Chapter 5
Theo
The apartment was too quiet.
I had tried lying down. I had tried scrolling through my phone. I had tried the breathing exercises my old sports psychologist taught me. Nothing worked.
Every time I closed my eyes, I felt the impact all over again—the collision, the boards, the way my ribs compressed like they were made of balsa wood.
And the way Luca had dropped his gloves.
The way his hands had shaken in the medical room.
My chest ached, but it wasn't the bruising that kept me awake. It was the look on his face when he walked out. The text that came after I walked out the door: You okay?
Two words that meant everything and nothing.
I gave up on sleep around one in the morning. I pulled on sweats and a hoodie, grabbed my gear bag, and left. The practice facility would be empty. Maybe skating would help. Maybe exhausting myself would finally shut my brain up.
The rink was dark when I arrived, lit only by the emergency lights. The building was silent in the way empty sports venues are—vast and echoing. I used my new key card to get in, half-expecting it not to work, but the lock clicked green.
I flicked on the lights over the ice. The fluorescents hummed to life, casting everything in a flat, institutional glow. Empty rinks always felt like churches to me. They were sacred spaces where you left everything else at the door.
I laced my skates. Each pull of the laces sent a dull ache through my ribs. The doctor had said rest. But rest wasn't happening tonight, so I figured I might as well be productive with my insomnia.
The ice was fresh, unmarked. My first stride sent a sharp pain through my chest, but I pushed through it. Second stride. Third. I built speed. The cold air hit my face and finally—finally—my mind went quiet.
I skated hard laps. I worked up to full speed, testing my body’s limits. The bruising protested but I'd played through worse. I would probably play through worse again.
After twenty minutes, I grabbed a bucket of pucks. I started running shooting drills. Wrist shots from the slot. Snapshots from the circles. One-timers off the half boards. The rhythmic crack of rubber on composite, the thunk of pucks hitting the back of the net—it was meditative.
I'd been at it about forty minutes when I heard skates on ice.
My heart kicked hard against my bruised ribs.
Luca emerged from the tunnel. He was already in gear, helmet under his arm. He stopped when he saw me. For a long moment, we just stared at each other across the ice. Even from sixty feet away, I could see the tension in his shoulders.
"Couldn't sleep either?" I called out.
He didn't answer right away. He set his helmet on the bench and stepped onto the ice. He started skating laps along the boards—long, smooth strides, not looking at me.
I went back to my shots, hyperaware of him circling the rink. The whisper of his blades on the ice. The controlled power in every stride. He skated like he did everything else—with absolute precision. Nothing wasted.
We orbited each other for ten minutes. Maybe fifteen. Him doing laps, me working through drills. The only sounds were skates and pucks and the hum of the lights overhead.
Finally, he drifted to center ice and stopped. He watched me.
I lined up another shot and buried it top shelf. I grabbed another puck.
"Your weight distribution is off," he said.
I looked over. "What?"
"On your one-timer. You are loading too much weight on your back leg. It is costing you power."
Something loosened in my chest. This I could do. This was safe territory.
"Show me," I said.
He skated over. My pulse picked up with every stride that brought him closer. He had changed out of his suit into practice gear—a compression shirt that showed every line of muscle, a Storm practice jersey over it. His hair was still damp, curling slightly at his temples.
He positioned himself in the shooting stance. "Sixty-forty weight distribution. Front leg loaded for the transfer. Back leg just for stability and push."
I nodded. I tried to copy the position.
"No." He skated behind me. "May I?"
The question was careful. It was so unlike earlier when he had just grabbed me during drills. This was different. We both knew it was different.
"Yeah," I said.
His hands settled on my hips to adjust my stance.
Even through layers of gear, I felt the heat of him. I felt the careful control in how he touched me—like he was afraid of breaking something. Or afraid he wouldn't want to let go.
"Here." He tapped my left hip. "Feel that weight shift?"
I tried to focus on the technical adjustment. I failed completely. He was right behind me, chest nearly touching my back, his breath warm against my neck.
"Try it," he said, stepping back.
I took the shot. The puck rocketed into the net with noticeably more velocity.
"Better," he said. His voice had gone rough.
I turned around. "Again."
We ran through it five more times. Each rep, his hands on me adjusted, guided, corrected. Each time, the space between us felt smaller. The air felt thicker.
