Page 109 of Rule 4: Never Get Stranded with a Sports Reporter

“No way,” Axel says, then he storms off and slams the door.

My teammates are silent. Bellanti is one of the more aggressive players, and he and Axel have gotten into fights on the ice, but there’s no reason for Axel to react the way he has. Besides, Bellanti is good. I don’t want anyone to replace Dmitri, but getting a first-line player from Los Angeles to take his place is a huge win for Coach and the team.

Still, we’re loyal to Axel. He clearly knows something terrible about the guy.

The locker room is silent. Tension grows. Bellanti’s face takes on a green tint, then he yawns.

“I need coffee,” he says. “Where is it?”

The room is silent save for the rustle of clothes being pulled off. Twenty people try not to look at him.

“I’ll take you,” I say finally. I know what it’s like to have the whole team hate you, and I don’t know if Bellanti deserves it or not.

The others stare at us as we leave, and I lead him through the Blizzards’ immaculately decorated corridor. Mr. Tanaka put so much money into this place.

“So you came from California?” I ask. “That must be far from Boston.”

“You’ve been there before,” Bellanti says. “You know the distance.”

I dart my gaze to him. “It sounded like you specially requested to come here.”

“I did.”

“You don’t seem happy about being here.”

“Why should I be? It’s cold here. It fucking sucks.”

I raise an eyebrow. Maybe Bellanti is weird. Is that what Axel hates about him?

I show him into the break room. It’s a sleek, glass-walled lounge with matte-black espresso machines used to trade gossipranging from trade rumors to Tinder fails. Protein bars gleam from their bright plastic packaging, but Bellanti heads straight for the machines with a longing look. He picks up a pod.

“That’s decaf.”

“Oh.” Bellanti drops it and shudders. He picks up another one, looks at me, and I nod. He fiddles with the coffee machine, yanking the top open.

“I’ll show you.”

“Sorry. I’m exhausted.”

“Did you take the red-eye or something?”

“No.”

I wait for him to add more, but he’s silent. I hand him the coffee, then notice a stain on his shirt.

“You have something there.”

He glances at it, then his face reddens.

Could Axel be right? Did Los Angeles put him here to sabotage us? No. No way. That’s not how hockey works.

Bellanti is a great player, but he looks like he’s on the verge of a nervous breakdown because of a coffee machine.

“It’s been a difficult few months,” he says. “My sister died.”

“That’s terrible.”

He rakes a hand through his hair. “I need to speak to Axel. Do you know where he lives?”