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Silas pushed his tablet down the middle of the table. “What we’re facing is a question of optics. The organization fully supports Hunter and Michael, and that won’t ever be in doubt.”

“Yes, exactly that,” Voss agreed.

Silas tapped the screen twice with the pad of his index finger. “But the issue is our fans, and how they’re reacting.”

I leaned forward to see a photo of a small group of people standing outside the arena holding up homemade signs written in black marker calling for a certain slur to be kept out of hockey. Two of the words were badly misspelled.

“As of five minutes ago,” Silas continued. “The ticket office has fielded fifty incoming calls from folks threatening to cancel their season tickets.”

“Fuck those guys,” Cally said suddenly, his voice raised. “So we lose a few season ticket holders.”

Voss cleared his throat. He was doing a lot of that tonight. “Yes, well. As much as I would like to join you in that sentiment, the fact of the matter is, we need that revenue. You may have noticed we have yet to fill this arena.”

The pointed way in which he spoke left no room for interpretation—Cally was, at least partially, to blame for poor ticket sales. They’d invested a lot of time and money to get him into a Marauders jersey, and their investment had yet to pay off.

Robert leaned forward, his expression fiery. “How dare you lay those failures on my son. This team is a shambles. You have the talent, but you don’t fucking know how to use it. For some reason I can’t figure out, you still have that moron Koffstetter centering the second line when it should be Porter. You link these boys up, and you’ll see exactly what I mean.” He swung his arm in a wide arc, gesturing between his son and me.

I tried to mask my shock. Cally had told me his dad thought I was being wasted, but I’d had no clue he felt this strongly about it. It was an ego boost, to be sure, but I didn’t necessarily agree with him—at least not in the way someone might assume.

Cally’s line wasn’t a Koffee problem. Or not only a Koffee problem. It was a Cally problem, if a power winger barreling down the ice like a runaway freight train could be considered a problem. Koffee couldn’t keep up—physically or mentally. He was always three steps behind, chasing the play. Mercer wouldn’t have done any better, I didn’t think.

Nobody on our roster could match Cally for sheer speed alone, though everyone kept trying, wearing themselves ragged in the process. What we needed was a center who could read where he was going before he even made his turn, then lay it into open ice and let him hit it at full speed.

Hockey Legend Robert Callahan seemed to think I was the guy for the job.

Could I anticipate Cally better than Koffee could? Probably. We understood each other off the ice in a way I’d never experienced with anyone ever before. But also maybe not. Cally was something special, and I’d never been tested with a player like him before.

Coach—who saw us skate every day—obviously thought it wasn’t worth testing, and who was I to question his decision?

Robert was undeterred. He held his ground, speaking past Cally to lock eyes with Coach. “Tell me you don’t see it. Convince me it’s not worth trying out, and I’ll never say another goddamn word about this fucking team again. Just … just give my son what he needs, and I promise you, you’ll have the best goddamn winger you’ll ever see.”

Every head in the room swung his way, a mix of shock and stunned silence settling over the table. For five long seconds everyone just stared at him.

Then Cally’s head swung to me, his eyes shining, bottom lip trembling.

I hated being this far away from him. Couldn’t physically stand it.

I pushed my chair back, canting my head toward the exit to clue him in to my plan. “Excuse us.”

As we stormed out, I heard Voss called out, “Wait! We’re not done here!” but we already gone.

I grabbed Cally’s hand, rushing us back down the corridor, jangling each door we passed in the hopes of finding one that’d be left unlocked. On the third try, we ducked into a small storage room, slamming the door shut behind us.

I backed Cally up against a high stack of boxes and wrapped my arms around his middle.

“Did that really just happen?” he asked, his chest a bellows beneath my cheek.

I squeezed tighter, nodding against him, the buttons of his shirt pressing into my skin. “Where did that come from?”

“I have no clue.” His breath stuttered out of him. “He’s never … he … I didn’t know he felt that way. It’s always been ‘do better’ or ‘be more.’”

I leaned away, brushing a stray tear from right below his lash line with my thumb then sucking it clean

He smiled wanly down at me.

“I think we fucked up, Mikey.”

I nodded. No use pretending otherwise. “Epically.”