"You like it."
"I really do." He kissed me slowly. "Want to go to the practice rink?"
I pulled back, surprised. "Now? It’s almost ten."
"I know." His smile went crooked. "I was thinking about that night. After the game, when we both showed up."
"The night you kissed me and then ran away?"
"I didn't run. I retreated strategically."
"You ran."
"Okay, I ran." He stood, pulling me up with him. "But I want to go back. With you. Properly this time."
Twenty minutes later, we parked outside the Storm’s practice facility.
The building was dark except for security lights. The parking lot was empty. Luca had a key card for after-hours access—captain privileges—and we slipped inside like we were breaking in even though we had every right to be there.
The rink was cold and quiet. The ice gleamed under the emergency lighting. Our breath fogged in the air. I grabbed my skates from my locker and Luca did the same. We laced up in silence that felt heavy with memory.
The ice was perfect—freshly resurfaced, smooth as glass. We glided out together. My body remembered this, muscles falling into familiar patterns, edges sharp and sure. Luca skated beside me, matching my pace, our movements synchronized from months of practice and games and the kind of chemistry that made us lethal on the ice.
"Run the drill?" he asked, pulling a puck from his pocket.
"Which one?"
"The one from that night."
I knew which one he meant. The drill we’d run that night three months ago, when everything had been secret and terrifying and new. When he’d body-checked me into the boards and I’d challenged him and he’d kissed me like he was drowning.
We set up. Luca at center ice. Me defending.
He dropped the puck and accelerated, coming at me fast and controlled. I angled to cut him off. He deked left, stick handling impossibly quick. I pivoted and caught him with a solid check—controlled, nothing dangerous, just pressure.
He grinned, breathing hard. "Again."
We ran it five times. The physical contact was charged with muscle memory and unspoken promise. On the sixth run, I checked him into the boards—carefully, playfully—and pinned him there with my body, both of us breathing hard.
"You’re getting better at defense," he said.
"Good teacher."
His eyes darkened. "Theo..."
"Yeah, Cap?"
He kissed me then. It was urgent and claiming. I kissed him back just as hard, my gloves hitting the ice, my hands finding his face.
This was where it started. This was where everything changed.
When we finally broke apart, Luca was smiling—the real smile, unguarded and bright, the smile I’d worked so hard to earn.
"Are you going to keep pretending you aren't planning to propose?" I asked.
He went very still. "What?"
"The ring box I found when I was looking for your spare phone charger last week." I raised an eyebrow. "Were you planning to tell me or just carry it around until you worked up the nerve?"
