Page 9

The digging I’d done? Mostly scrolling through his Instagram feed late at night in my hotel room. Zooming in on photos of him shirtless on a boat, I’d noted the sharp line of his obliques and the way his skin went from pale to bronze in a matter of weeks. But that body didn’t match up with the other photos of tables overflowing with empty beer cans and greasy takeout boxes.

I got it—it was summer—but if he wanted to play in the NHL, that shit had to stop.

Coach unlinked his fingers and leaned forward, settling his forearms on his desk, his eyes sharp. “Just when I thought nothing could surprise me anymore.”

“Sir?”

“I was just reviewing our scouting reports.” He cocked his head toward his laptop. “They all say the same thing about you—cornerstone talent, but not a locker room guy. Keeps his head down and focuses on his own game. Not a problem, but not really a team player, either. And yet here you are, making a case for a guy nobody else would bother with.” He blew out a breath. “Which brings me back to my original question—why?”

There it was again, that damn why. Did neither of these guys see what I did?

“I mean no disrespect, but the team’s legitimately bad, Coach.”

“None taken.” The corner of his cheek twitched as if fighting a grin. “But that doesn’t answer my question.”

It didn’t. At least not in a way that would make sense to him. Probably not in a way that would make sense to anyone.

I’d been hoping it wouldn’t come to this, but my hand was being forced. I knew I was taking a risk here, and my approach could backfire horribly, but I was committed to seeing this through.

I squared my shoulders and lifted my chin. “If the organization genuinely believes I’m a cornerstone talent, I’d like to think my opinion about my teammates carries some weight. Porter is better than Tremblay will ever be. You lost games last season because of him,” I added, driving the point home. “That won’t happen with Porter.”

Coach’s eyebrows shot up, and he leaned back, his expression turning contemplative.

Silence stretched awkwardly between us, but I kept my mouth shut. I wasn’t a fucking idiot.

Eventually, he picked up the paper clip he’d been flipping and put it back in its holder. “You’re willing to stake your reputation on a guy you’ve known for a week?”

Was I? Shit. When he put it like that …

I thought back over everything I’d observed this week. Porter was a solid player. He could be a great player, maybe. And I wasn’t wrong about him being way better than Tremblay. Five years younger, too. If the Marauders were looking to build a team that didn’t suck, he could be part of that. I knew he could.

“Yes,” I said, my fingers tightening on the chair’s arms, my nails digging into the vinyl, while Coach stared at me, his face giving nothing away.

Finally, he gave me a quick, definitive nod. “You can have the ice to run whatever you want to run. But let me say this—if either one of you shows up to a scheduled practice tired or sloppy because of the extra work, the experiment ends. I don’t want you cannibalizing your own development to save somebody else’s, and I don’t want him dragging through afternoons any more than he already is because you ran him into the ground in the morning. Deal?”

Holy shit. I’d done it.

I swallowed and forced my expression to stay neutral. “Deal.”

“And Callahan?”

“Yeah?”

“I don’t know what got into you, but I like the initiative.” He pointed his thumb toward the door, a clear dismissal. “Keep it up.”

“Yes, sir.”

FOUR

CALLY

At seven o’clock on the dot, Porter walked in carrying two steaming cups of coffee, his curly hair matted down on one side of his head, the strap of his duffel bag slung across his chest.

“Morning.” He shuffled over to where I was perched on the edge of the center gear table, and held out one of the cups.

I accepted it with a quiet “thanks” and set it down beside me.

Porter raised his own cup to his lips, blowing through the lid’s sip hole.