Body Check (Chicago Storm #1)

Chapter 1

Theo

The red recording dot pulsed in the corner of the screen, the only thing in focus as I glided backward. I moved with the unconscious ease of someone who had learned to skate before I learned to read.

"Day one, baby," I told my reflection in the camera lens. I flashed the grin that usually got me out of parking tickets. "Training camp with the Storm. Can you believe—"

I hit a wall.

It wasn't the boards. It was solid, warm, and significantly harder than a human body had any right to be.

The impact jarred my teeth. My phone flew from my grip, tumbling across the ice. I spun around, arms windmilling for balance, just as a travel mug launched into the air. The lid popped off. The dark, steaming liquid splashed in a violent arc directly onto the chest of the man I had just run down.

Captain Luca Moretti.

Oh, shit.

The silence in the arena was absolute. The rhythmic shhh-shhh of skates elsewhere on the ice disappeared.

I watched the coffee drip from the saturated Storm logo on Moretti’s practice jersey onto the pristine ice. Moretti didn't flinch. He didn't wipe it off. He just stood there, his jaw locked tight enough to snap steel.

"I am so, so sorry." I scrambled to retrieve the debris. I grabbed my phone, which now sported a spiderweb crack across the screen, and scooped up Moretti’s empty mug. "I wasn't looking. I was filming, which was stupid, and I just—"

"You think?"

Moretti’s voice was a low rumble, barely audible over the hum of the Zamboni in the far corner. It wasn't loud, but it carried a weight that made the hair on my arms stand up.

I looked up. And I kept looking up.

Television cameras didn't do Luca Moretti justice. In 4K, he was impressive; in person, he was terrifying. He had sharp, severe cheekbones and dark eyes that were currently dissecting me. He looked like a statue that had been brought to life specifically to ruin my day.

I was immediately, catastrophically charmed.

"I'll pay for the dry cleaning," I offered, clutching the empty mug like a peace offering. "And I’ll buy you a new coffee. Two coffees. I’ll buy you an espresso machine."

"I don't want your coffee." Moretti snatched the mug from my hand. His gloved fingers brushed against my palm for a fraction of a second.

The contact shouldn't have felt like anything—just leather against skin—but a jolt of heat hit me in the chest.

"Right. Of course." I shoved my broken phone into my pocket. "I'm Theo. Callahan. But you probably know that. Since I'm the new guy. The one who just assaulted you with a beverage."

A muscle feathered in Moretti’s jaw. It was the only sign that he was actually alive and not a hallucination born of my anxiety.

"I know who you are." Moretti pushed off, skating backward. He moved with an efficiency that made me jealous—no wasted energy, just pure power. He gestured vaguely at my chest. "You're the internet kid."

"Guilty." I smiled. I had learned a long time ago that if you smiled bright enough, people usually forgot to be mad at you. "Twenty thousand followers and counting. You should check out my page. I do a mean lip sync."

Moretti stared at me. He didn't blink. He looked at me as if I were speaking a language he had never heard and had no interest in learning.

"I'm kidding," I added quickly. "Mostly."

"Callahan!" Coach Reeves’ voice boomed from the bench, echoing off the rafters. "Stop flirting with my captain and get your ass on the line!"

Heat flooded my face, burning all the way to my ears. A few of the guys chuckled—low, distinct sounds of amusement—but Moretti’s expression remained stony.

"Wasn't flirting," I muttered to no one in particular. I turned and skated toward the blue line. My pulse hammered a frantic rhythm against my ribs, and I couldn't decide if it was embarrassment or the lingering adrenaline of looking Luca Moretti in the eye.

Training camp was brutal. It was also the best thing that had ever happened to me.

I loved the burn in my quads during the suicide drills.

I loved the sharp, metallic taste of the air in my lungs and the chaotic noise of pucks slamming against the glass.

I had worked my entire life for this. I had spent four years at Boston College and thousands of hours in rinks that smelled like stale popcorn and sweat just to get here.

I was a Chicago Storm player. I was in the NHL.

I couldn't stop grinning.

"Someone is having a good time."

I glanced to my left. Eriksson, the Swedish winger and alternate captain, stood next to me in the queue for the next drill.

"Pretty much," I said, wiping sweat from my forehead with the back of my glove. "My mom says I came out of the womb happy. I think it freaked the doctors out."

Eriksson laughed. "You represent a serious danger to Moretti’s blood pressure."

"Is he always that..." I searched for a word that wasn't terrifying or hot. "...intense?"

"Always." Eriksson tapped his stick against his pads. "He has been captain for three years. He led us to the playoffs twice. The guy bleeds Storm blue and he never smiles. You will get used to it."

I glanced across the ice. Moretti stood near the net, talking to Coach Reeves. His posture was rigid, his arms crossed over his chest. As if he felt the weight of my gaze, Moretti looked up. His dark eyes locked onto mine from fifty feet away.

I felt the impact in my stomach, a sudden drop that felt like missing a step on the stairs.

I looked away first. I focused on the drill setup, but I could still feel Moretti’s attention. It felt heavy, like a physical weight pressing between my shoulder blades.

I was toweling off my hair after a shower when Coach Reeves appeared in the locker room doorway.

"Callahan. My office. Five minutes."

My stomach bottomed out. Getting summoned to the office on day one was rarely a celebration. Given that I had baptized the team captain in dark roast earlier, I wasn't betting on a commendation.

I pulled on a clean shirt and followed Coach down the hallway. I passed photos of Storm legends and championship banners, trying not to look like a tourist. The facility was sleek, modern, and intimidating—all glass walls and brushed steel.

Coach’s office was exactly what I expected. A massive mahogany desk dominated the room, cluttered with scouting reports. A monitor on the wall played game film on a loop.

