter at the nippy Toronto cold. He had been in Dallas for a brief stint, never staying anywhere for too long since he was drafted. He’d been apart of various draft packages, primarily as sweetener, but hadn’t come up to play many games. He’d been up to practice with the team in Dallas when the trade happened because they were short a goalie and needed a backup, just in case. He hadn’t minded watching the game from the chair in the tunnel, it was more enjoyable than sitting around the AHL or randomly being tossed from line to line in the ECHL. Riley was a good player, and he was not recognized for it on behalf of tradition and notions about him that were being conceived before coaches even watched him play. People thought that being a three-way player was a clown show, and no one wanted to risk inviting the gossip that would ensue into their franchise. Yet, his value was in being a decent player at each position, and when that was taken away from him, he became less worthy to play at such a high level. It was a double-edged sword that he couldn’t seem to shake.

Toronto had traded for him in early November after a rough start coming out of camp. It seemed like everyone had an injury bug that spread from the NHL team down to the AHL, and after two games of having to utilize EBUGs that had let in a cumulative total of 18 goals, they’d needed to do something to salvage a season that was already injury prone and full of resentment from an already flighty yet die hard fanbase. Riley was an easy answer because he could fill just about any gap, and the second round pick that Dallas threw in the deal in order to obtain two decent players back sealed the trade. For once in his brief career, there was hope that Riley might actually play a game, if not several.

Of course, as with everything, it came with a price. Ronan Wycliffe’s favorite linemate had been sent to Dallas in exchange for Riley, along with a promising middle-six AHL forward. And, well, he was the captain. He wasn’t known for being a particularly kind one, and on the limited occasions in which Riley had come to see his face during media availabilities and the occasional interview, the blond had come to have respect for him as a captain, but fear him as a leader. He hadn’t necessarily wanted to go to Toronto, but at this stage in his career, he didn’t get much of a choice on anything, especially where and when he played the sport he so desperately loved. So, it wasn’t much of a surprise that Ronan nor any of his new teammates went to pick him up at the airport, instead they’d sent some temp from one of the front offices to greet him. He was handed a brief itinerary and tried to pay attention beneath the stares, cell phone photos, and various other media attention he was already receiving from individuals around the airport. Before he knew it, he’d been ushered into a car and given more information than he was able to take in, from phone calls to the general manager to being added to team group chats to being given a general overview of their system. By the time he got out at the training facility, his head was already swimming with nervousness and the general fog that comes from being given too much information at one time, yet he persisted.

The afternoon was a whirlwind, being assessed physically, sized for equipment, meeting the trainers, and getting an extremely brief tour of the facilities while he was being talked at. Next, there was a brief media availability where he was asked questions he could barely form answers to, although his charisma and naturally silly nature helped him to shine during this portion. Making some of the media team laugh put him more at ease, although it was in the back of his head the entire time that Toronto was a very different city than Dallas, and he’d immediately be judged for absolutely every move he made and word he said. He wondered if that was why Ronan was so serious, callous, and cold–it was a lot of pressure to be the one with the biggest target on his back. He carried this thought through the afternoon to the optional skate, which wasn’t optional for him. He assumed it would be a time to clear his head and meet some of his teammates before their game the following day.

When he arrived, he was, shockingly, the first one there. Riley wasn’t usually the first one anywhere, he had a bad habit of losing track of time and ending up arriving and leaving everywhere late. There was a running joke that Riley was the last to show up and the last to leave, no matter where it was or what he was doing. Still, he hadn’t really had anything better to do, he had a hotel for the night that wasn’t ready yet and no prospects of an interesting evening considering he didn’t know anyone in the city yet. He was hoping to move in with a teammate or several, but he wasn’t sure if anything had been arranged yet or if anyone would offer. Riley was pretty sure Ronan lived alone, whether he had a girlfriend or a wife or not Riley could not remember, but it wasn’t like the captain would be offering his door to the curly-haired blond any time soon. He was sure one of the younger guys might want some company, however, especially once they found out how fun he was.

As if on cue, a captivating, dark-haired figure walked through the matted entryway and started fidgeting with the equipment rack near the open door to the rink. He needed no introduction, although the C on his chest was confirmation enough. Riley wasn’t necessarily thrilled to have to introduce himself to the man who hadn’t made time for him all afternoon, but Riley was sure he was a very busy and very stressed man. Being a captain was hard enough, let alone of this franchise.

“Greetings, Cap,” Riley said, skating little circles around the doorway. He skidded to a halt in front of the door, going gently enough not to spray ice anyway. He looked intently, not wanting to say too much, not wanting to linger, just enough to make the formal introduction that was necessary to avoid unnecessary rumors. “Glad to be here, sorry it’s at the expense of your friend.”

Riley Dellorio | F / D / G 21 | Team

Riley grinned at the semicircle of players and gave an exaggerated little wave. "Hey guys, I’m Riley Dellorio. I play anywhere, I eat anything, and I’m ready to die for all of you.”

“Too much,” Calley mumbles, already exhausted from his time with Riley in Dallas.

“No, not too much. I just mean, if you need somebody to fight for you, I’m your guy. If you need to go apartment hunting, call me. I’ve also been known to be a great locker room DJ–”

“–until your DJ privileges get taken away, which is an every time thing.”

“Don’t mind Calley, he wouldn’t know what fun looked like if it hit him in the head and gave him a concussion.”

“Likewise,” the amused but exhausted veteran counteracts, “don’t mind Riley. We should get in front of the fact that in Dallas they called him Sho. He likes it a little too much, and I strongly encourage you all to let it die here. That’s my one warning of the day.”

