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Maybe my tangent hadn’t been such a bad thing after all.

I called for a quick water break, and we skated to the bench. Porter tipped his bottle back, a bead of sweat working its way down his neck.

I only realized I was staring when he lifted an eyebrow.

Shit.

I spun quickly to look out over the ice. “Uh, when’d you start skating?” I asked, to cover up my embarrassment.

He chuckled, drawing my eyes back to him. “Seven. My mom’s boyfriend put me in a learn-to-play program to try to bond with me or some shit. He took off a couple months later, but I stuck with it.”

“How’d you end up in the NAHL out of high school?”

He lifted that damn eyebrow again, his mouth tipping to the side. “You read up on me, Cally?”

“Of course I did.”

He stared at me for a beat, his smirk fading into an expression I couldn’t get a proper read on.

“Tryout camp in Bismarck with a friend who was going for the same team,” he started. “He didn’t make it, but I did. Got traded to Topeka in my second year, then an ECHL scout picked me up.” He squirted a stream of water into his mouth, his eyes fixed on the empty stands.

This all tracked with what I’d found online, which was why it felt more like he was reciting his player bio than telling me about his experiences. I wanted to know how he’d become the player he was, not just where he’d been and when.

“A few days ago, I watched you angle your hips into the boards before the other guy could pin you. Where’d you pick that up?”

His eyes bounced my way briefly, a small flicker of surprise in his gaze. “That was Danny,” he answered slowly, like he was pulling the memory out of his head. “The guy who ran the program at my local rink where I started? Retired minor leaguer. Good guy. Gave me more than anyone else would have.”

Now we were getting somewhere.

“Yeah. How?”

“Drove me to my first tournament weekend because my mom’s car was in the shop. Didn’t make a thing of it.” He took another long pull from his bottle. “He was great.”

“Was?”

“Died three years ago. Heart attack.” He shrugged.

“Fuck. I’m sorry.”

“Yeah,” he murmured, turning back to me. “Okay, my turn. What’s the deal with you and Harvard? I mean, why’d you stay all four years? You could’ve left after your freshman year. Everyone thought you would.”

I tried to mimic Porter’s single eyebrow-raise thing, both of them shooting up my forehead instead. “You read up on me, Ports?”

He let out a low chuckle. “Touché.”

I leaned back against the boards, my arms crossed over my chest. I had a few different PR approved versions of an answer at the ready, but Porter had given me something real when he’d told me about Danny, and I found myself wanting to do the same.

“I liked the structure.” I turned my head to find him already looking at me. “I did well in that type of environment.”

“How so?” he asked, raising his bottle to his mouth.

For a split second, I debated lying, but he’d already clocked me as an awkward, fucking weirdo—it likely wouldn’t shock him to learn just how fucked up I really was.

“I get overwhelmed pretty easily,” I began. “And with all the stuff about my dad, well …” I trailed off.

Given that Porter had read up on me, he would have seen the many articles that talked about the Callahan legacy, the pundits asking if I would live up to my last name or if I’d flame out.

As a teenager, it’d been … a lot, and I hadn’t handled it all that well.