On the sixth rep, I didn't take the shot. I just stayed in the stance, his hands on my hips.
"Why did you fight tonight?" I asked.
His hands tightened on my jersey. "You know why."
"Say it."
"Theo..."
"You dropped your gloves for me." I turned in his grip to face him. We were inches apart now. "You haven't fought once in ten years. You lost control. Why?"
His jaw worked. In the flat rink lighting, I could see the fine lines at the corners of his eyes, the cuts on his knuckles from the fight. The pulse jumping in his throat.
"Because he hurt you," Luca said finally. "And I—I couldn't—" He cut himself off, looking away.
"You couldn't what?"
"This is a bad idea."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only answer you're getting."
I laughed. It was sharp and humorless, echoing in the empty rink. "You know what I think? I think you're terrified. I think you've been terrified for so long you've forgotten what anything else feels like."
His eyes snapped back to mine. "You don't know anything about me."
"I know you built a closet so perfect even your teammates don't question it. I know you've been hiding for ten years. I know..." I stepped closer. Close enough that our chests were almost touching. "I know you feel this too. Whatever this is."
"Theo." My name came out like a warning. Like a plea.
"Are you going to keep pretending you don't feel this?"
The question hung between us, sharp and dangerous. I watched him wrestle with it. I watched emotions flicker across his face too fast to name. Fear. Want. Resignation.
Then he moved.
His hands came up to frame my face. He kissed me, backing me against the boards with the force of it.
It was rough. Desperate. There was nothing controlled about it. It was ten years of denial burning away in the space of a heartbeat.
I made a sound against his mouth and kissed him back just as hard. My hands found his jersey, fisting in the fabric, pulling him closer. His mouth was hot and demanding, like he was trying to memorize the taste of me. Like he knew this might be the only time.
The boards dug into my back through my pads. His body pressed against mine from chest to thigh, solid and strong and finally, finally here. I could feel his heart racing against my bruised ribs. I could feel the tremble in his hands where they cradled my jaw.
This. This was what all the tension had been building toward. Every too-long look, every charged touch, every moment of his iron control cracking. This kiss felt like falling and catching fire. And coming home.
His teeth caught my bottom lip. I groaned, arching into him. One of his hands slid into my hair, angling my head for better access, and I let him take whatever he wanted. I let him kiss me like I was oxygen and he'd been drowning.
Then he jerked back like I'd burned him.
We stood there, chests heaving, inches apart. His pupils were blown wide, his lips kiss-swollen, and the look on his face was pure panic.
"No," he said. "No, we can't—I can't—"
"Luca..."
"This was a mistake." He skated backward, putting distance between us. His hands shook as he ran them through his hair. "Fuck. This was such a mistake."
The whiplash was brutal. Thirty seconds ago he had been kissing me like the world was ending. Now he looked like he wanted to bolt.
I stayed against the boards. I gave him space, even though everything in me wanted to close the distance again. "It didn't feel like a mistake."
"You don't understand." His voice cracked. "You can't—people can't know. Not teammates, not media, not anyone."
"I am not asking you to come out," I said carefully. "I am just asking you to stop running from this."
"This can't happen." But he wasn't looking at me. He was looking at the ice, at the empty stands, anywhere but at me. "I've worked too hard. Built too much. One rumor, one photo, and it all comes apart."
"Or maybe," I said quietly, "it sets you free."
He laughed, bitter and sharp. "You're twenty-two. You came out at sixteen and the world loved you for it. You don't know what it is like to have everything riding on staying hidden."
"Then tell me."
"I can't." He grabbed his helmet from the bench. "This doesn't happen again. We're teammates. Captain and rookie. That is all."
"Luca—"
"I'm sorry." He wouldn't look at me. "I'm sorry I kissed you. I'm sorry I made you think—" He cut himself off. "It won't happen again."
He was off the ice before I could respond. Before I could find words that might change his mind. I heard the locker room door slam, the echo of it rolling through the empty rink.
I stayed against the boards. I tasted him on my lips. I felt the ghost of his hands on my face. My heart was still racing. My ribs ached. Everything ached.
He'd kissed me like he'd been starving for it. Like I was the only thing in the world he wanted. Then he'd looked at me like I was the biggest threat he'd ever faced.
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.