“Sho?” One of the defensemen spoke up with intrigue. “Like Shohei?”

“Exactly,” Riley beamed. Callahan frowned.

“It should be clarified that the younger guys gave him that nickname because he’s a goalie and a skater, not because he’s an already proven generational talent worth billions of dollars.”

“Or Japanese,” Riley added plainly, stating the obvious.

“That’s big shoes to fill,” another player said. “I hope you’re as good as your nickname.”

“That’s for no one to know and all of us to find out.” He gave a small, boyish laugh.

“Anyway,” Tucker added, “Tucker Callahan, for those of you who don’t know me. Glad to be back.”

“No fun fact?!” Riley’s inquiry was exasperated, and loud enough for everyone to hear despite an attempt at a whisper.

“No,” Calley said again, nudging him sharply.

“Sooo, where do you guys want me today? I can get my goalie pads on, or I can skate, or I can split the session in half. Wherever I’m most useful is where I want to be.”

—

By some stroke of luck, practice didn’t go horribly. In fact, some may say it even went fairly well, all things considered. Riley got to know several of the guys. Mercer and Keane spent the most time with him, being two of the younger guys. Mercer immediately struck Riley as hypercompetitive and gullible. He could be coerced into anything if there was a bet on the line. Keane was the opposite, a rookie who had just been called up and was struggling to find his footing. Even though Riley didn’t have an excessive amount of experience, his natural charisma and whimsy seemed to draw Keane to him. Riley found Ricci to be a bit dramatic and opinionated, the epitome of a Milanese man obsessed with vanity, fashion, and appearances. Havel, on the other hand, seemed just as opinionated but in a stoic, quiet manner. The kind of man to laugh once every few months, a novelty more rare than a rainstorm in the desert. Bishop acted even more like a team dad than Calley, probably because with the Minnesota Nice attitude he actually seemed to care for everyone, where Calley was more of an exhausted father figure. Then there were Graham and O’Rourke. The two most amusing men on the team by far. Sullivan had a dry sense of humor like Tucker, but was more mischievous and interested in messing with the rookies. Finn was by far the menace of the team, chirping everyone with a bluntness that kept Riley entertained. Riley found someone who could keep up with him athletically with Mercer, and someone who could keep up with him verbally in O’Rourke. He wondered if the staff had separated his and Finn’s lockers on purpose.

Following the skate, Riley went out to dinner with Mercer and Keane. Mercer had invited him, and Keane seemed to be tagging along just because he was nervous and new and had no other plans. It wasn’t like Riley minded, it was easy for him to fit into the role of emotional support person for a teammate. He enjoyed being of service to people, and the thing he craved most of all was connection. It came easy to him, but he knew better than anyone how quickly those connections could fade with a trade or a demotion to a lower league of play. Plus, with all of the shuffling around, Riley had lacked consistent linemates. He was always the fill-in, never the constant. That was the difficult thing about being versatile.

The evening went by fast, and soon the three boys were each two beers deep into a conversation about junior careers, famous teammates they played with, and women they could’ve had. Bar food sat half-eaten on the table as the nervous energy between the three unfamiliar men shifted into a comfortable haze of dim lighting, loud music, and the beginning of new friendships.

“So, what’s Cap’s deal?” Riley reached for a fry, not-at-all subtly shifting the conversation after a gentle lull.

Mercer immediately exchanged a look with Keane.

"...Why?"

"What do you mean, why?"

"What do you mean, 'what's his deal?'"

"I don't know." Riley dipped his fry into ranch. "He's just..."

He gestured vaguely. "...him."

"Very descriptive," Mercer said.

"He's like..." Riley searched for the words. "...a really expensive German shepherd."

Both boys watched him amusedly, Mercer more intrigued and Keane more humored.

“A what?”

“You know what I mean.”

“No, I don’t.”

“Keane?”

“Sorry, man. I’m with Merce on this one.”

"Well, like… loyal, protective, looks like he bites."

This got a buzzed giggle from Keane.

"And he's always standing there like," Riley straightened his back, crossed his arms, and lowered his voice, imitating Ronan despite having a total of one brief conversation with him. The remainder of practice, he and the other top line wingers were untouchable, and Riley felt invisible to them despite sharing the same rink. "'Practice starts in four minutes.'"

Mercer nearly spit out his beer.

"That's actually—"

"It's accurate, isn't it?"

"It is."

Keane wiped his mouth.

"I've never heard anyone compare our captain to a German shepherd."

"Really?"

"No."

"Huh." Riley shrugged. "First time for everything."

Mercer leaned back. "So why are you asking?"

"No reason."

"Bullshit."

"I'm just curious."

"You've talked to him for maybe five minutes."

"Exactly."

"So?"

"So, he's interesting."

Mercer narrowed his eyes.

"...Interesting."

"Yeah."

“In what way?”

Riley shrugged, picking at the basket of food idly. "I don't know. He's just...different."

"Different how?"

"Everybody else walks into a room trying to be the loudest guy in it." He motioned vaguely with a fry. "He doesn't. He just kind of...walks in, and everyone shuts up."

Mercer nodded. "That's because he's the captain."

"No, I know that." Riley frowned. "But that's not all it is."

"You've known him for, what, a day?"

"Day and a half."

"Close enough."

Riley leaned back in the booth. "He seems like one of those guys who's forgotten how to have fun."

Keane snorted. "You're not wrong."

"I bet he used to be fun."

Mercer laughed. "Fun? Ronan?"

"Maybe not fun like I am," Riley conceded. "I’m the most fun ever. But lighter."

He paused, inhaling somberly as if he was personally affected by his opinions. "Now he just looks tired."

