Page 5 of Rookie Rules

"Anything else I should know, Captain?"

Ask me what I can do. Tell me what you expect. Give me something that isn't a slogan.

Rowan held his gaze.

"Camp doesn't care what anyone expects," he said. "It cares what you repeat."

Then he moved on, stopping beside Eli to point out the twist in the rookie defenseman's skate lace before it could tighten badly.

Luca watched for half a second too long.

"Warm man," he said.

Finn took a slow drink. "That's practically a hug."

Luca sat and reached for his skates. His fingers worked quickly, pulling each section of lace tight with more force than the job required.

What you repeat.

Fine.

He could repeat goals.

He could repeat the release that had made scouts stop pretending not to stare. He could repeat the cut through the right circle, the puck changing angle before a goalie finished reading his hands. He could repeat every reason Northstar had put his face on a screen before he had found the locker room.

The team filed toward the tunnel in small groups. Luca followed Finn past racks of sticks and a whiteboard crowded with camp schedules. The air cooled with every step. Skate blades knocked against rubber flooring. Ahead, the rink opened in a blaze of winter white under the arena lights.

This was the part no camera could improve.

Luca stepped through the gate and set his left blade on Wolves ice for the first time.

Cold climbed through the steel. The clean surface waited without an opinion. He pushed off, one stride and then another, and the tightness he had carried from the screen upstairs finally broke loose.

At center ice, Rowan stood beside a bucket of pucks, speaking to Marcus Vale. He looked over as Luca gathered speed.

There it was again: that steady, measuring attention. No easy enthusiasm. No future-star story. No promise that Luca belonged.

Good.

Luca cut hard toward the right circle, edges biting clean.

Rowan Hale could watch him earn it.

Chapter 2: Sports For That

Rowan trusted the first ten minutes of practice more than he trusted most interviews.

Players could prepare answers. They could arrive with the right haircut, the right suit, the right sentence about doing whatever the team needed. On ice, the truth usually appeared before the first drill ended.

Who crossed the red line before opening his hips to receive a pass.

Who coasted after a mistake.

Who listened when Marcus Vale explained something once, and who nodded until the coach turned away.

Rowan stood near center with his stick resting across his gloves and watched thirty-two men introduce themselves.

The first camp group moved through warmup in navy and white practice sweaters. Skates carved fresh crescents into the clean sheet. Pucks struck boards, glass, steel. The building was mostly empty, but sound carried differently without a crowd to absorb it. Every shouted name and hard stop came back sharper.