I pressed my gloved hands against my eyes. I tried to breathe through the tangle of emotions—frustration, desire, understanding, stubborn determination.
Because I got it now. I really got it. This wasn't about not wanting me. This was about being so deep in the closet that want itself felt like a death sentence.
I stayed there for a long time. Eventually, I skated to the bench and unlaced my skates. My phone buzzed in my bag.
Moretti:I can't be public. Not yet. Maybe not ever. But I can't stop thinking about you.
I stared at the message. I read it three times. I felt my heart kick hard against my bruised ribs.
This was the choice, then. The crossroads. I could walk away, respect his boundaries, keep it professional. Or I could jump off this cliff with him, knowing the landing might destroy us both.
I'd never been good at playing it safe.
I typed back:Then don't. Don't stop thinking about me.
The reply came almost instantly.
Moretti:Theo.
Just my name. But I heard it the way he had said it against the boards—warning and surrender and everything in between.
Theo:I'm not asking for forever. I'm just asking for honest. Whatever this is, however long it lasts. No more running.
The three dots appeared and disappeared twice.
Moretti:My place. Tomorrow night. After practice.
Theo:I'll be there.
I sat on the bench, still in full gear, staring at my phone. My ribs ached. My lips still tingled. And I had absolutely no idea what I was getting myself into.
But I wasn't walking away.
Not from him. Not from the way he'd kissed me like I was the answer to a question he'd been too afraid to ask. Not from the possibility that maybe—maybe—I could help him see that the closet he had built so carefully was really just a prison.
I pulled my skates off, changed back into shoes, and headed home. The city was still dark, not quite ready for dawn. But the horizon had that pre-sunrise glow, that promise of light coming.
Inside my apartment, I finally crawled into bed and closed my eyes. This time, sleep came easy.
Because tomorrow night, I would walk into his space. His world. And maybe—if I was careful, if I was patient, if I could somehow prove that the risk was worth it—maybe I could help him step out of the shadows.
Or maybe we would both go down in flames.
Either way, I was all in.
6
Luca
I texted him the address an hour before practice ended. I spent the next sixty minutes regretting it.
By the time I got home, I had reorganized my living room twice in my head. I had considered canceling four separate times. My apartment was too bare—just functional furniture and no personal touches because I had never let anyone close enough to need them. The kitchen was clean because I barely used it. The bedroom was worse: king bed, grey sheets, nothing on the walls.
It looked exactly what it was. A place to sleep between games. A holding cell.
I stood in the middle of the living room with my phone in my hand. My thumb hovered over his contact. I could still text him. I could tell him I'd made a mistake. That this was too risky, too complicated, too—
The buzzer rang.
