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Beside me, Cally was in full Terminator mode, his spine ramrod straight, eyes locked straight ahead, arms moving in tight, efficient arcs as his feet ate up the belt.

When his timer beeped, signaling the end of his programmed run, he hit the cool-down button. I forced myself to stay at full speed for another twenty seconds.

Because I could.

It wasn’t a contest or anything. If it had been, I would have surely lost.

But I felt like I’d won something, even if it was only pride.

Cally didn’t say good job or offer me a pat on the back. But as he turned toward the door, I caught his faint smile in the dark glass anyway.

I gripped the handrails, fighting to get my breathing under control and trying like hell not to grin like a fucking idiot as he walked away.

SIX

MIKEY

It was a couple of days before our pre-season opener against Cleveland, but before the roster was posted, every one of us—the veterans included—had to sit through a mandatory Players’ Association briefing on the league’s Code of Conduct policy.

For the last twenty minutes, Cally’d had his notebook open on his lap, taking notes. A minute or so ago, I’d watched him write something down and underline it twice. I didn’t know why he bothered—Mr. Goody Two Shoes’s code of conduct would never come under scrutiny.

The rep—a guy who looked to be in his forties and was definitely not happy about having to educate a bunch of overgrown jocks year after year—moved on to cover substance abuse, gambling, and travel behavior guidelines. The current slide detailed all the ways a betting scandal could fuck up your career.

From the back of the room came a snort. “That Pinto kid is fucking killing it right now. Would hardly call him ruined.”

Cally swung his head around, located the speaker, then turned back to the front, rolling his eyes.

I chuckled and shook my head.

As the briefing continued, I watched him out of the corner of my eye. When the rep said something about inviting guests to your room during road trips, Cally muttered something under his breath I couldn’t make out, and closed the notebook.

There was a snicker behind us, followed by Nielson saying something about looking forward to all those slutty bunnies. A loud thwack echoed through the room. Everyone in the front three rows turned to see Bell pulling his hand back where he’d just clipped Nielson’s head.

“Ow!”

“Show some respect, dipshit,” Bell gritted out.

“I don’t know where you come from, but we respect women here,” Marc Lavoie said, widening his stance and crossing his arms over his chest.

Holy shit.

I’d been in locker rooms my whole life where guys talked about women like they were just holes to fuck, and it’d always bothered me. You didn’t grow up in a house full of strong women like I had and not respect the hell out of them.

I’d tried speaking up a few times, but there’d always been hell to pay afterward. Once, I’d said something to one of my coaches—a guy I thought I could trust based on the fact that he seemed to genuinely appreciate his wife. His response was to call me “a woke-ass pussy” and to tell me I needed to learn to keep my mouth shut. I’d been “mysteriously” benched for the next two games.

So if you’d have told me that someday I’d be sitting with a bunch of NHL veterans who not only shut that shit down, but did it unflinchingly, I’d have asked what alternate reality you were living in.

My sister was going to lose her mind when I told her.

“Yeah, okay. Message received,” Nielson said, his face flushing as he hunkered down in his seat, his chin disappearing into the neck of his hoodie.

Silas James, the Marauders’ Vice President of Communications, stepped forward, holding his hands up. “Look, we know a lot of you, um …” He paused, tilting his head as if searching for an HR-appropriate way to say what we all knew he was alluding to. Eventually, he seemed to realize there wasn’t a way to say it, and settled on, “Just please use common sense and decency. If you wouldn’t want to see it on the front page of the newspaper⁠—”

“What’s a newspaper, Si?” Kyle Monroe called out.

Taylor Morrison, a defenseman who’d been all over the league but had spent the last three seasons here in Portland, groaned and covered his eyes with one hand. “Come on, man. Read the room.”

“Guys!” Silas called out, trying to bring everyone’s attention back to the topic at hand. “Just don’t do anything to embarrass the team or yourselves, and it’s all good.”