His teammates exchanged a glance.

"...Yeah," Mercer admitted.

Riley grinned amusedly, buzzed enough to be having one of his infamous ‘good ideas,’ but not nearly drunk enough to keep it to himself. "Lucky for the two of you, and the future whimsy of this team’s culture, I can fix him."

Mercer blinked. "Excuse me?"

The blond looked smug, suddenly choosing now to be private and secretive about his plans. “Trust the process, okay? I’m going to rock your world. Both of your worlds. Two whole planets. Maybe even a whole solar system.”

Keane laughed immediately. "Good luck with that."

Mercer watched him with narrowed eyes and thinly-veiled amusement. “I’m not necessarily praying on your downfall, but I am extremely amused to see what sort of mess you get yourself into.”

And, Mercer wasn’t wrong. By the end of the night, when Riley finally got back to his hotel room, which was as bland and sad and lonely as he perceived Ronan to be, the blond shot off a social media post on his personal account that would already be viral by the morning. He wouldn’t see it, though, because as he fell asleep in a slightly inebriated haze, he was smart enough to plug in his phone to a charger but not smart enough to plug that charger into a wall. And, by the time the hundredth notification in response to his post blew up his phone, the device had already died, leaving the curly-haired blond in blissful ignorance.

[@rileydellorio]: only a little bit buzzed but a lot a bit gay 4 cap @ronanwycliffe just wanna say you are a very handsome very serious very captain-y man and i respect that <3 ok goodnight canada and united states and europe you are all my friends and i love the moon

Hiddenburg nods at Ronan as he steps forward, "Welcome everybody. As you guys know, Kingston and Blake were recently traded to Dallas. In return, we got two players." His eyes sweep Dellorio and Callahan, "You met Hamill and Salo during meetings--" Craig Hamill, assistant coach who focused on wings, and Mikael Salo, defensive assistant coach. "But, I'm Paul Hiddenburg, head coach. Then there's Gauvin, Vance, and Cross." Assistant coaches for centers, skills & skating, and video/press box respectively.

"Many of you remember, Callahan, but for those of you that don't, well... I'll let the two introduce themselves." Then the head coach steps back into the semi-circle of the six men that made up the coaches of the Maple Leafs. There are murmurs as Dellorio goes first, some shooting glances towards their Captain. Who is standing there, arms crossed, watching with a neutral expression. He yaps a lot. Is his internal thoughts as Dellorio and Callahan banter back and forth. Something flickers through Ronan's eyes at the mention of Dellorio's nickname, Sho? Interesting.

The coaches exchange amused glances as Callahan takes over. Callahan gets a reaction from Ronan, who nods at the Missouri wing. A few of the old timers who played with Callahan before his transfer to Dallas whoop and holler. Which even draws a smile from Ronan, it had been the end of his first year with Toronto when Callahan had been traded. So, he'd gotten to play a year with the talented wing. Ronan's eyes sharpen as they flicker back to Dellorio, but Hiddenburg beats him to it, "Goalie, Dellorio. Ronan, Petrov, and Moreau line one. D-men for them are Havel and Sullivan. Hit the ice."

Hiddenburg pauses long enough to glance down at his notes. "Line two, goalie, Hayes. Mercer, Bishop, Sokolov, Ricci, and McKenna." Then he puts Volkov as a switch out goal for Dellorio and Hayes. Line three consisted of: Bennett, Callahan, O'Rourke, Lundqvist, and Doyle. Then line four was Abrams, Sandström, Keane, Sullivan, and Ricci. Ronan flips his helmet on, stick in hand. Playfully, but sternly barking at his left wing. "We don't have all day, Petrov!" The Slovakian was tying his skates, which had come undone. He whips his head up, eyes gleaming with playful rage, "Oi! Watch it, Cliff!" Ronan snorts as all the players scatter.

The first two lines skate circles on the ice while the goalies gear up, while the third and fourth head to the benches. Ronan skates to the bench, leaning over to grab the puck before dropping it on the ice. He lets out a sharp whistle and hits it hard, firing it in the direction of Moreau who snags it with his stick and immediately fires it to Petrov. The puck bounces between the three as they practice. The second line does the same until the goalies hit the ice. Ronan and Mercer lean down in the middle for face off. Hiddenburg shouts, "First to three! Go!" Then he drops the puck.

Ronan's stick is fast as he wins the face off, immediately firing it to Petrov who has an opening. The scrimmage is on, shouts rise in the air as everybody takes off. Petrov loses it in a fight against the wall near the opposite net to Bishop. But before Bishop can make it far, Ronan slams into him hard. Stealing the puck back and sending it flying into the net. Goal one! The rest of practice went well. Ronan spent most of practice encouraging and offering advice. When Keane missed an easy goal, the rookie started playing worse, as if getting in his head. Ronan easily encouraged the rookie, and got him back on his feet in no time.

"Ricci! I don't have all day, look at something other than your damn reflection!" Ronan barks in the defenseman's direction as the lines change. The defenseman change for shifts, since they could stay on the ice longer. And this shift, Ricci and Sullivan were the d-men. Ronan was a thing of beauty on the ice, there was a reason so many times fought for him when he transferred to the NHL, and why he went number one pick in the draft. But, he didn't flaunt it. He just loved to play hockey. He wasn't loud, didn't celebrate his goals showy. He watched, he observed, and he encouraged his team.

