Page 7

Mercer looked back at me over his shoulder, his mouth twisting into an ugly grimace.

Porter smirked, pushing against my shoulder. “I’ve got great fucking instincts.”

“We’ll see,” I said with a shrug, fighting off a grin.

Mercer turned his back on us, but not before I saw him roll his eyes. I had no idea what his problem was, but he’d been shit-talking me for two days straight. At some point, you’d think he would have figured out I didn’t care.

The session ended not long after, with everyone clustered at the boards while Coach filled us in on what to expect tomorrow. Just before we all peeled away, he called out, “Mercer, Scotkin. Come see me upstairs.”

I tried not to feel too smug as I drifted away. I didn’t have an opinion about Scotkin one way or the other, but I wouldn’t miss that fuck face, Mercer.

Porter was the last one off the ice, coasting toward the tunnel. I caught up to him just outside the gate as he bent to snap the guards onto his skates.

“Got a minute?”

He paused after the second blade, tipping his chin up in a silent yeah, what’s up gesture.

I knew I could sometimes come across as cold or odd, so last night I’d practiced what I wanted to say in the mirror in my hotel room bathroom. I didn’t want to sound like I was reading off cue cards or something, and I definitely didn’t want to come off as patronizing.

And yet despite all that practice, when it came time to tell him my idea, what came out of my mouth was, “Your conditioning isn’t where it needs to be.” Then, because I was a fucking weirdo, I tacked on, “But you already know that.”

Porter gripped his stick tighter. “Wow,” he said flatly. “Asshole much?”

“I don’t mean to be, honestly. I just wanted you to know I can help—with the conditioning, I mean. In case that wasn’t clear.”

He straightened to his full height—about four inches shorter than me—peering up at me like I was a puzzle he couldn’t quite solve. “Why would you do that?”

“Because your hockey IQ is good. Your edges are good. Your reads are great. But you’re going to get cut because your endurance is shit.”

His lips flattened into a harsh line, and for a second, it looked like he was going to tell me to go fuck myself—or worse, punch me—but then he exhaled hard through his nose.

“Jesus Christ, Callahan.” He scrubbed a gloved hand over the back of his neck. “I know you’re like, the next great hockey hope or whatever they’re calling you around this place, but have you ever thought about toning it down a bit?”

I shrugged. “Not really.”

“Well, you really fucking should. Because one of these days you’re going to say the wrong thing to the wrong person, and they’re going to lay you out cold.”

“No they won’t.”

I’d once come home with a black eye after a few kids at school jumped me. My dad was furious that I hadn’t fought back, and he’d immediately enrolled me in boxing classes I’d kept up with over the years. I didn’t like to brag, but I could lay a fucker out cold if I wanted.

Porter stared at me for a long beat, and I watched him try to work out whether I was fucking with him. Finally, he just laughed and shook his head. “Okay, what’s your pitch?”

My pitch. Right. The thing I’d practiced.

“I want to work with you. Extra ice time in the morning, and gym time on our days off. I think we can close the gap.”

“Why?” he asked, giving me that same puzzled look from a few minutes ago.

“What do you mean?”

“Exactly what I said.”

“I already told you—you’re good, but you’re going to get cut.”

“Okay. Let’s try this again. Why, specifically, do you care if I get cut?” he asked.

Unfortunately, I didn’t have an answer for that—at least not one I was willing to examine with any real truth.