The water ran hot enough to burn. I stood under the spray with my forehead pressed against the tile, letting the heat pound against my shoulders, my neck, the base of my skull where tension had knotted itself into a permanent ache.
Just physical.
The words echoed in my head, mixing with the sound of water hitting tile. I had known Luca was scared. I had known he'd spent ten years building walls.
But I'd thought—God, I had actually thought—that what we had was worth the fear. That three weeks of stolen moments and coded texts and desperate kisses in empty equipment rooms had meant something. That when he had held me three nights ago and told me he was falling, he'd meant it.
Maybe he had. Maybe that was the worst part—knowing it was real and still not enough.
I turned off the water. I dried off mechanically. I pulled on sweatpants and stood staring at my reflection in the mirror, cataloging the damage: shadows under my eyes, jaw tight enough to crack teeth, shoulders curved inward like I was protecting something vital.
My phone buzzed from the bedroom. I ignored it.
It buzzed again. And again.
Finally I walked over and picked it up.
Jamie:You good? You seemed off after practice.
Jordan:Heard you’re skipping bar night. You sick?
Coach Wilson:Film session 9 AM tomorrow. Don't be late.
Nothing from Luca. Of course nothing from Luca. We were done. Captain and rookie. That was all.
I typed and deleted five different responses to Jamie before settling on:
Me:Just tired. See you tomorrow.
Then I turned off my phone entirely.
The silence in my apartment felt oppressive. I had grown up in a house full of noise—three siblings, two dogs, parents who never met a volume level they couldn't exceed. Even at college, I had roommates, teammates, constant motion and sound.
This silence was different. Heavy with absence.
I lay down on the couch because going to bed felt like admitting defeat. I stared at the ceiling and tried not to think about Luca’s hands shaking when he had unlaced his skates. The way his voice had cracked on "stop." The emptiness in his eyes when he had called it a mistake.
I tried not to think about how it felt to be wanted and then discarded in the space of seventy-two hours.
My eyes burned.
I wouldn't cry. I wouldn't fall apart. I wouldn't prove Luca right about being a distraction.
I would go to practice tomorrow. Run the drills. Smile at the jokes. Be the teammate everyone expected.
And if the light went out of it—if the joy that had carried me through every practice and game since I was six years old suddenly felt performative—well. That was what happened when you learned that being yourself wasn't enough.
That loving someone who couldn't love themselves just left you empty.
I closed my eyes and waited for sleep that wouldn't come.
10
Luca
Three weeks into the playoffs, and we were moving like strangers.
I stood at the center of the practice rink, watching the power play drill fall apart for the third time. Jamie lost the puck on entry. Tyler's pass sailed wide.
