Chapter 2
Luca
I didn't sleep.
I lay in my bedroom, where the air conditioning hummed a steady, artificial rhythm, and stared at the dark ceiling. My mind refused to shut down. It kept replaying the moment from yesterday—the collision, the coffee, and the split second my gloved hand had brushed Theo Callahan’s palm.
The kid’s skin had been warm.
That was the problem. It was warm and real, and for one stupid heartbeat, my brain had gone offline.
I rolled onto my side and punched my pillow. I checked my phone. 2:47 AM.
In a little over two hours, I would meet Callahan at the rink.
The kid would show up eager and obedient, probably still riding the high of making the roster.
I would do what I did best. I would shut it down.
I would work Callahan hard enough that there would be no room for conversation.
No space for easy smiles. No opportunity for that infectious enthusiasm to dig its hooks any deeper.
I had been the Storm’s captain for three years. Before that, I had clawed my way up from fourth-line grinder to first-line center through sheer force of will and an ability to compartmentalize that bordered on pathological. I knew how to lead without getting close.
Theo Callahan threatened all of that.
My phone buzzed on the nightstand. A text from Coach Reeves: Go easy on the kid. We need him in one piece for the season.
I didn't respond. I threw off the covers, headed for the shower, and turned the water cold enough to hurt.
The rink at 5 AM was my cathedral.
There were no crowds. No media. No teammates watching to see if the captain’s mask would slip. There was only the low hum of the compressors and the smell of fresh ice—sharp, chemical, and clean.
I was lacing my skates when the door banged open.
"Morning, Captain!"
Theo bounded into the locker room like it wasn't the middle of the night. He looked irritatingly awake. His hair was damp from a shower, curling slightly at the nape of his neck, and he wore Storm-branded workout gear that fit him well enough to be a problem.
I grunted. I didn't look up from my laces.
"Thanks for doing this," Theo continued, dropping his bag on the bench with a heavy thud. "I know you probably have better things to do than babysit a rookie, but I really appreciate it. I promise I'll work hard and—"
"Callahan."
"Yeah?"
"Less talking. More gearing up."
The kid’s smile didn't falter. If anything, it widened. "Yes, sir."
Don't call me that.
The words stuck in my throat. I finished tying my skates, snapped the laces tight, and headed for the ice without waiting.
I pushed him.
I didn't use positive reinforcement. I didn't offer encouragement. I pushed Theo the way a storm surge pushes against a levee—relentless, testing for weaknesses, looking for the point of collapse.
"Again," I barked.
Theo finished his third set of suicide sprints. His chest heaved and his face was flushed a deep, blotchy red, but he didn't complain. He just pivoted on his edges and launched himself back across the blue line.
I watched him move. Theo was fast and fluid, possessing a natural grace that most players spent years trying to manufacture. But there were gaps. He relied too much on his speed and not enough on his edges.
When Theo finished, he bent over his knees, gasping for air. Steam rose off his shoulders in the cold arena air.
I skated over. The sound of my own blades cutting the ice seemed impossibly loud in the empty building.
"Your crossovers are sloppy."
Theo straightened. He wiped sweat from his eyes with the back of his glove. "I—okay. Show me?"
That was the problem with Callahan. There was no defensiveness. No ego. He offered up his flaws with an open willingness that made my defenses feel useless.
"Watch." I demonstrated the motion. I exaggerated the weight transfer and the hip rotation. "See how I’m driving through the outside edge? You're not committing. You're hesitating because you don't trust the blade."
"I'm afraid I'll lose my balance," Theo admitted.
"You will lose your balance. That's how you learn."
Theo’s eyes lit up. "Okay. Let me try."
He attempted the crossover. He got the weight transfer wrong and stumbled.
He tried again. Better, but his hips were still closed off.
The third time, I moved without thinking.
I skated up behind Theo. I placed my gloved hands on the rookie's hips to square them to the boards.
"Here," I said. My voice came out rougher than I intended, a gravelly sound in the quiet rink. "Open up your stride. You need to drive from here."
Theo’s body shifted under my hands.
He was solid muscle, warm and responsive.
The contact sent a shockwave straight up my arms. For a second, the hockey instruction vanished, replaced by the overwhelming awareness of the man in my grip.
The smell of Theo's sweat, the rapid rise and fall of his ribs, the heat radiating through his jersey.
Theo went very still.
He turned his head slightly. Just enough that I could see his profile—the flush on his cheekbones, the parting of his lips, the pulse hammering in his throat.
"Like this?" Theo asked. His voice was quiet.
