"Stop." He held up a hand, breath shaking. "You don't get to break my heart and then expect me to just... I need time. I need..." He backed toward the door. "I can't do this right now."
He left.
I stood alone in the locker room, my confession evaporating into the air like smoke.
But for the first time in weeks, the hollowness in my chest felt like it might eventually heal.
Because I’d told the truth.
And truth was where freedom started.
11
Theo
The series was tied 2-2. Game 5 felt like it could crack the sky open.
Conference semifinals. Storm versus Minnesota. The rink roared with fifteen thousand voices that blurred into a single animal sound—hungry, demanding, electric. My skates carved the ice with a precision born from muscle memory and repetition.
Three weeks of mechanical hockey. Three weeks of showing up, doing my job, keeping my mouth shut.
Three weeks since Luca had looked me in the eye and called me a mistake.
I pushed harder into the turn, chasing the puck into the corner. My shoulder screamed—it had been bothering me since the second period, a dull ache that sharpened with every hit—but I ignored it. Pain was easy. Pain was simple. Pain didn't ask questions I couldn't answer.
The crowd’s roar shifted pitch.
I glanced up just long enough to see the Minnesota defenseman bearing down on me. Too fast. Too high. His stick was already rising.
I braced for impact.
The hit came from behind—a vicious cross-check directly between my shoulder blades that drove me face-first into the boards.
Something in my shoulder popped. Not the gentle release of a joint settling, but a wrongness that radiated through my entire body like a lightning strike.
My knees buckled. The ice rose up to meet my face. My stick clattered away. Sound became muffled and distant, filtered through a haze of white-hot pain that originated in my shoulder and spread like wildfire.
I couldn't breathe. I couldn't think. I could only process the fact that my right arm hung at the wrong angle, completely useless, and my vision was graying at the edges.
Somewhere above me, the crowd was screaming.
Somewhere close, skates scraped the ice with violence.
"...the fuck off him!"
Luca’s voice. Luca’s hands grabbing jersey fabric. Luca dropping his gloves and launching himself at the Minnesota defenseman with a fury I’d only seen once before—the night I took a hit meant for him.
But this was different. This wasn't controlled aggression. This was rage, pure and absolute.
I tried to push myself up with my left arm. My right hung useless and screaming. I managed to roll onto my side just in time to see Luca land a punch that sent the Minnesota player sprawling. The refs were already moving, but Luca didn't stop. He grabbed the guy’s jersey and hit him again. And again.
"Luca..." My voice came out as a wheeze. No one heard me over the chaos.
It took three officials to pull Luca away. He fought them, eyes wild, mouth forming words I couldn't hear over the ringing in my ears. Blood streaked his knuckles. His chest heaved like he’d sprinted a marathon.
Our eyes met across the ice.
Luca’s expression cracked—just for a second—revealing something raw and desperate underneath.
