Chapter 3
Theo
My legs felt like they were filled with lead, and my stomach was making sounds that threatened to frighten the kitchen staff.
I grabbed a tray and surveyed the team cafeteria. I looked for a spot that didn't scream "desperate rookie eating alone," but mostly I just looked for carbohydrates.
"Callahan! Over here!"
I turned. Jamie Hayes, the alternate captain, waved a fork from a circular table near the window.
I didn't hesitate. I dropped into the empty seat and immediately found a protein shake shoved into my chest by Kieran Walsh, the starting goalie.
"Drink that," he ordered. "You look like death."
"Captain is running him into the ground," Bishop said. He was a defenseman with arms the size of tree trunks. "I saw that session yesterday morning. Brutal."
"Cap is always brutal with the new guys," Hayes said, stabbing at his scrambled eggs. "It means he thinks you're worth the effort."
I wanted to believe that. I wanted to believe the early morning sessions meant Luca saw potential, rather than just a rookie he needed to break. It didn't quite track with the way Luca looked at me, though. The captain looked at me the way a bomb squad technician looks at a suspicious package.
"Speaking of effort," Walsh said, grinning. "You coming to Rookie Night tomorrow?"
"What's Rookie Night?"
The table erupted in laughter. I felt the heat rise in my cheeks.
"Oh, this is going to be good," Bishop said. "The kid doesn't know."
Hayes took pity on me. "It's a tradition. All the rookies buy dinner and drinks for the vets. We go to Moretti’s—the Italian place downtown, not related to our captain despite the name—and you guys pick up the tab."
"How much are we talking?" I asked. I mentally calculated the balance of my checking account.
"Enough to hurt," Walsh said cheerfully. "But not enough to bankrupt you. We aren't complete assholes."
"Just partial assholes," Bishop added.
The conversation drifted back to hockey, and I relaxed. I knew how to navigate this rhythm. I could handle the chirping about last night’s preseason game and the debate over line combinations.
It wasn't until Hayes brought up weekend plans that the ground shifted.
"There's a new bar opening in River North," Hayes said. "Supposed to be upscale. Good for meeting..." He waggled his eyebrows.
"Meeting investors?" I asked innocently.
Walsh snorted into his coffee. "Yeah. Sure. Investors."
"I'm seeing someone," Bishop said. "So I'm out. But you single guys should go."
"Callahan is definitely going," Hayes decided. "You're single, right?"
I shrugged. I took a long pull of the protein shake. "Yeah. Broke up with my ex a few months before the draft."
I didn't think about the phrasing. I didn't consider that saying "ex" instead of "ex-girlfriend" would be a flag.
Walsh caught it immediately. "Ex-boyfriend or ex-girlfriend?"
The table went quiet. It wasn't hostile, but the air pressure changed. They were waiting.
I had lived through this moment a hundred times. The pause. The assessment. The split second where other men decided if I was one of the guys or a problem to be managed.
I met Walsh’s eyes steadily. "Boyfriend. His name was Eric. Good guy, but long distance wasn't going to work with me getting drafted."
The silence stretched for another heartbeat.
"River North it is," Hayes said, breaking the tension effortlessly. "Walsh, you're buying the first round since you're so interested in Callahan’s dating life."
The tension evaporated. The conversation moved on. Nobody made it weird.
My shoulders dropped. I knew the team had done their research—there were articles about me being out, and I had never hidden it in juniors—but knowing people read an article was different from sitting at a table and saying the words.
Bishop bumped my shoulder. "For what it's worth, half my family lost their minds when I started dating my girlfriend. She's Black, and apparently that matters to some people. But the team doesn't care who you're with. Just show up and play."
"Exactly," Walsh agreed. "I mean, we'll chirp you about literally everything else, but nobody here gives a shit who you sleep with."
"Unless you sleep with someone's sister," Hayes added. "Then we care. Looking at you, Martinez."
The table laughed again. I joined in, feeling a tight knot in my chest finally loosen.
Rookie Night was exactly as expensive as promised.
I sat at a long table covered in white linen, watching my bank account weep as the veterans ordered appetizers, entrees, and bottles of wine that I couldn't even pronounce. But it was worth it. The camaraderie was intoxicating.
Luca sat at the far end of the table. He nursed a single beer and watched the chaos with dark, unreadable eyes. He had barely spoken since we arrived, but that wasn't unusual.
What was unusual was the way he kept looking at me.
It wasn't obvious. But I was becoming an expert in Luca Moretti’s micro-expressions. The captain looked tense. His shoulders were up near his ears, and his hand kept flexing around his beer glass.
"So, Callahan," Jake Martinez said. He was another rookie, a winger from Minnesota. "You really broke up with your boyfriend right before the draft? That's cold."
I shook my head. "It was mutual. We both knew it wasn't going to work. Better to end it clean than drag it out."
"Practical," Hayes observed from across the table. "How long were you together?"
"About a year. We met at a hockey charity event." I smiled at the memory. "He was great. Just... not the right timing."
Down the table, Luca stood up abruptly. His chair scraped loud and harsh against the floor.
"Need some air," the captain muttered.
He headed for the exit before anyone could respond. He walked fast, like the room was on fire.
I watched him go.
"Don't worry about it," Walsh said quietly, leaning over. "Cap gets weird about personal stuff sometimes. He's intensely private."
Private. That was one word for it.