After practice, Ronan high fives everybody as they head through the tunnel back to the locker rooms. A tradition of his, encourage, support, congraulate. But, he doesn't follow the team into the locker room. Instead, he skates over to Hiddenburg who beckons him over. "So, still upset over the transfer." Ronan runs a hand through his sweat soaked hair, "A little bit." Hiddenburg raises an eyebrow at Ronan, who sighs. "On a personal level, Coach." Hiddenburg snorts, "Okay, well how about on a professional level?" Ronan leans against the boards. "On a professional level? No. It's good to have Callahan back, and I'll give it to Dellorio, he's a damn good goalie."

Hiddenburg grins, "From the footage I've seen, he's damn good defenseman and winger." All that prompts is a grunt from Ronan. Hiddenburg chuckles, "You don't like him?" Ronan mutters, "I don't really like anyone." Hiddenburg tips his head, that was fair. Ronan was close to a couple of the other players on the team, but very few. Even after the years he's been there. Ronan had only gotten close to Austin, O'Rourke, and Petrov. He was somewhat close to Mercer, Bishop, Sokolov, and Sullivan. It wasn't that he didn't get along with his teammates, it was just that Ronan was a private man and liked to keep to himself.

"Wycliffe! Coach!"

The two look up to see Tucker Callahan, in regular clothes, leaning against the entrance of the tunnel. "You done with him, Coach?" Hiddenburg nods, "Yeah, he's all yours, Callahan." Hiddenburg nods at the two, pausing briefly on Ronan, "All will work out, son, don't worry too hard." Ronan only grunts but fist bumps his coach as he heads off. Ronan turns his head toward Callahan. Ronan had greatly admired Callahan the one year they played together, and Callahan had given Ronan some damn good tips. "What's up?" Callahan jerks his head, "Come on. A couple of the guys and I are going out for a drink." Ronan skates over towards the tunnel, "A couple of the guys?" Callahan nods, "O'Rourke, Petrov, Sandström, and Havel."

Ronan chuckles, "Well, you fit in like you never left." Callahan grins, "What can I say?" Ronan runs a hand through his hair again, "Alright, only for an hour. Let me hit the shower."

An hour later, he's seated in a booth with Callahan, O'Rourke, Petrov, Sandström, and Havel. They are at one of the hockey bars in town. It's loud, wild, and a lot of people are drunk. Including Petrov and Havel. O'Rourke and Sandström are tipsy, and Callahan and Ronan are watching with barely concealed amusement as the four loudly argue about their hookups. Callahan was happily married, and Ronan was gay and once again, pretty private so they were just listening. "No! I'm telling you, she had down there pierced!" Havel slurs. O'Rourke narrows his eyes, "I call bullshit, Havel! Ain't no way!" Petrov butts in, "What the hell do you mean no way? You know guys can pierce down there too, right? Why not girls?"

All six men shiver at that image, god, who would want to pierce down there though. Sandström muses, "Was it helpful to either of you during?" Havel rubs his face, "Well, she seemed very... Well, I don't know how to describe it, honestly." Ronan shakes his head amused, "Okay, so, before the details get to graphic for me. I'm going to the loo."

Fifteen minutes later, when Ronan returns, all five heads turn towards him. The captain slows, self-conscious, "What?" O'Rourke mutters, "Cap's gonna kill him." Ronan hovers by the table, he wants to sit, but what the hell is going on? "Who am I killing?" Callahan holds his phone out to Ronan. He hesitantly takes it as he slides back into the booth. A social media app is open, Twitter it looks like, and Callahan's is open to Dellorio's page. Ronan goes still when he reads the latest post.

[@rileydellorio]: only a little bit buzzed but a lot a bit gay 4 cap @ronanwycliffe just wanna say you are a very handsome very serious very captain-y man and i respect that <3 ok goodnight canada and united states and europe you are all my friends and i love the moon

What. The. Hell.

Ronan immediately tosses Callahan's phone back to him and yanks his own phone out. He had social media notifications silenced, because he didn't want his phone making noise everytime someone tagged him, commented on a post, messaged him, or whatever else NHL fans loved to do. But when he opens Twitter, he has over one thousand notifications. The very first was that god damn post Dellorio had made. The rest? Were comments on that post where Ronan was tagged. His eyes skim the comments. Holy. Shit.

"His eye is twitching." Havel muses. Sandström whispers, "That's not a good sign." All of the team followed each other on social medias, and Ronan was no exception. He had followed Dellorio and Callahan once he'd learned about their transfer. "Guys, I think Dellorio's gonna die." Ronan snaps, "Stop saying that, I'm not violent." Petrov leans in, "No offense, Cap, but you play hockey, your violent." All of the sudden, all of their phones are blowing up. Ronan's jaw tenses as he clicks the notification.

Leafs 🍁
Bishop: Has everybody seen Dellorio's post?
Abrams: Yes, what the hell is going on?
Ricci: What the hell is going on is Cap has a secret admirer 😏
Lundqvist: Oooh, maybe we'll find get some juicy details about Cap's love life.
Petrov: FYI, some of us are with Cap now. Might wanna cool it 😬
Sandström: Agreed, Cap is pissed off
Havel: This is Cap;
Havel: 😡
Wycliffe: Shut the fuck up, all of you.
Wycliffe: I don't know what the hell is going on. But it will be dealt with.

The six go home pretty soon after that, Ronan (as the DD) drops everybody off and heads home. He fires off a separate text to Dellorio.

Riley Dellorio
Ronan: Delete the post.

Then promptly unfollows Dellorio on social media and shuts his phone off.

Riley Dellorio | Three-Way Player 21 | Coaches, Team

It wasn’t like Riley hadn’t understood how he had gotten here, sitting in a chair pressed between Ronan and a wall filled with photos of Leafs legends, in front of him a desk with printed out media headlines from the front pages of national and international media sources and a tangible copy of his post laid out in front of him. His phone was at 3%, being charged by Hiddenburg’s charger, of all things, and all his messages had gone unread. It was a miracle he’d arrived on time.

