I grabbed a tray and surveyed the team cafeteria. I looked for a spot that didn't scream "desperate rookie eating alone," but mostly I just looked for carbohydrates.
I had survived three days of Luca Moretti’s personal torture sessions. Three days of 5:00 AM ice time where the captain pushed me until my lungs burned and my edges wavered. Three days of feeling Luca’s eyes on me during regular practice—a heavy, tactile weight that made the hair on my arms stand up.
"Callahan! Over here!"
I turned. Jamie Hayes, the alternate captain, waved a fork from a circular table near the window.
I didn't hesitate. I dropped into the empty seat and immediately found a protein shake shoved into my chest by Kieran Walsh, the starting goalie.
"Drink that," he ordered. "You look like death."
"Captain is running him into the ground," Bishop said. He was a defenseman with arms the size of tree trunks. "I saw that session yesterday morning. Brutal."
"Cap is always brutal with the new guys," Hayes said, stabbing at his scrambled eggs. "It means he thinks you're worth the effort."
I wanted to believe that. I wanted to believe the early morning sessions meant Luca saw potential, rather than just a rookie he needed to break. It didn't quite track with the way Luca looked at me, though. The captain looked at me the way a bomb squad technician looks at a suspicious package.
"Speaking of effort," Walsh said, grinning. "You coming to Rookie Night tomorrow?"
"What's Rookie Night?"
The table erupted in laughter. I felt the heat rise in my cheeks.
"Oh, this is going to be good," Bishop said. "The kid doesn't know."
Hayes took pity on me. "It's a tradition. All the rookies buy dinner and drinks for the vets. We go to Moretti’s—the Italian place downtown, not related to our captain despite the name—and you guys pick up the tab."
"How much are we talking?" I asked. I mentally calculated the balance of my checking account.
"Enough to hurt," Walsh said cheerfully. "But not enough to bankrupt you. We aren't complete assholes."
"Just partial assholes," Bishop added.
The conversation drifted back to hockey, and I relaxed. I knew how to navigate this rhythm. I could handle the chirping about last night’s preseason game and the debate over line combinations.
It wasn't until Hayes brought up weekend plans that the ground shifted.
"There's a new bar opening in River North," Hayes said. "Supposed to be upscale. Good for meeting..." He waggled his eyebrows.
"Meeting investors?" I asked innocently.
Walsh snorted into his coffee. "Yeah. Sure. Investors."
"I'm seeing someone," Bishop said. "So I'm out. But you single guys should go."
"Callahan is definitely going," Hayes decided. "You're single, right?"
I shrugged. I took a long pull of the protein shake. "Yeah. Broke up with my ex a few months before the draft."
I didn't think about the phrasing. I didn't consider that saying "ex" instead of "ex-girlfriend" would be a flag.
Walsh caught it immediately. "Ex-boyfriend or ex-girlfriend?"
The table went quiet. It wasn't hostile, but the air pressure changed. They were waiting.
I had lived through this moment a hundred times. The pause. The assessment. The split second where other men decided if I was one of the guys or a problem to be managed.
I met Walsh’s eyes steadily. "Boyfriend. His name was Eric. Good guy, but long distance wasn't going to work with me getting drafted."