The sound snapped me back to reality.
I dropped my hands like I’d touched a hot stove. I stepped back, putting three feet of safety between us.
"Yeah. That's—practice that." I gestured vaguely toward the far end of the rink, anywhere that wasn't near me. "We're done for today."
Theo blinked. "But we still have twenty minutes."
"We're done, Callahan."
I didn't wait for an argument. I skated to the gate, stepped off the ice, and tore through my cool-down routine. I was in my car and driving out of the lot before Theo had even finished unlacing his skates.
My hands shook on the steering wheel.
Team practice at 7:30 AM should have been a reprieve. It wasn't.
I ran the drills with my usual intensity. I barked out plays, corrected positioning, and pushed the pace until the glass fogged up. But my focus was fractured.
I kept tracking Theo.
I watched the rookie integrate with the line. I saw Jamie Hayes, alternate captain and one of our wingers, clap Theo on the shoulder after a crisp pass. I saw Theo’s face light up when Coach shouted a "Good job, Callahan!" from the bench.
"Moretti!"
My head snapped toward Coach Reeves.
"You with us, Captain?" The coach’s eyes were sharp. He saw everything.
"Yes, Coach."
"Then maybe you can explain why you're watching Callahan instead of running the forecheck drill I assigned."
A few of the guys smirked. My jaw tightened until my teeth ached.
"Just making sure he's integrating properly," I lied..
"Uh-huh." Coach didn't look convinced. "How did the private session go this morning?"
"Fine. He needs work on his edges and board play."
"And you're planning to continue these early sessions?"
I should say no. I should hand Theo off to one of the assistants. I should keep my distance before this thing inside me grew teeth.
"Yes," I said. "He's got potential. He needs refinement."
Coach studied me for a long, uncomfortable moment. "Don't break him, Luca. We need players who love the game, not soldiers who are afraid of their captain."
After practice, I retreated to my stall. I methodically stripped off my gear, piece by piece, trying to drown out the locker room noise.
"Captain's been riding you pretty hard, rook," Jamie said from three stalls down.
"I don't mind." Theo’s voice was cheerful, unbothered.
My hands stilled on my shin guards.
"That's one way to look at it," Jamie laughed. "Or maybe he's just a hardass."
"No, I mean it," Theo said. The cheerfulness dropped away, replaced by a quiet sincerity. "I've watched tape of him for years. He's incredible—the way he reads plays, his hockey IQ. If he thinks I'm worth the extra time, then I'm going to prove him right."
I stared at the floor.
There was no resentment in Theo's voice. No fear. Just trust.
I finished changing in silence. I ignored the team's plans for lunch, grabbed my bag, and left.
My condo was a reflection of my internal state—controlled, sterile, and cold.
The furniture was minimalist. The colors were neutral. There were no photographs on the walls, no personal touches that might reveal a human being lived here.
I made a protein shake I didn't want and answered emails from my agent about my contract extension. I tried not to think about the way Theo’s hips had felt under my hands. I tried not to remember the catch in the kid's breath when I had stepped into his space.
My phone buzzed. Kieran.
Kieran: You free for dinner? Haven't caught up in a while.
I stared at the screen. Kieran was my closest friend—the only person who had seen glimpses of the man behind the captaincy. But even Kieran didn't know everything. He didn't know about the careful hookups two towns over, the NDAs, the way I deleted dating apps the second the preseason started.
I typed: Busy. Rain check.
Another buzz. Coach Reeves.
Coach Reeves: Callahan says you're meeting again tomorrow at 5 AM. Remember what I said.
I deleted the message.
I should cancel. I should text Theo right now and tell him the sessions were off.
Instead, I set my alarm for 4:15 AM.
That night, I lay in the dark and tried to catalog every reason this was a disaster.
Theo was a teammate. A rookie. He was openly, unapologetically out in a league that was still figuring out how to handle queer players. I had read the interviews. Theo talked about representation and visibility with the easy confidence that came from never having to hide.
I'd been hiding for ten years.
I'd built my reputation on being untouchable. The Storm’s front office loved me because I was reliable. My teammates respected me because I was a machine. If anyone knew the truth, the machine would break.
My captaincy. My contract. My life.
And Theo Callahan—with his golden eyes and his terrible crossovers and his stupid faith in me—was a wrecking ball aimed directly at the glass house I had built.
I rolled over and buried my face in the pillow.
Tomorrow, I would be harder on the kid. I would be colder. I would make sure there were no more moments where we stood too close, where the silence stretched too thin.