My mind spun. I pictured spending time with Moretti. Lots of time. I imagined the awkward silences and the death glares.
"I'll make it work," I said, because I didn't have a choice. "Thank you, Coach."
"Don't thank me yet." Coach stood up, signaling the meeting was over. "Moretti is tough. He isn't going to hold your hand or tell you that you're special. But if you listen to him, you will be a better player for it."
I found Moretti in the gym.
The captain was on a treadmill, running with a determination that suggested he was chasing down a thief. He wore a Storm T-shirt that was soaked through with sweat and clung to his shoulders. He had earbuds in, and his eyes were fixed on the wall ahead.
I watched him for a moment. I admired the steady rhythm of his stride and the tight control of his movements. A warm, dangerous feeling unfurled in my chest.
Nope. Not going there.
I approached the treadmill and waved my hand until Moretti noticed me.
Moretti didn't smile. He slowed the machine to a stop, pulled out one earbud, and raised a single, skeptical eyebrow.
"Hey." I tried to keep my tone casual. "Coach said you're my mentor now. My hockey dad, basically. Should I start calling you Pops?"
Moretti’s expression could have frozen Lake Michigan in July. "No."
"Dad?"
"Callahan."
"Captain Dad?"
"Stop talking."
I grinned. I couldn't help it. Moretti’s complete lack of amusement made me want to poke the bear, just to see if I could get a reaction that wasn't annoyance.
Moretti stepped off the treadmill. He grabbed a towel and wiped his face. He stood close now—close enough that I could see the faint, white scar interrupting his left eyebrow and the dark stubble shading his jaw. He smelled like soap and hard work.
"Let's get something straight," Moretti said. His voice was quiet, but it commanded the room. "I didn't volunteer for this. Coach assigned me. So we're going to keep this professional. You do what I say, when I say it. You show up on time. You work hard. And you stop with the..." He gestured vaguely at my entire person. "...performance."
"My personality?"
"Your inability to take anything seriously."
The words stung. I had heard variations of that complaint my whole life. Coaches thought I goofed around too much. Teammates didn't understand why I couldn't just shut up and brood before a game. Even my older brother had told me that smiling didn't put points on the board.
But I believed that joy was a choice. I chose it every single day.
"I take hockey seriously," I said. My voice came out steadier than I felt. "I take it so seriously that I have sacrificed pretty much everything else for it. But that doesn't mean I have to be miserable while I do it."
Moretti studied me. For a long moment, silence stretched between us. Something unreadable shifted behind his dark eyes.
"Fine," Moretti said finally. "We start tomorrow. Five AM. Don't be late."
"Five?" I blinked. "In the morning?"
"You said you would do whatever it takes." Moretti slung his towel over his shoulder. "Or was that just more of the performance?"
I straightened my spine. "I'll be here."
"Good." Moretti turned to leave. He took two steps, then paused and looked back. "And Callahan?"
"Yeah?"
