I stared at the ceiling and replayed the night in my head.
The league isn't perfect. Reporters dig.
I closed my eyes.
Luca Moretti was complicated. He was closeted, conflicted, and probably the worst possible person for a rookie to develop feelings for. The smart move would be to back off. Keep things professional. Focus on hockey.
But I had never been particularly smart about self-preservation.
And something about the way Luca had looked at me in the alley—that terrible mix of hunger and terror—made me want to prove him wrong. I wanted to prove that it didn't have to be scary. That being yourself was worth the risk.
I pulled out my phone and set my alarm for 4:30 AM.
Another dawn session. Another ninety minutes of Luca trying to break me while desperately trying not to want me.
I smiled in the dark.
I had survived three days of Luca Moretti’s intensity. I could survive whatever came next.
4
Luca
The arena roared like a living thing. Seventeen thousand voices compressed into a single wall of sound that hit me the second my skate blades touched the ice.
Opening night. The arena's lights blazed overhead, reflecting off the fresh sheet of ice. Every camera in Chicago was pointed at me.
I'd done this three hundred times. Maybe four.
It never got old.
I took my position for the opening faceoff. I bent low, stick ready. Across from me, Detroit’s captain—a brick wall of a man named Kozlov—grinned like he had a secret. The referee held the puck suspended between us.
"Heard you got a puppy to train, Moretti."
My jaw tightened. I didn't look toward the bench where Theo sat with the other bottom-six forwards. I didn't need to. I'd been hyperaware of exactly where Theo was since warmups, when he'd skated past and flashed that goddamn sunshine smile.
The puck dropped.
I won the draw. I snapped it back to our defenseman and drove forward into Detroit territory. My line moved like a machine—years of chemistry meant I knew where Hayes would be before Hayes knew it himself. A quick cycle behind the net, a pass to the point, and I crashed toward the crease looking for the rebound.
The shot went wide. Detroit’s goalie smothered it.
Whistle. Line change.
I skated toward the bench. I was already analyzing the play in my head. Should have driven harder to the net. Should have anticipated that Hayes would hold the puck an extra second. I grabbed my water bottle and squeezed a stream into my mouth without removing my helmet.
Detroit’s fourth line took the ice.
So did Theo.
My chest constricted—instant and unwelcome. I forced myself to look away. I focused on Coach Reeves’s rapid-fire instructions for the next shift. But my peripheral vision betrayed me. I tracked the flash of Theo’s number as the rookie lined up for the faceoff.
Professional. Keep it professional.
Theo lost the draw. Detroit surged into the Storm’s zone, and I watched the rookie backcheck. His positioning was textbook. Good speed. Good stick work. The defensive breakdown came from our center, not Theo, and when Theo intercepted the pass and chipped it out of the zone, the kid made it look easy.
Pride flared hot in my chest.That's my—
