"Good." His hand found my thigh under the counter, thumb stroking the inside of my knee. "That was the plan."
"Was it?"
"You think I fought a guy for just anyone?" His smile went crooked. "I knew what I wanted. It just took me a while to be brave enough to take it."
My throat went tight. That fight—Luca dropping the gloves for the first time in his career, getting ejected from the game because I’d taken a hit meant for him. That was the moment I’d known this was more than attraction. That was the moment I’d realized he was all-in, even if he couldn't say it yet.
"I’m glad you did," I said. "Take it, I mean."
"Me too." He leaned over and kissed me, tasting like maple syrup. "Best decision I ever made."
We cleaned up together. We loaded the dishwasher while music played from Luca’s phone—classic rock, nothing too loud, the kind of comfortable background noise that filled the spacebetween words. I caught him watching me as I wiped down the counter, his expression unguarded.
"What?"
"Nothing." But his cheeks flushed slightly. "Just—you look good in my kitchen."
"Our kitchen."
"Right." He said it like he was reminding himself. Like he was still getting used to sharing his space. "Our kitchen."
I tossed the dish towel at him. "Stop being weird about it. This is what living together looks like."
"I’ve never..." He caught the towel, fingers twisting in the fabric. "I’ve never done this before. Lived with someone. Never wanted to live with someone."
"Me neither." I crossed to him, sliding my arms around his waist. "But I like it. I like waking up with you. I like your terrible taste in documentaries and the way you organize the fridge by food group and how you always steal the blankets even though you run hot."
"I don't steal the blankets."
"You absolutely do." I kissed the corner of his mouth. "But I forgive you."
His arms tightened around me. "I like this too. More than I thought I would."
"Did you think you wouldn't?"
"I thought..." He paused, choosing words carefully. "I thought letting someone in would feel like losing control. Like I’d have to perform all the time. But with you it’s just..."
"Easy?"
"Yeah." His smile was soft. The smile that was just for me. "Easy."
At 6:15 PM, we pulled into the parking lot of the youth sports complex on the north side.
My stomach fluttered with nerves—public speaking still wasn't my favorite. Luca, of course, looked perfectly composed in dark jeans and a fitted henley, his media face sliding into place as we approached the building.
But his hand found mine in the parking lot. Our fingers laced together. That was real.
Inside, the coordinator—a woman named Sarah with kind eyes and a Pride flag lanyard—greeted us warmly. "Thank you both so much for coming. The kids are beyond excited."
"Happy to be here," Luca said, shaking her hand with easy professionalism.
We were led to a multi-purpose room filled with about thirty kids ranging from ten to seventeen. They wore hockey gear or team shirts, all staring at us with expressions ranging from awe to suspicion to desperate hope.
My chest tightened. These kids—some of them were exactly like I’d been at fifteen. Scared and alone and convinced they had to choose between hockey and honesty.
"Hi everyone," Sarah said brightly. "These are our special guests—Theo Callahan and Luca Moretti from the Chicago Storm."
A few kids clapped. Most just stared.
