1
Theo
The red recording dot pulsed in the corner of the screen, the only thing in focus as I glided backward. I moved with the unconscious ease of someone who had learned to skate before I learned to read.
"Day one, baby," I told my reflection in the camera lens. I flashed the grin that usually got me out of parking tickets. "Training camp with the Storm. Can you believe—"
I hit a wall.
It wasn't the boards. It was solid, warm, and significantly harder than a human body had any right to be.
The impact jarred my teeth. My phone flew from my grip, tumbling across the ice. I spun around, arms windmilling for balance, just as a travel mug launched into the air. The lid popped off. The dark, steaming liquid splashed in a violent arc directly onto the chest of the man I had just run down.
Captain Luca Moretti.
Oh, shit.
The silence in the arena was absolute. The rhythmicshhh-shhhof skates elsewhere on the ice disappeared.
I watched the coffee drip from the saturated Storm logo on Moretti’s practice jersey onto the pristine ice. Moretti didn't flinch. He didn't wipe it off. He just stood there, his jaw locked tight enough to snap steel.
"I am so, so sorry." I scrambled to retrieve the debris. I grabbed my phone, which now sported a spiderweb crack across the screen, and scooped up Moretti’s empty mug. "I wasn't looking. I was filming, which was stupid, and I just—"
"You think?"
Moretti’s voice was a low rumble, barely audible over the hum of the Zamboni in the far corner. It wasn't loud, but it carried a weight that made the hair on my arms stand up.
I looked up. And I kept looking up.
Television cameras didn't do Luca Moretti justice. In 4K, he was impressive; in person, he was terrifying. He had sharp, severe cheekbones and dark eyes that were currently dissecting me. He looked like a statue that had been brought to life specifically to ruin my day.
I was immediately, catastrophically charmed.
"I'll pay for the dry cleaning," I offered, clutching the empty mug like a peace offering. "And I’ll buy you a new coffee. Two coffees. I’ll buy you an espresso machine."
"I don't want your coffee." Moretti snatched the mug from my hand. His gloved fingers brushed against my palm for a fraction of a second.
The contact shouldn't have felt like anything—just leather against skin—but a jolt of heat hit me in the chest.
"Right. Of course." I shoved my broken phone into my pocket. "I'm Theo. Callahan. But you probably know that. Since I'm the new guy. The one who just assaulted you with a beverage."
A muscle feathered in Moretti’s jaw. It was the only sign that he was actually alive and not a hallucination born of my anxiety.
"I know who you are." Moretti pushed off, skating backward. He moved with an efficiency that made me jealous—no wasted energy, just pure power. He gestured vaguely at my chest. "You're the internet kid."
"Guilty." I smiled. I had learned a long time ago that if you smiled bright enough, people usually forgot to be mad at you. "Twenty thousand followers and counting. You should check out my page. I do a mean lip sync."
Moretti stared at me. He didn't blink. He looked at me as if I were speaking a language he had never heard and had no interest in learning.
"I'm kidding," I added quickly. "Mostly."
"Callahan!" Coach Reeves’ voice boomed from the bench, echoing off the rafters. "Stop flirting with my captain and get your ass on the line!"
Heat flooded my face, burning all the way to my ears. A few of the guys chuckled—low, distinct sounds of amusement—but Moretti’s expression remained stony.
"Wasn't flirting," I muttered to no one in particular. I turned and skated toward the blue line. My pulse hammered a frantic rhythm against my ribs, and I couldn't decide if it was embarrassment or the lingering adrenaline of looking Luca Moretti in the eye.
Training camp was brutal. It was also the best thing that had ever happened to me.
