"Next time you film yourself skating backward, maybe check your surroundings first."
Was that a joke? It sounded suspiciously like a joke.
I stared at Moretti’s retreating back. I watched the set of his shoulders and the deliberate way he moved through the gym. My traitorous heart did a stupid, fluttery flip in my chest.
This was going to be a very long season.
That night, I lay in my new apartment and stared at the dark ceiling.
The place was barely furnished. Cardboard boxes were still stacked against the walls, casting long shadows in the streetlights that filtered through the blinds. My phone buzzed on the mattress beside me. Texts poured in from family and friends back home, all wanting to know how day one had gone.
I ignored them for now. I couldn't bring myself to tell them about Moretti yet.
I couldn't explain the way the captain’s voice had wrapped around my name like a warning. I couldn't describe the split second when our hands had touched and my entire nervous system had lit up like a scoreboard.
I'd known I was bisexual since I was sixteen. I'd come out to my family and friends without much drama. I'd generally made peace with the fact that professional hockey wasn't exactly the most welcoming space for guys like me.
But I had also promised myself I wouldn't hide. I wouldn't shrink myself. I wouldn't pretend to be something I wasn't just to make other people comfortable.
Even if one of those people was my incredibly hot, incredibly grumpy team captain.
I reached over and set an alarm for 4:15 AM.
Tomorrow, I would prove to Luca Moretti that I belonged here. I would show him that I could work just as hard, skate just as fast, and take hockey just as seriously as anyone else on the roster.
And if my heart did that stupid flipping thing again when Moretti looked at me?
Well. I would deal with that problem when I came to it.
2
Luca
I didn't sleep.
I lay in my bedroom, where the air conditioning hummed a steady, artificial rhythm, and stared at the dark ceiling. My mind refused to shut down. It kept replaying the moment from yesterday—the collision, the coffee, and the split second my gloved hand had brushed Theo Callahan’s palm.
The kid’s skin had been warm.
That was the problem. It was warm and real, and for one stupid heartbeat, my brain had gone offline.
I rolled onto my side and punched my pillow. I checked my phone. 2:47 AM.
In a little over two hours, I would meet Callahan at the rink. The kid would show up eager and obedient, probably still riding the high of making the roster. I would do what I did best. I would shut it down. I would work Callahan hard enough that there would be no room for conversation. No space for easy smiles. Noopportunity for that infectious enthusiasm to dig its hooks any deeper.
I had been the Storm’s captain for three years. Before that, I had clawed my way up from fourth-line grinder to first-line center through sheer force of will and an ability to compartmentalize that bordered on pathological. I knew how to lead without getting close.
Theo Callahan threatened all of that.
My phone buzzed on the nightstand. A text from Coach Reeves:Go easy on the kid. We need him in one piece for the season.
I didn't respond. I threw off the covers, headed for the shower, and turned the water cold enough to hurt.
The rink at 5 AM was my cathedral.
There were no crowds. No media. No teammates watching to see if the captain’s mask would slip. There was only the low hum of the compressors and the smell of fresh ice—sharp, chemical, and clean.
I was lacing my skates when the door banged open.