I had noticed that Luca never participated in locker room talk about dating. He never mentioned a partner. He never talked about his weekend plans beyond generic answers. It was like Luca Moretti ceased to exist the moment he stepped out of the rink.
But the look on Luca’s face just now hadn't been privacy. It hadn't been boredom.
It had been fear.
The realization hit me hard. Luca Moretti—the man who blocked shots with his body and fought guys four inches taller than him—was afraid.
And I was pretty sure I knew why.
I found him outside.
Luca was leaning against the brick wall of the alley beside the restaurant entrance. He had his phone in his hand, but the screen was dark. He was staring at nothing.
"Hey," I said softly.
Luca’s head snapped up. For one second, his expression was completely unguarded. It was raw, vulnerable, and terrified.
Then the mask slammed back into place.
"You should get back inside," Luca said. His voice was tight. "It's your night."
"The rookies can survive without me for a few minutes." I moved closer. I was careful not to crowd him, but I refused to stay away. "You okay?"
"Fine."
"You left pretty fast."
Luca’s jaw tightened. "I needed air."
"You said that already."
We stood in silence. The muffled sounds of the restaurant spilled out through the windows, mixing with the distant hum of Chicago traffic.
"Did I say something wrong?" I asked. "In there?"
"No."
"Then why did you—"
"Drop it, Callahan."
The command was sharp, but it lacked real heat. It sounded desperate.
I knew I should listen. I should go back inside and leave my captain alone. We barely knew each other. Luca didn't owe me anything.
But I had never been good at leaving things alone.
"The team doesn't care," I said quietly. "About me being bi. I know some organizations still have issues with it, but the Storm guys seem pretty solid."
Luca’s knuckles went white around his phone. "That's good. For you."
There was so much weight in those last two words. For you.
The pieces clicked into place.
"Luca..."
"Don't." The captain’s voice was rough, like he had swallowed glass. "Whatever you're thinking, don't."
"I am not thinking anything," I lied. "Just... if you ever wanted to talk—"
"I don't."
"Okay."
Luca finally looked at me. The expression in his eyes was a wreck—guarded but hungry, afraid but wanting. He looked like a man standing on a ledge, trying to decide whether to jump or run.
"You should be careful," Luca said softly. "The league might be better than it was ten years ago, but it isn't perfect. People talk. Reporters dig. You make one wrong move, and it follows you forever."
"I'm not hiding who I am," I said. "I did that in juniors, and it sucked. I'm not going back in the closet for anyone."
Something flickered across Luca’s face. It looked like envy.
"Good for you," the captain said. This time, it sounded genuine. "Hold onto that."
He pushed off the wall and headed for the door, but I reached out and caught Luca’s arm.
The contact was electric. It sent a jolt up my wrist.
Luca froze. He didn't pull away, but his entire body went rigid.
"For what it's worth," I said, "I think you're brave. The way you rebuilt this team? The way you lead? That takes guts."
Luca’s throat worked as he swallowed. He looked down at my hand on his arm, then up at my eyes.
"That's different."
"Is it?"
For a moment, we just stood there. There was barely a foot of space between us. I could feel the heat radiating off Luca. I could see the panic warring with the desire in his dark eyes.
Then Luca pulled his arm free. He stepped back, putting space between us.
"Get back inside, Callahan," he said. "That's an order."
Luca opened the door. But before he disappeared inside, he looked back. Just for a second, the mask slipped again. The want in his eyes was unmistakable.
Then he was gone.
I was left standing in the alley with my heart racing and my mind spinning.
I had been right. Something was happening between us.
The question was whether Luca Moretti was brave enough to survive it.
The rest of dinner was a blur.
I laughed at the right moments. I contributed to the conversations. I played my part as the grateful rookie. But my attention kept drifting to the end of the table where Luca sat—quiet, controlled, and so carefully separate from everyone else.
I had never really thought about what it would be like to be closeted in the NHL. I'd come out young. I had a supportive family. By the time I hit the draft, being out was just a fact on my Wikipedia page.
But Luca was different. He had been in the league for a decade. He was a captain who'd built a reputation on being a stoic, unshakeable warrior.
And apparently, he was so deep in the closet he couldn't even sit through a dinner conversation about dating without panicking.
When the check came, I split it with the other rookies without complaint. We filed out of the restaurant into the cooling September night.
Luca was already gone.
"You coming to River North with us?" Hayes asked, jingling his car keys.
I shook my head. "Think I am going to call it a night. Early practice tomorrow."
"Cap has you again at five?"
"Yep."
Hayes clapped me on the shoulder. "You're surviving it better than most. Whatever he sees in you, it's legit."
I nodded, but I didn't say anything.
I took the L back to my apartment. I walked into the quiet, barely furnished living room and collapsed onto the secondhand couch.
I stared at the ceiling and replayed the night in my head.
The league isn't perfect. Reporters dig.
I closed my eyes.
Luca Moretti was complicated. He was closeted, conflicted, and probably the worst possible person for a rookie to develop feelings for. The smart move would be to back off. Keep things professional. Focus on hockey.
But I had never been particularly smart about self-preservation.
And something about the way Luca had looked at me in the alley—that terrible mix of hunger and terror—made me want to prove him wrong. I wanted to prove that it didn't have to be scary. That being yourself was worth the risk.
I pulled out my phone and set my alarm for 4:30 AM.
Another dawn session. Another ninety minutes of Luca trying to break me while desperately trying not to want me.
I smiled in the dark.
I had survived three days of Luca Moretti’s intensity. I could survive whatever came next.