Page 2

Kyle nodded, his shoulders curling forward. “I did, but she’s convinced I’m the next Brad Marchand.”

I snorted—loudly.

Fuck.

Curly’s head swung my way, his eyes narrowing into slits. “Something funny?”

Shit.

“No,” I said with a shake of my head, my face heating with embarrassment.

He stared at me for a few long beats, huffed out a breath, then turned back to Kyle. “That’s really sweet,” I heard him say as I stood and made my way out to the ice.

The ice was the only place I’d ever been fully comfortable in my own skin. Out here, I was in my element.

Or at least I was supposed to be.

But the incident in the locker room kept coming back to me, Curly’s distaste eating at my conscience and fucking with my head.

Only, instead of his glare, it was my dad’s face I saw as I moved out of a turn, my outside edge catching. Instantly, I was nine years old again, sitting in the passenger seat of his SUV on the drive home from the rink, listening to him catalog all the things I needed to work on. All the ways I was letting him down.

Get out of my brain! I thought, as a whistle cut through the drill.

Coach Hendricks skated to center ice and waved a hand, killing the play cold. “Callahan.”

I peeled off and coasted to a stop in front of him, aware of every head turning to watch. “That backhand saucer pass, three reps back,” he said, tapping his stick against the ice. “Too much wrist, not enough weight transfer. That won’t work come October.”

“Yes, sir.” I nodded.

“You know why I’m telling you and not the guy next to you who was even sloppier?”

“No, sir.”

The corner of his mouth twitched before he smoothed it back down. “Yeah, you do.”

I did, but I appreciated him not saying it out loud—or worse, him making me say it.

“Yes, Coach.”

“Good. Now get back to work.” He skated to the side of the rink, and play resumed.

Soon, we moved on to breakouts and a three-line passing pattern that rewarded timing and anticipation over raw speed. Pucks slid back toward the lines as we reset, players looping into position as the development coach barked the next sequence.

Through it all, my attention kept drifting to Curly, who, I noticed, was fading. His routes between stations were getting shorter, the edges of his effort showing at the margins, the gap between where he was and where this level demanded opening up in real time.

It was clear to me that his conditioning was a problem, and not a small one.

But then the neutral zone regroup came around, and a passing lane opened on the weak side—maybe half a second of available space before the coverage closed it off—and he hit it clean, without hesitation, executing before most of the other guys in his drill group would have finished reading it.

“Good read, Porter,” Coach Hendricks called out.

Porter.

Finally, Curly had a name.

I tracked Porter through the next rep, curious to see whether the previous play was instinct or a fluke. He hit the following read, and the one after that, his brain running well ahead of his legs. He might not have the stamina, but his hockey IQ was there. If his conditioning ever caught up, he could be dangerous—an asset on a team that was sorely lacking them.

Assuming he survived camp.