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“Good to meet you, Porter,” he said, hauling his big body off the bench and staring down at me.

I stared back, a strange prickling sensation passing through me. I couldn’t have told you what it was if you’d paid me—and that was saying something since I really needed the fucking money.

Then he blinked, jerked his head to the side, and wordlessly turned to head back to his own stall, muttering something under his breath as he went.

I sat there watching him go, one crazy thought louder than all the others: electric blue—who the hell had eyes that color?

And why the fuck had I noticed?

THREE

CALLY

On Tuesday, I found my eyes drifting across the ice to watch Porter run a faceoff drill. On Wednesday, in the middle of a passing sequence that required my full focus, I was busy clocking which coach was watching him. Yesterday, I skated an entire rep with half my brain tracking his exact position on the ice.

And today? My eyes searched for him the second the whistle blew for three-on-two rushes.

He pushed off the boards a half-second behind the other guys, his strides short and heavy. The guy was nearly smoked, and we still had hours to go. But somehow, he still had a wide, stupid grin on his face.

What was his deal?

Most of the other guys here that were struggling were either sulking or throwing temper tantrums, terrified of being cut. But Porter looked like he was having the time of his fucking life, even while his legs were visibly shot.

It didn’t make any sense, and I hated that I couldn’t figure him out.

With a growl, I forced my attention back to my own drill—wall work along the boards, rims and retrievals on repeat that I could do in my sleep.

Get your shit together, Callahan, a voice in my head barked. It sounded suspiciously like my father.

“Fuck off,” I muttered, skating back to my spot in the rotation.

Coach Hendricks blew his whistle at the blue line, and my gaze snapped to him. “Callahan! I want to see you with Porter.”

I glided over, ignoring the small kick in my gut as Porter fell in beside me, his cheeks flushed and wisps of curly hair sticking out from under his helmet.

He tipped his chin. “Callahan.”

“Mik—Porter,” I said, quickly correcting myself.

“New drill,” Hendricks instructed. “Two-on-two from the blue line. Porter, entry on the wing. Callahan, weak side, read off him. Corbin, Crawford—I want you on D. Go!”

The whistle blew, and Porter exploded up the right side. I snapped him the puck and trailed to the weak side. Most fringe guys panicked when a defenseman came on strong, but Porter held onto the puck a half-beat longer than my former center at Harvard would have, soaking up a bump from Stockhard while slipping a delicate drop pass right onto my tape.

I caught it clean and buried it top shelf.

Porter skated up to me, tapping his stick against my shin guard. “Nice one.”

“Your read,” I said, feeling unnerved by how much I liked hearing his compliment.

His mouth quirked slightly to the left—the closest thing to a smile he’d given me all day—and we turned in unison, gliding the length of the ice back to the line where a development coach was showing Hendricks something on his tablet, his eyes flicking up to watch us.

“Nice work,” Hendricks said as we went past.

“Thanks, Coach.” I carved a loop around to the back, Porter right behind me, as Hendricks signaled for the next group to run their drill.

“Guess even Callahan needs a setup guy,” Toby Mercer muttered to a guy whose name I had no intention of learning as we swung into line behind them. “Porter practically served that up on a silver platter.”

“He’s got good instincts,” I replied evenly.