“Like I said, I’m not sorry for saying that Cap is talented and good at his job and a good leader–and yes, beautiful.” Then, in a lower voice, directed at Ronan who had been taking Riley’s compliments with a firm discomfort until his face had a reddish tinge, “I do hope you know you’re very charming, despite this whole iron fortress thing you have going on,” he gestured wildly with his hands. They had been at this for roughly 25 minutes at this point. He spoke loudly again, and focused his attention back across the desk. “Look at his face and how red it is. This is the sign of a man who clearly hasn’t been validated enough. From what I understand, he’s a damn good leader and he deserves to know he’s loved and appreciated.”

“I think you’re missing the point here, Dellorio. Why post it publicly?” Hiddenburg seemed genuinely intrigued by the behavior. Of course, even if he was stern on the ice, Riley could tell the coach had a soft spot for Ronan and could see just as well as anyone that he worked hard and rarely gained the love and respect back from his fanbase and the media. Toronto, like New York, Montreal, and the other major franchises, was a very difficult city to be captain in. It required even more patience, grace, and talent. The margin for error was paper thin, and so far, Ronan had weathered every storm seamlessly in his young career without much to show for it.

"Well, think about it. If I tell Cap he's a good captain in private,” he pauses for effect, “that's nice. But if everybody sees it, then everybody knows somebody appreciates him."

He visibly watches the head of PR and communications, Alora, soften. His words had been tender and genuine, like a small child. His face softens too, somewhere between empathy and reality. “Besides, it doesn’t take a train conductor, or a rocket engineer or whatever to see that I’m not ever going to be liked or even loved by Cap. I understand what it’s like to lose your best friend, and I know that because I was part of this trade, no matter whether it’s fair or not a part of him will always look at me and see everything that he lost so that I could be here. He’s a leader, but he’s a person too, and I think we all know that if I tried to say anything to him in private he either would’ve stonewalled me or told me to fuck off. And since, from what I understand, he always pushes everyone away, I knew he wouldn’t be able to hear it from me personally, but I thought if it got enough media attention maybe he would be able to take it in after the nine hundredth comment or the millionth repost.”

“That is, actually,” Alora gave a soft smile, “very touching. I think next time, though, maybe don't start with 'I'm gay for my captain.'"

“Agreed,” Hiddenburg says.

“I think we can remedy this, I will be in touch with a plan of action,” Alora adds. “Ronan, any last comments?”

The meeting ends not long after, and as Alora and Ronan walk in one direction, Hiddenburg holds Riley back briefly.

“Dellorio,” he begins.

“Yeah, Coach?”

“Why him?” There was a distinction made here. He didn’t ask why Riley made the tweet, he asked why Riley chose Ronan. While not intelligent in all of the ways, Riley picked up very well on this subtle differentiation.

"Because everybody else already knows how much they're appreciated." He pauses thoughtfully. “Cap doesn’t.”

—

The locker room is already buzzing by the time Riley gets down to morning skate. Some of the guys are on the ice already running drills while others are still getting dressed. The team has an important back to back, playing a 19:30 puck drop against Buffalo that evening followed by a 17:00 matinee against Montreal the following night. Even though it’s early in the season, these Atlantic matchups matter. The Habs are first in the Atlantic with an unstoppable, high octane offense. The rivalry matters, even if they are nowhere near close to catching them in the standings. The Leafs are at fifth in the division, four points back from taking the Sabres’ wildcard spot. Taking points from the home team, and especially in-division rivals, matters. Even if the Leafs don’t look like a cup contending team, and it won’t be decided until the leaves die and blossom again.

“What’s up, lover boy?” O’Rourke gives a wink as he puts on his padding. “Didn’t take you long to figure out that you’re hot for our captain.”

Everyone in the locker room has either begun a cacophony of jokes and comments, or gone completely silent. Before he can respond or look to gauge Ronan’s reaction, Callahan speaks up from the corner. “I thought you learned your lesson about exercising your free will privileges last time, or the time before that. I trust more in what my four year old is going to do with her tablet time than with you and your unrestricted internet access. If you keep it up, the organization is going to give you a babysitter in the form of an involuntary roommate.”

“I volunteer,” Mercer said easily.

“You two couldn’t handle him last night,” Havel speaks up, looking between him and Keane. “Why would you be trusted to do a job you’ve already failed full-time?”

“Where did they put you up, anyway? Is Calley letting you stay with him?”

“Nah,” Calley replied, “I’m staying with Gravesy until the wife comes up and we can find a place.”

“I’m over at the Northway,” Riley replies simply and cheerfully, despite the fact that he has named a motel that is known throughout all of Toronto for its plethora of horror stories. “It’s great. Sometimes the water gets hot, and it even has a chair.”

Mercer slowly lowered the roll of tape in his hands. "...The Northway?"

Riley nodded. "Yeah."

O'Rourke let out a low whistle. "Jesus, kid. I think you ought to raise your standards a little if you’re that cheerful about a place that charges by the hour.”

“You’re using the deadbolt, right?” Calley adds.

He blinks dumbly. “No. Should I be? I didn’t bring much.”

Finn interjects once more. “Back to my thing.”

Riley gives a happy little smile. “It’s just nice that they thought of me. A lot of guys don’t even get that. I’m happy as long as I have somewhere to sleep and a team to wake up for every morning.”

“You know you’re allowed to want more than that, right?”

And Riley, completely sincere, replies, “yeah. Eventually I might even upgrade to a room with a microwave.”

