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“First day jitters,” said Rick. “I get it.”

“Yeah, getting back into the swing.”

“Sure, sure. Hey, and you had quite the off-season.”

“I guess.”

A pause. “Lotta heat on you this summer.”

Riley shouldered open the door to the parking lot. The sky was dark and the air was crisp enough to make his breath cloud — September in Montreal. “Nothing I can’t handle,” he said.

Rick didn’t say anything right away. Riley heard a chair creak at Rick’s end, and wondered what time it was in Scottsdale. The guy was always at work.

“Alright. Well. First day jitters. It happens. Hey, look, I gotta go. Gotta check in with Arsenault. You let me know if anything comes up?”

“Will do,” said Riley.

The line went dead as Riley got to the bus. He jogged up the steps to find it mercifully empty, and found a seat at the back. He put in his headphones and looked out the window while he waited for the team.

It was dark enough outside that he could only see his reflection in the glass: the too-thick eyebrows and high cheekbones and puffy lips he’d hated his whole life because he felt like they made him look like a girl. Every girl he’d ever dated and every guy he’d ever fucked had been into them, so maybe that was just insecurity. His cheeks were pink from the cold, and his hair was still damp. He dug into his bag for a beanie.

Movement outside the window caught his eye as he pulled it on, and he leaned in and cupped his hands around his face. Arsenault was walking to his car, phone in hand — probably already chatting to Rick Gallagher. He laughed as he unlocked the door, tossing that hair, and Riley felt a stab of irritation. He was beginning to get the impression Rick had more time for Arsenault. Riley may have been the guy Rick called first, but he suspected Rick only did that to get him out of the way. So he could focus on the golden boy.

Because as progressive as a billboard with a gay Korean-American hockey player on it was, a billboard with a blonde white guy on it was still a thousand times more lucrative. Arsenault was the star. He was the ringleader. Riley was just “the other guy who came out.”

His phone buzzed and a text from his mom came through.

Well done Riley! Dad and I watched the game. Great start! You did so good!

Sighing, he turned away from the window and tapped up the volume in his earbuds. It felt like it was going to be a long season.

CHAPTER TWO

Louis

The anthem ended and the puck dropped. Louis’ brain went into overdrive.

He had no idea what to do. First game with the NHL — first game of the season — and it felt like the first day of school all over again. He gripped the tablet he’d been issued, in its super-rugged, drop-proof case, and peered down from the press box at the ice.

It should have been a triumphant moment: watching a hockey game from the press box! And not just any game — his favorite team. Montreal Canadiens, who he’d scored a job with during the summer. They were even playing New York, one of their biggest rivals. It was a literal dream come true.

So why did it feel like a nightmare?

His hands shook as he tapped the tablet’s screen to pull up the data streaming in from the sensors. So much data. It was coming from everywhere: biometric vests the players wore under their jerseys, microchips in the sticks, the puck, players’ shoulder pads. Infrared cameras in the rafters. Radio antenna. Feeding him heart rates, miles per hour, acceleration profiles, muscle load, fatigue thresholds. The screen was a dizzying array of AI-generated matrices and diagrams – red dots and blue dots and yellow tracking lines…

He squeezed his eyes shut as it all blurred together and took a deep breath. This was his job. This was his dream. He knew what to do: he’d spent half the summer learning the tech. Nothing to panic about. Everything was going to be fine.

He tapped his earpiece with a fingertip. “Bench, this is analytics, can you hear me?”

It was a moment before anything came back. Coach Myers sounded stressed already: his voice was clipped as he said, “This is bench.”

“Hi, bench. Great, okay. Just, ah, just checking in.”

“What do you need, analytics?”

“Oh — nothing, just…so you can hear me?”

“Jesus Christ, Debonnes, is this a fucking slumber party? I’m trying to coach a hockey game down here. You got something to say?”