I loved the burn in my quads during the suicide drills. I loved the sharp, metallic taste of the air in my lungs and the chaotic noise of pucks slamming against the glass. I had worked my entire life for this. I had spent four years at Boston College andthousands of hours in rinks that smelled like stale popcorn and sweat just to get here.
I was a Chicago Storm player. I was in the NHL.
I couldn't stop grinning.
"Someone is having a good time."
I glanced to my left. Eriksson, the Swedish winger and alternate captain, stood next to me in the queue for the next drill.
"Pretty much," I said, wiping sweat from my forehead with the back of my glove. "My mom says I came out of the womb happy. I think it freaked the doctors out."
Eriksson laughed. "You represent a serious danger to Moretti’s blood pressure."
"Is he always that..." I searched for a word that wasn'tterrifyingorhot. "...intense?"
"Always." Eriksson tapped his stick against his pads. "He has been captain for three years. He led us to the playoffs twice. The guy bleeds Storm blue and he never smiles. You will get used to it."
I glanced across the ice. Moretti stood near the net, talking to Coach Reeves. His posture was rigid, his arms crossed over his chest. As if he felt the weight of my gaze, Moretti looked up. His dark eyes locked onto mine from fifty feet away.
I felt the impact in my stomach, a sudden drop that felt like missing a step on the stairs.
I looked away first. I focused on the drill setup, but I could still feel Moretti’s attention. It felt heavy, like a physical weight pressing between my shoulder blades.
I was toweling off my hair after a shower when Coach Reeves appeared in the locker room doorway.
"Callahan. My office. Five minutes."
My stomach bottomed out. Getting summoned to the office on day one was rarely a celebration. Given that I had baptizedthe team captain in dark roast earlier, I wasn't betting on a commendation.
I pulled on a clean shirt and followed Coach down the hallway. I passed photos of Storm legends and championship banners, trying not to look like a tourist. The facility was sleek, modern, and intimidating—all glass walls and brushed steel.
Coach’s office was exactly what I expected. A massive mahogany desk dominated the room, cluttered with scouting reports. A monitor on the wall played game film on a loop.
"Sit," Coach said.
I sat.
Coach Reeves leaned back in his chair. He studied me with the same unreadable expression Moretti had used earlier. I forced myself to sit still and keep my hands on my knees.
"You had a good first practice," Coach said finally. "Your skating is clean. Your hands are quick. Your hockey IQ matches the scouting reports."
"Thank you, sir."
"But you're raw." Coach picked up a pen and tapped it rhythmically against the desk. "You have talent, kid. But talent doesn't mean shit if you don't know how to use it at this level. The NHL is faster, harder, and meaner than college ball."
"I know." I leaned forward slightly. "I'm ready to learn. I'll do whatever it takes."
Coach’s expression softened, just a fraction. "That's why I am assigning you a mentor. I want someone to show you the ropes. Someone to keep you out of trouble and make sure you don't burn out before Christmas."
Relief washed over me. A mentor sounded great. I needed a friend on the team.
"Moretti is going to take you on."
The relief evaporated instantly.
"Captain Moretti?" My voice cracked. I cleared my throat. "The guy whose shirt I ruined?"
"That's the one." A corner of Coach’s mouth twitched upward. "He's the best player on this roster. He works harder than anyone I've ever coached. If you want to make it in this league, you'll learn from him."