—

Morning skate went well as Riley worked as a forward. Bennett apparently had a reputation for always having some sort of lingering ailment, so they’d decided to pull him out of the game that evening with the intention of resting him up and playing the following day’s matinee by ear. Riley had overhead that Callahan was moving to center to fill in for him, but that was all he knew. He knew from the coaches that he would be playing goalie in at least one of the games, but no one had officially formulated the lines. His instructions were simply to play with as many players as he could during morning skate to get a feel for the team. No one was expecting him to be perfect during his first game, especially with only one familiar teammate. Until now, Riley had been a science experiment in Dallas. No one wanted him. He’d played a total of seven games, and his performance had been good, but it was too confusing to keep trying to let him fill in while other more consistent players sat out. In Dallas, he was seen as a hindrance to team chem. An obstacle. Something to get rid of.

The other goalie expected to start was Volkov. He wasn’t extremely dependable, but he was Russian which somehow innately made him a better goaltender than Hayes. Hayes had been ass. His GAA was sky high and it was unclear whether it was a confidence issue or an age issue. He’d be the backup for both days due to the demand of the back-to-back.

In the meantime, Riley mostly skated with Callahan and O’Rourke. He and Finn were like oil and water, so busy roasting each other during a game of keep away that they could barely be accused of doing their jobs. Mercer had been pulled into another group, and the top six wingers all carried themselves like divas. No one wanted anything to do with the Leafs’ curly-haired social experiment except the veterans, and Finn, for some reason, despite the fact that their collective brain cell worked together to get the puck in the net roughly one time. On one occasion, a puck from PP1 ended up in the zone where Riley and the vets were practicing, and Ronan came down to get it. With a level of attention he didn’t know he was capable of exerting, he lifted a smooth saucer pass right onto the tape of Ronan’s stick, then stood, befuddled, at his own excellence. The last time he’d made a pass that nice was in NCAA with his former teammate, Xavieon. That was the last person who understood Riley athletically, given that the last three years had been him bouncing from team to team with zero consistency. Yet, in that brief moment, there was a glimpse of what he once was. And it surprised him. Petrov almost looked up.

—

“Where’s Shohei?” Finn deadpanned, checking his watch. Their flight was supposed to leave for Buffalo a few minutes ago, and they were waiting on one person: Riley.

“It is like him to be late,” Callahan admitted, “but not to Buffalo. He’d never be late to go home, he loves his family too much for that.”

“Maybe he got distracted by a dog,” Mercer offered.

“A reasonable theory,” O’Rourke agreed.

“Maybe he stopped to help somebody move a couch,” Keane added.

Callahan sighed. “Also a reasonable theory.”

“Maybe he got lost in the airport,” Finn said.

“We have staff that prevent that exact situation from going down,” Mercer pointed out.

Finn shrugged. “Have you met him?”

Nobody had a rebuttal.

A few minutes pass, then the doors to the terminal open. Riley appears. Except, even to the plane full of strangers it’s clear he’s not like himself.

He’s wearing the same outfit he left the arena in, except somehow worse. His hair is a mess, one of his shoelaces is untied, his backpack looks suspiciously like it was grabbed out of a dumpster, and he’s carrying a plastic airport shopping bag like it contains his entire life. Which, apparently, it does. He stops when he sees everyone staring.

“Good news.” Nobody says anything. He continues anyway. “I made it.”

Finn checks his watch again. “That was not the concern.”

Riley looks down at himself. “Oh.” He pauses for a moment, then his brain stops buffering again. “Yeah, no, I get why everyone’s looking.”

Callahan watches, immediately concerned. “Dellorio.”

Riley gives him a bright smile and a chipper little wave. “Hey, Calley.”

“Where are your bags?”

Riley looks at the plastic bag. “This is my bag.”

There was silence in the plane. “That is not your bag.”

“Technically, it is now.”

Mercer squints. “What happened?”

Riley shrugs like he's explaining the weather. “My stuff got stolen. You were right about the deadbolt, Cal.” He pauses, frowns, and then his face becomes cheery again. “On the bright side, since I had to stop anyway, I managed to snag some materials to make you all friendship bracelets. I don’t know all of your favorite colors, and I’m honestly pretty horrible at remembering which color goes after the other, but I figured everyone deserves one anyway. I can just freestyle them.” He sat down next to Keane on instinct because the rookie was sitting in the front, isolated from the rest of the group, and Riley didn’t want him to feel alone. He threw his little plastic baggie in the overhead bin, earning some pity from the vets, then continued on. “My girlfriend taught me how to make these, she’s really good at them. She’s a famous gymnast and I’m really proud of her. I did make one for myself first as a practice run, and then I accidentally made three more because I forgot I already had one. Then in the uber on the way here, I made all the ones I already knew favorite colors for.” He opens his pants pocket and a small pile of friendship bracelets spill onto the floor. He picks them up casually, distributing them. “Mercer, light blue; Keane, this color green; Cally, this color green and dark blue; and Petrov, we haven’t really spoken yet but your vibe told me you like light purple and gray, so I made you this. If you hate it, I can make a second one.”

And so it continued, all through the brief flight. As he made the bracelets, he chatted with different groups, breaking up the distance between the cliques and making Keane feel included by teaching him how to help. By the time they landed in Buffalo, everyone had a colorful little friendship bracelet with their initials on it and a leaf bead as well as team colors, whether they were wearing them or not. Well, all except Ronan. Despite having no issue going up to anyone else on the flight, every time Riley passed the captain, he only offered a sheepish smile and a slight nod. Which was odd, considering he could befriend the sun during a hurricane.

