Page 3 of Rookie Rules

Claire glanced up from the tablet. "Anything else?"

He smiled into the lens. "Are there wrong answers already? I haven't even made the team."

The camera operator laughed. The photographer did too. Claire shook her head, but her eyes said the answer would play well.

Nobody answered the question.

They moved on to a clip of him pulling on gloves, then another of him walking toward the lens with his stick resting across his shoulders. He delivered a clean line about earning the fans' trust and bringing energy every night. He meant it. That was the irritating part. The useful version of him was not a lie. It was simply too small to live in.

When Claire finally said, "We have it," Luca's smile remained in place until the red camera light went dark.

Then he looked toward the jersey rack.

Empty now. Of course. He was wearing the product.

Claire handed him a printed schedule. "Medical check is complete from yesterday. Equipment downstairs has your camp gear. Team meeting at nine, first ice group at ten. Media requests come through me. If someone corners you in the hall, you can answer or send them my way."

"What if I enjoy being cornered?"

"Then try to remember that microphones are rarely your friends."

"You make this sound less fun every minute."

"That's why they pay me." She took in his expression, her attention pausing just long enough to suggest she had noticed more than he wanted. Then she nodded toward the door. "Go meet your teammates, Luca. They're more difficult to focus-group."

"Finally, a challenge."

The walk downstairs felt shorter.

Music reached him before he found the locker room, bass softened by concrete and two closed doors. The silver line ended at a navy threshold marked PLAYERS ONLY. Luca pushed through it and entered a room built in a wide oval, stalls arranged beneath illuminated nameplates. Deep navy sweaters and winter-white practice jerseys waited on hooks. Gloves sat in clean pairs. Fresh tape, sharpened steel, and coffee cut through the richer smell of equipment that no amount of industrial cleaning could defeat.

BENNETT glowed above a stall near the far curve.

The 88 beneath it was smaller than the number on the screen upstairs.

It felt more real.

"There he is," someone called. "The next era."

Luca turned toward Jace Moreno, whose grin had the bright, dangerous quality of a man delighted to find fresh material. The winger lounged in half his base layers with one skate on, number 21 stamped on the gear at his feet.

"Please rise," Luca said. "It's a historic moment."

"I would, but your era hasn't learned to tie skates yet."

Across the room, Eli Novak looked down at the loose lace in his hands. "Was that at me?"

"If you have to ask," Jace said, "yes."

Eli considered that. "Seems inefficient."

The room laughed, and some tight internal cable Luca had ignored since the front entrance gave half an inch.

Finn Mercer crossed from the center island with a coffee in one hand. The alternate captain's number 11 showed on the shorts he had already pulled on. He had the settled ease of a player who knew where everything belonged, including himself.

"Finn," he said, offering his free hand. "Ignore Jace until his first coffee. Then ignore him with more energy."

Luca shook it. "Useful system."