"Sit," Coach said.

I sat.

Coach Reeves leaned back in his chair. He studied me with the same unreadable expression Moretti had used earlier. I forced myself to sit still and keep my hands on my knees.

"You had a good first practice," Coach said finally. "Your skating is clean. Your hands are quick. Your hockey IQ matches the scouting reports."

"Thank you, sir."

"But you're raw." Coach picked up a pen and tapped it rhythmically against the desk. "You have talent, kid. But talent doesn't mean shit if you don't know how to use it at this level. The NHL is faster, harder, and meaner than college ball."

"I know." I leaned forward slightly. "I'm ready to learn. I'll do whatever it takes."

Coach’s expression softened, just a fraction. "That's why I am assigning you a mentor. I want someone to show you the ropes. Someone to keep you out of trouble and make sure you don't burn out before Christmas."

Relief washed over me. A mentor sounded great. I needed a friend on the team.

"Moretti is going to take you on."

The relief evaporated instantly.

"Captain Moretti?" My voice cracked. I cleared my throat. "The guy whose shirt I ruined?"

"That's the one." A corner of Coach’s mouth twitched upward. "He's the best player on this roster. He works harder than anyone I've ever coached. If you want to make it in this league, you'll learn from him."

My mind spun. I pictured spending time with Moretti. Lots of time. I imagined the awkward silences and the death glares.

"I'll make it work," I said, because I didn't have a choice. "Thank you, Coach."

"Don't thank me yet." Coach stood up, signaling the meeting was over. "Moretti is tough. He isn't going to hold your hand or tell you that you're special. But if you listen to him, you will be a better player for it."

I found Moretti in the gym.

The captain was on a treadmill, running with a determination that suggested he was chasing down a thief. He wore a Storm T-shirt that was soaked through with sweat and clung to his shoulders. He had earbuds in, and his eyes were fixed on the wall ahead.

I watched him for a moment. I admired the steady rhythm of his stride and the tight control of his movements. A warm, dangerous feeling unfurled in my chest.

Nope. Not going there.

I approached the treadmill and waved my hand until Moretti noticed me.

Moretti didn't smile. He slowed the machine to a stop, pulled out one earbud, and raised a single, skeptical eyebrow.

"Hey." I tried to keep my tone casual. "Coach said you're my mentor now. My hockey dad, basically. Should I start calling you Pops?"

Moretti’s expression could have frozen Lake Michigan in July. "No."

"Dad?"

"Callahan."

"Captain Dad?"

"Stop talking."

I grinned. I couldn't help it. Moretti’s complete lack of amusement made me want to poke the bear, just to see if I could get a reaction that wasn't annoyance.

Moretti stepped off the treadmill. He grabbed a towel and wiped his face. He stood close now—close enough that I could see the faint, white scar interrupting his left eyebrow and the dark stubble shading his jaw. He smelled like soap and hard work.

"Let's get something straight," Moretti said.

His voice was quiet, but it commanded the room.

"I didn't volunteer for this. Coach assigned me.

So we're going to keep this professional.

You do what I say, when I say it. You show up on time.

You work hard. And you stop with the..." He gestured vaguely at my entire person. "...performance."

"My personality?"

"Your inability to take anything seriously."

The words stung. I had heard variations of that complaint my whole life. Coaches thought I goofed around too much. Teammates didn't understand why I couldn't just shut up and brood before a game. Even my older brother had told me that smiling didn't put points on the board.

But I believed that joy was a choice. I chose it every single day.

"I take hockey seriously," I said. My voice came out steadier than I felt. "I take it so seriously that I have sacrificed pretty much everything else for it. But that doesn't mean I have to be miserable while I do it."

Moretti studied me. For a long moment, silence stretched between us. Something unreadable shifted behind his dark eyes.

"Fine," Moretti said finally. "We start tomorrow. Five AM. Don't be late."

"Five?" I blinked. "In the morning?"

"You said you would do whatever it takes." Moretti slung his towel over his shoulder. "Or was that just more of the performance?"

I straightened my spine. "I'll be here."

"Good." Moretti turned to leave. He took two steps, then paused and looked back. "And Callahan?"

"Yeah?"

"Next time you film yourself skating backward, maybe check your surroundings first."

Was that a joke? It sounded suspiciously like a joke.

I stared at Moretti’s retreating back. I watched the set of his shoulders and the deliberate way he moved through the gym. My traitorous heart did a stupid, fluttery flip in my chest.

This was going to be a very long season.

That night, I lay in my new apartment and stared at the dark ceiling.

The place was barely furnished. Cardboard boxes were still stacked against the walls, casting long shadows in the streetlights that filtered through the blinds. My phone buzzed on the mattress beside me. Texts poured in from family and friends back home, all wanting to know how day one had gone.

I ignored them for now. I couldn't bring myself to tell them about Moretti yet.

I couldn't explain the way the captain’s voice had wrapped around my name like a warning. I couldn't describe the split second when our hands had touched and my entire nervous system had lit up like a scoreboard.

I'd known I was bisexual since I was sixteen. I'd come out to my family and friends without much drama. I'd generally made peace with the fact that professional hockey wasn't exactly the most welcoming space for guys like me.

But I had also promised myself I wouldn't hide. I wouldn't shrink myself. I wouldn't pretend to be something I wasn't just to make other people comfortable.

Even if one of those people was my incredibly hot, incredibly grumpy team captain.

I reached over and set an alarm for 4:15 AM.

Tomorrow, I would prove to Luca Moretti that I belonged here. I would show him that I could work just as hard, skate just as fast, and take hockey just as seriously as anyone else on the roster.

And if my heart did that stupid flipping thing again when Moretti looked at me?

Well. I would deal with that problem when I came to it.