Ronan awoke to an email from Hiddenburg. He groans as he rolls over, blinking sleep out of his eyes so he can properly see the message.

Ronan,
Our HR representative has reached out to me following last night's incident.

Ronan snorts, oh great and now there would be a meeting with freaking HR. That's the last thing he needed right now. He just wanted the post to be removed. He didn't care about HR violations, or anything else, he just wanted the post removed. He sighs as he continues reading.

Alora wishes to meet with Mr. Dellorio, myself, and you in concern to the post. Please be in my office no later than 8AM, so that Alora and I may discuss this with you before Mr. Dellorio arrives.

Best,
Hiddenburg

An hour later, he's seated with Alora and Hiddenburg in the head coach's office. "No sir, I don't wish to file greviances, or anything. All I wanted was the post removed." Hiddenburg dips his head, "Understandable, Wycliffe, but unfortunately this post blew up tremendously, drawing attention from NHL fans everywhere." Ronan sighs, "Which means we have to go through the whole HR process." Alora cuts in, "Yes, but since you don't want to file any greviances, at most, we'll give Mr. Dellorio a slap on the wrist." Ronan nods, "That works with me. Like I said, I don't want to stir up a fuss."

Barely ten minutes later, Dellorio had arrived and now Ronan was tapping his fingers on Hiddenburg's desk as they walked through the whole process. He supposed he didn't have to stay, but since Dellorio had arrived before Hiddenburg or Alora had dismissed him, he figured he better not just walk out now. His eyes are fixed on the printed copy of Dellorio's post. It was a screenshot from this morning when Alora had walked into her office and had been confronted with the social media blow up. The post had over 8.6 billion reactions and comments, great.

But as twenty five minutes tick by, Ronan had increasingly become uncomfortable by the multiple compliments that keep flowing from Dellorio's mouth. Though he keeps his expression as neutral as possible, he couldn't do much about the reddish tinge on his face. Lord, he was laying it on thick. Talented, good at my job, good leader, beautiful? Charming? Holy shit, what the hell was this kid gonna say next? Iron fortress? What the hell? Not that it wasn't true, but what the hell? Should he say something? Thanks? Please stop? Thankfully, Hiddenburg beats him to speaking first.

For the first time the whole meeting, Ronan finally looks at Dellorio, following Hiddenburg's question. Yeah, why the hell did he post it publicly? He had followed Dellorio back on social medias this morning, noting that unfollowing him maybe have been a little childish and quick on the trigger. Especially now that they were sorting it out with HR and their head coach. Honestly, it was't like Ronan was on social media much, only for PR stuff for team. He quirks an eyebrow at Dellorio's response, huh, not bad. He was selling it good, the question was, was it true? Alora seemed to believe it, but Ronan was still... meh. It wasn't he didn't disbelieve him, but...

Ronan opens his mouth as Dellorio continues, before shutting it, well... He wasn't wrong. He didn't really like or love a lot of people on the team, but that didn't mean he disliked or hated them. He was more neutral, and that was probably how he was going to feel about Dellorio. Although, as he pointed out, Dellorio was definitely riding the line between neutral and dislike in Ronan's book especially following last night's stunt. He sits back, arms crossed, as Alora nods to him. "Find a new way to compliment me, Dellorio." He stands with everybody else, fixing Dellorio with a cool gaze. "And next time, say it to my face, I don't enjoy finding things out through social media."

He could be nicer. He should be nicer. But, being all feelings and compliments and nice wasn't his style. But, judging from the look he was recieving from Alora and Hiddenburg, maybe he went a bit to far. So, Ronan reluctantly softens his gaze. "Just... don't blindside me, okay?" The closest thing to an apologize, Ronan could give at the moment. He nods at Hiddenburg, then Dellorio, and heads off with Alora down the hallway. Yeah, he really needed to learn to be nicer, or more open at least.

Which Alora points out, "Darling, your kind of like a cold fish." Ronan shoots a amused look at her, "And they say I'm blunt." Alora shrugs, "The truth is blunt, sweetie." Ronan shrugs, "Guess so." Alora snorts, "People would like you more if you were more..." "Open?" Ronan fixes Alora with a calm stare, "I'm here to play hockey. I get along with my teammates well enough, and that works for me." Alora sighs as Ronan turns and walks off. Cold fish indeed.

Ronan walks into the locker room to get on gear. Nobod could quite gauge the mood he was in, so nobody dared tease him yet. Their morning practice was being run by him. They'd had their hard practices the last couple of days, which meant today was an easier day. They wouldn't risk anybody getting hurt before their game, especially since 1) they had back to back games and 2) they were important games. It was early in the season, but it was always good to start a season off powerful. Especially if they wanted to climb the ranks and a chance at the Stanley Cup. And Ronan wanted a chance at the Stanley Cup. They'd gotten close last season, before Kingston and Blake had been injured. But after those two had gotten injured? The Leafs had dropped ranks, so Ronan was hoping for a better season.

His head jerks up as he hears O'Rourke's comment to Dellorio who'd arrived not longer after him. Ronan sighs but says nothing, nobody on the team would drop that for a long time. Indeed, Petrov waltz up, ready for practice. He smirks, "Hey, Cap." Ronan rolls his eyes, "Shut it, Petrov." Petrov innocently smiles, "What? I just wanted to say hi." Ronan deftly laces up his skates, "Oh, go ahead, get the jokes out." But Callahan, across the locker room, calls out first. Ronan looks up and calls out, "Hiddenburg's gonna end up hiring one of those media trainers to stick on him." Petrov leans in, "Hehe, you know that saying? That celebs that have media trainers are essentially put on a leash?"

