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“You don’t know me,” he continued. “We’re not friends. So what’s in it for you?”

I might not have been able to answer his first question, but this one I could. I’d practiced this part, too.

“The Marauders are going to be shit this year no matter what we do, but we’re going to be less shitty if we keep guys who can actually play. And you can play. You just need the conditioning to catch up.”

“That’s it?” He raised his brows, drawing my attention to his eyes, which I noticed were light brown—like toffee—with little flecks of gold near his pupils. I hadn’t been close enough before now to know that.

I jerked my gaze away, clearing my throat. “Um, yeah. That’s it.”

“And you’re sure you’re not going to haze me or prank me or some stupid shit like that?”

“This isn’t a prank. I fucking hate that hazing bullshit.”

Porter stared at me for a long while, then muttered something under his breath I couldn’t make out and shook his head. “Okay. Yeah. Fine. I’m in.”

“Yeah?”

He turned and clacked off toward the tunnel entrance, and I fell in step next to him. “What else am I gonna say—no? You and I both know I’m fucked if I don’t.”

A wave of relief washed over me. I’d been bracing for his refusal while desperately needing him to say yes. I had to tamp down a ridiculous, giddy urge to laugh.

“This is going to be good,” I said, forcing myself not to sound too excited as I clapped him on the shoulder. Briefly, I wondered if my grin gave me away.

I found Coach Hendricks at his desk squinting at something on his laptop screen, one hand absently flipping over a paper clip.

I rapped my knuckles against the doorframe, and he glanced up. “Callahan.”

“You got a minute, Coach?”

He pushed his computer to the side, gesturing at the chair on the other side of his desk. “Have a seat.”

I stepped inside and closed the door, wedging myself into a vinyl armchair designed for someone half my size. The padding was lumpy, a rogue spring pressing into my spine when I leaned back. Briefly, I wondered if that was by design—if I couldn’t get comfortable, I wouldn’t want to linger.

“What’s on your mind?” he asked.

Too much, I almost blurted, only just managing to bite back the words in time.

For the past hour, I’d been working myself into a panic about the offer I’d made Porter. It was only once I’d rinsed the shampoo from my hair that I realized I’d gone about things completely backward.

I should have gone to Coach first.

Unfortunately, I hadn’t, and now I needed to make sure I could deliver on my promise to Mik—Porter.

“I’d like to use the ice before practice, if that’s okay.”

Coach leaned back in his seat and linked his fingers together over his stomach. “You and I both know you don’t need extra ice time.”

“True, but Porter does.”

He studied me for what felt like a full minute but was probably less than ten seconds. Finally, he blew out a breath and said, “Why do you care?”

Why did everyone keep asking me that? Was it really that unusual to want to see others do well?

“His reads are great,” I began, reciting the same explanation I’d used to convince Porter to accept my help. “And his IQ is there. But you already know that, or you wouldn’t have kept him when you cut Mercer and Scotkin. The problem is his conditioning, and you’re not going to be able to overlook that much longer.”

When he didn’t immediately shut me down, I took that as permission to keep going, though I really wasn’t looking forward to saying this next part out loud.

“I did some digging—and I could be wrong about this—but I don’t think he knows how to train properly for this level. Getting this far is probably down to pure grit and determination.”