Page 5

The whistle blew, and I stifled a groan. Shit. It was time to go again.

By the time the small-area scrimmage began at the end of the session, my body was running on fumes. Hell, not even fumes—the memory of them.

At least my brain still had juice, though.

Off a battle in the corner, I snapped a blind pass into the slot, instinctively knowing where my support would be. The guy couldn’t finish, but I still clocked the development coach tapping a note into his tablet.

Unfortunately, the next time I was up, my legs buckled, and I got stripped along the boards. I tried not to spiral as the play went the other way.

When the final whistle blew, I dragged myself off the ice. I snapped my skate guards on, the walk back through the tunnel feeling like the longest fifty feet of my life.

I passed a trainer who asked if I was good, and I gave him a thumbs-up because speaking felt too difficult. He nodded, and I kept moving. Somewhere behind me, two guys were talking shit.

I envied their lung capacity.

In the locker room, I seriously thought I might go down. Through sheer force of will, I managed to make it to my stall. Nearby, a few other guys were hunched over, towels draped over their heads. Dawes was just standing there, staring blankly into space.

I slumped forward with my elbows on my knees, mentally cataloging my mistakes and then my recoveries, figuring I came out about even. My legs were dead, I’d lost a few battles, and I’d puked, but the reads had been there, and that was what the coaches were looking for.

Probably. Hopefully.

With a groan, I stripped off my gear and dragged myself through a scalding shower. When I pulled my clothes back on several minutes later, my legs were still shaking.

I sank down heavily onto the bench, my eyes falling closed. I was almost asleep when somebody dropped down onto the bench next to me.

“You’ve got good edges.”

I opened my eyes and turned my head to see Callahan next to me. The first thing I registered was that, up close, his eyes were electric fucking blue—like somebody had gone into the settings panel of his DNA and cranked up the saturation.

“That read in the neutral zone was great,” he continued. “You’re just gassed. Not ready for this pace.”

I blinked at him. In the span of thirty seconds, he’d managed to compliment me twice and insult me once, each statement delivered in the exact same deadpan monotone.

“Uh,” I stammered. “Thanks? Maybe?”

He dropped his eyes briefly down to his hands before his gaze swung up again. “I’m not trying to be an asshole,” he said, his tone almost defensive. “I’m just saying it’s fixable.”

I huffed out a breath that wasn’t quite a laugh and dragged a hand down my face. “Great. Noted.”

The issue wasn’t whether my conditioning was fixable. The issue was whether it was fixable in ten days, two weeks, or however long I had before the coaching staff decided I wasn’t worth a roster spot. The issue was whether it was fixable by a guy who spent his off-season moving boats in and out of slips for people who had more money than sense.

But I’d rather puke again than say any of that to him.

“Look,” I said, shifting to face him fully, too fucking exhausted to keep my voice or my words light. “Mr. ‘I’m Not Trying To Be An Asshole.’ Thanks for the pep talk, but I don’t need you pointing out my shortcomings. I’m well aware of them on my own.”

His eyes widened slightly. “Shit. Sorry,” he mumbled, extending his right hand toward me. I felt a brief flicker of smugness when I noticed it was trembling. “I’m Hunter. Callahan. Uh. Hunter Callahan.”

As our palms met, the dots finally connected, and I felt like a fucking idiot for taking this long to realize who he was. “Wait. You’re the guy who deferred for college.”

“Yeah,” he murmured, pulling his hand back, his fingers drumming out a rhythm against his thigh.

“So you’re⁠—”

Callahan’s gaze skidded away, his jaw ticking. “Yup,” he said, cutting me off before I could mention that his dad was Boston Minutemen legend Robert “Bobby” Callahan. Hockey greatness was literally built into this guy’s genetic code.

A fact—if I was reading his reaction correctly—he wasn’t interested in discussing. Which … fair. Lord knew I had my own shit on that front.

“Uh, I’m Michael Porter, but everyone calls me Ports.”