Sullivan walks in, half geared up, "A leash? Kinky?" Ronan listens quietly as he finishes gearing up, eyes snapping up at the mention of the Northway. Northway was shit, people only stayed there if they were after drugs, sketchy hookups, or if they had nowhere else to go. Havel cuts in, "You should look into a better place. I have a buddy who about lost his life at Northway." Ronan stands, now fully geared, "Northway is for drugs and prostitutes. You definitely need a new place to stay." His eyes fix on Dellorio briefly and then he turns. "Alright, those of you geared up, hit the ice. Those of you gearing up, get your ass in speed. Let's go." Petrov and Ronan head off for the ice.

Ronan, Petrov, and Moreau were a freaking powerhouse during practice. "Hell yeah!" Ronan shouts as he fires a shot into the goal past Volkov. Petrov slams into his side, shouting in his ear, "Hell yeah, Cap!" That actually draws a smile and laugh from Ronan, "Great assist, Petrov! We play like that all season, and we're guaranteed that damn cup!" The rest of practice goes great, everybody is in high spirits. The lines were finally figured out, and the team was flowing smooth again. He shouts across the ice, "O'Rourke! Dellorio! This is hockey not debate club! Pay attention or get off my ice!" Before he focuses back on the drill he was running with Petrov and Moreau. He has to yell at Hayes a couple minutes later after watching the goalie overslide multiple times.

"Hayes! Protect the net!" He glides over. "Plant your feet. Extend your body." Hayes obeys and Ronan nods, "See how far you stretch? That's the furthest you can lunge. Any further, the net's unprotected, and you have a harder time slamming the puck in." Hayes nods and Ronan offers. "Try digging your blade in as you slide. You'll still slide, but it'll give you more control over how far you go." Hayes nods again, and Ronan circles away. "Alright, fire it in Petrov!" Petrov does, purposefully aiming wide and Hayes lunges. But, following Ronan's advice, he leads with his blade and doesn't slide as far. Still close enough to protect the net if the puck was recovered quickly and fired towards the net. "Hell yeah!"

Near the end of practice, Ronan had to chase the puck down to the other side where some of the vets and Dellorio were working. He calls out "Sorry," as the puck interrupts. And surprise flickers in his eyes when Dellorio executes a smooth saucer pass to him. Ronan catches it, and he nods at Dellorio, "Not bad, thanks." Before he skates off. Sandström skates over, "Closest thing to a compliment I think I've ever seen him give a newbie within two months of them joining. Hell of a pass, Shohei."

—

Ronan paces back and forth. Shit, shit. The flight to Buffalo was taking off late because they were waiting on freaking Dellorio. He'd called Dellorio, he'd had Callahan call Dellorio, Hiddenburg had called Dellorio, their head trainer had called Dellorio. So where the hell was he? He glances sideways at the team whose debating reasons why Dellorio could be late. "Callahan call Dellorio again." Callahan grimaces, "Did just a minute ago, Cap, nothing." Ronan groans and rubs his face, "You've got to be shitting me." Game days were already stressful enough, especially away games.

Ronan's blue eyes snap up when the terminal doors finally open. He stalks over, ready to lay into the guy, when he actually takes in Dellorio's appearance. He may not know the dude very well, but... Well... Dellorio was in the same clothes he left the arena in, and he looks like.... Like he'd been dumpster diving. And judging from the state of his backpack... He probably did. Ronan closes his mouth and frowns, actually looking concerned. Because the dude had like... nothing. Even Ronan who packed as little as he could had a backpack and a suitcase. Dellorio had a backpack and a.... shopping bag from what looked like one of the stores in the airport.

Callahan is the first to ask. Ronan stares hard, "You got robbed?" He rubs his face, holy shit. "You need a new place to stay, Dellorio. You're not going back to Northway." Ronan is baffled when Dellorio only cheerfully states he was making friendship bracelets for everybody. He blinks once, twice, and shoots a look at Callahan. What. The. Hell. His lips thin. "Dellorio! I'll talk to Hiddenburg see if we can figure out a living situation for you for when we get back." He eyes Dellorio as he sits down beside Keane, immediately yapping away and revealing friendship bracelets. Ronan just kind of stands there and watches, absolutely baffled. The guy just had all his stuff stolen and he's worried about making sure the team likes their friendship bracelets.

"Bloody hell."

After a conversation with Hiddenburg, who promises that he will see what he can do. Ronan returns to his seat. His eyes came up the first couple of times Dellorio walks by, but only recieves a sheepish smile and a slight nod. Which he returned, but after about the third time, Ronan just pops his headphones on and turns his attention to the movie he turned on. Which was Captain America. He was a huge Marvel fan, had been since he was a kid. So, he reclines the seat a little bit and turns up the volume and just watches.

Fifteen minutes before they land, Ronan was up again, gathering the attention of the team. "Alright guys. As always, we're at Hyatt Regency and we're be on the 16th floor." The entire 16th floor was reserved for the team and all their personnel (coaches, trainers, etc.). "Here's room assignments." He starts listing them out.

Callahan, Keane, and Mercer. Hayes and Bennett. McKenna and Sullivan. Abrams and Doyle. Lundqvist and Volkov. Ricci and Havel. Bishop and Petrov. O'Rourke and Moreau. Sokolov and Sandström.

He hesitates on the last one, Hiddenburg had a screwed up sense of humor.

"Dellorio and me."

He looks up, "I'll pass out keycards for the elevator and your rooms now, don't lose them." He eyes Ricci who has a bad habit of losing keycards. Then he walks down the aisle, passing out the keycards. Two, one for the elevator since the hotel locked off access for the floor when teams stayed, and one for rooms.