Page 1 of Rookie Rules

Chapter 1: The New Number 88

The first thing Luca saw inside Wolf Den Arena was his own face.

It covered most of a digital screen beyond the players' entrance: head tipped back, mouth open in a shout, navy jersey immaculate despite the spray of ice suspended around him. Whoever had built the image had been generous with his shoulders and less generous with the scar at his chin. The number 88 burned silver across one sleeve.

WELCOME TO NORTHSTAR, the screen declared.

No pressure, then.

Luca stopped beneath it and looked up long enough for the security guard at the desk to follow his gaze.

"They found my good side," Luca said.

The guard, a woman with MARTINEZ printed beneath her photograph, checked his name off a tablet. "They put that thing up yesterday. My daughter says you're going to save the franchise."

There it was. Forty seconds in.

Luca leaned one forearm on the desk. "How old is your daughter?"

"Eleven."

"Smart kid. Terrible amount of faith to put in a stranger."

Martinez laughed and handed him a temporary credential on a Wolves lanyard. "PR is waiting for you upstairs. Locker room after that. Welcome to the Den, Bennett."

That landed better than the screen did.

"Thanks, Martinez."

He clipped the badge to his jacket and followed a silver line painted through the service corridor. The building smelled like floor cleaner, old concrete, and the faint metallic cold that belonged to rinks even in August. Somewhere behind the walls, equipment rolled over concrete. A door opened and released a brief wash of chilled air.

Luca had played in professional arenas packed loud enough to shake his ribs. He had walked draft carpets, sat through prospect interviews, smiled under television lights while grown men discussed his potential as if he were a racehorse with good teeth. None of that should have made this hallway feel different.

But this was not an arena he was visiting.

His name was on a stall downstairs. His contract was in an office upstairs. His face was already large enough to greet him at the door.

He rolled his shoulders once and kept walking.

Two staff members passed him carrying navy garment bags. Both recognized him. One gave him a quick, startled smile, as if Luca had stepped out of the screen and into the corridor without permission.

He gave the smile back. Easy. Warm. Exactly enough.

By the time he reached the media room, he had become the version of himself everyone was expecting.

Claire Donnelly met him with a tablet in one hand and coffee in the other. She was dressed in black trousers and winter white, with a silver Wolves pin at her collar and the alert expression of someone managing six schedules at once.

"Luca. Good. You're early."

"Please tell my coach. No one ever believes me."

"Marcus believes timestamps. You'll get along beautifully."

She offered her hand, firm and brief. "Claire Donnelly. PR director. We met over video in June, but you were wearing a suit that looked painful."

"It was trying to kill me."

"I assumed. This will be less formal. Photos, short video, local broadcast clip, social questions. Then I return you to hockey before you develop a permanent squint."