"I know you built a closet so perfect even your teammates don't question it. I know you've been hiding for ten years. I know..." I stepped closer. Close enough that our chests were almost touching. "I know you feel this too. Whatever this is."
"Theo." My name came out like a warning. Like a plea.
"Are you going to keep pretending you don't feel this?"
The question hung between us, sharp and dangerous. I watched him wrestle with it. I watched emotions flicker across his face too fast to name. Fear. Want. Resignation.
Then he moved.
His hands came up to frame my face. He kissed me, backing me against the boards with the force of it.
It was rough. Desperate. There was nothing controlled about it. It was ten years of denial burning away in the space of a heartbeat.
I made a sound against his mouth and kissed him back just as hard. My hands found his jersey, fisting in the fabric, pulling him closer. His mouth was hot and demanding, like he was trying to memorize the taste of me. Like he knew this might be the only time.
The boards dug into my back through my pads. His body pressed against mine from chest to thigh, solid and strong and finally,finallyhere. I could feel his heart racing against my bruised ribs. I could feel the tremble in his hands where they cradled my jaw.
This. This was what all the tension had been building toward. Every too-long look, every charged touch, every moment of his iron control cracking. This kiss felt like falling and catching fire. And coming home.
His teeth caught my bottom lip. I groaned, arching into him. One of his hands slid into my hair, angling my head for better access, and I let him take whatever he wanted. I let him kiss me like I was oxygen and he'd been drowning.
Then he jerked back like I'd burned him.
We stood there, chests heaving, inches apart. His pupils were blown wide, his lips kiss-swollen, and the look on his face was pure panic.
"No," he said. "No, we can't—I can't—"
"Luca..."
"This was a mistake." He skated backward, putting distance between us. His hands shook as he ran them through his hair. "Fuck. This was such a mistake."
The whiplash was brutal. Thirty seconds ago he had been kissing me like the world was ending. Now he looked like he wanted to bolt.
I stayed against the boards. I gave him space, even though everything in me wanted to close the distance again. "It didn't feel like a mistake."
"You don't understand." His voice cracked. "You can't—people can't know. Not teammates, not media, not anyone."
"I am not asking you to come out," I said carefully. "I am just asking you to stop running from this."
"This can't happen." But he wasn't looking at me. He was looking at the ice, at the empty stands, anywhere but at me. "I've worked too hard. Built too much. One rumor, one photo, and it all comes apart."
"Or maybe," I said quietly, "it sets you free."
He laughed, bitter and sharp. "You're twenty-two. You came out at sixteen and the world loved you for it. You don't know what it is like to have everything riding on staying hidden."
"Then tell me."
"I can't." He grabbed his helmet from the bench. "This doesn't happen again. We're teammates. Captain and rookie. That is all."
"Luca—"
"I'm sorry." He wouldn't look at me. "I'm sorry I kissed you. I'm sorry I made you think—" He cut himself off. "It won't happen again."
He was off the ice before I could respond. Before I could find words that might change his mind. I heard the locker room door slam, the echo of it rolling through the empty rink.
I stayed against the boards. I tasted him on my lips. I felt the ghost of his hands on my face. My heart was still racing. My ribs ached. Everything ached.
He'd kissed me like he'd been starving for it. Like I was the only thing in the world he wanted. Then he'd looked at me like I was the biggest threat he'd ever faced.
