Chapter 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.
Theo...
Theo executed his position. With the correct angles. Proper spacing. Textbook positioning.
Zero instinct. Zero joy.
He looked like a different player. Still talented, still fast, but the spark that had made him dangerous—the creativity, the risk-taking, the infectious energy—was gone. He played like someone going through the motions. Like someone who’d learned that shining too bright got you burned.
My chest tightened. I blew the whistle.
"Again. Tyler, tighten up that passing lane. Jamie, you’re telegraphing. Theo..." His name caught in my throat. "Higher in the zone."
He nodded without meeting my eyes. He skated to position.
We’d played four playoff games. Won three. We should have swept. We would have swept, if our chemistry hadn't shattered.
The first-round series against Detroit should have been dominant. Instead, it had been grinding, ugly hockey. We’d won Game Four by a single goal, and only because Kieran had stood on his head for sixty minutes.
Coach Reeves appeared beside me, arms crossed. "What happened to Callahan?"
"Nothing." The lie was familiar. I’d been telling it for three weeks.
"He’s playing scared. That’s not the kid who took a hit for you opening night."
"He’s adjusting to playoff intensity."
"Bullshit." Reeves’s voice dropped lower. "And you’ve been different too. Distant. Whatever happened between you two, fix it. We need him sharp for the conference semis."
He skated away before I could deny anything happened.
Nothing happened. I’d made sure of it. I’d ended it before it could become real, before it could threaten everything I’d built.
The contract extension sat in my apartment, signed and notarized. Five years. No-movement clause. Financial security. Captaincy guaranteed.
Everything I’d wanted.
I watched Theo receive a pass and take the shot. Perfect form. No passion.
The puck hit the post with a hollow clang that echoed through the empty arena.
The locker room after practice felt wrong.
Usually, playoff energy filled every corner—music, chirping, the sharp edge of competitive focus mixed with camaraderie.
Today, silence pooled in the spaces between conversations. Guys clustered in their usual groups, but the connections felt frayed.
I sat in my stall, focused on unlacing my skates. If I focused on the physical task, I didn't have to look at Theo three stalls down. I didn't have to see him shower and dress with the same emptiness he brought to the ice now.
"Cap." Kieran dropped onto the bench beside me. He was still in full goalie gear, sweat-soaked and intense. "We need to talk."
"About the defensive coverage in—"
"About what you did to Callahan."
My hands stilled on the laces. "I don't know what you’re talking about."
"Luca." Kieran’s voice carried a decade of friendship. We’d been drafted the same year.
We’d suffered through rebuilding seasons together.
We’d fought our way to relevance. He knew me better than anyone on this team.
"He showed up to camp like sunshine, and now he looks like someone killed his dog. And you’ve been walking around like a ghost. So either tell me what happened, or admit you’re full of shit. "
I finished unlacing. I set the skates aside. "It’s handled."
"Handled. Right." Kieran stripped off his blocker, the Velcro ripping loud in the quiet corner. "Is that what we’re calling it when our rookie loses his spark and our captain forgets how to lead?"
"I’m leading fine."
"You’re managing. There’s a difference." He leaned closer, voice dropping. "I’ve watched you build walls for ten years, and I never pushed because I figured you had your reasons. But whatever you did to that kid? It’s costing us. And it’s killing you."
My jaw tightened. "I signed the extension."
"Congratulations. Is that supposed to make this better?"
"It’s what matters. The team, the contract, the—"
"Luca." Kieran’s hand landed on my shoulder, grip firm. "When’s the last time you were happy?"
The question hit like a crosscheck to the sternum. I stood up, shrugging off his hand. "I need to shower."
"That’s what I thought."
I walked away. I felt his eyes on my back. I felt the weight of three weeks of distance and deflection pressing down until my shoulders ached with it.
In the shower, I stood under water hot enough to burn. I tried to wash away the memory of Theo’s face in the equipment room when I’d called it a mistake. The way his light had just—extinguished.
I tried not to think about late-night texts I didn't send. The phantom weight of him in my bed. How many times I’d reached for my phone to tell him about something stupid, then remembered I’d forfeited that right.
Game One of the conference semifinals.
The arena vibrated with playoff intensity. Towels waved. The crowd was deafening. Every hit and rush was amplified.
We were playing Colorado—fast, skilled, dangerous. The kind of team that exposed weaknesses.
I centered the second line now, giving Jamie’s unit more offensive deployment. Theo played twelve minutes the first two periods. Solid. Unremarkable.
Exactly what I’d wanted, back when I’d convinced myself his dimming would keep us both safe.
Third period. Tied 2-2. Coach double-shifted our top players. I hopped the boards for a defensive zone faceoff, legs burning, lungs aching.
I caught the puck off the draw and chipped it out. Tyler collected it and drove the neutral zone. I pushed for a lane, reading the developing rush.
Theo streaked up the far wing. Fast. Perfectly positioned. Stick ready.
Tyler’s pass hit his tape. Theo cut to the middle, Colorado’s defenseman closing hard.
I saw it developing. I saw the second defenseman coming from the blind side, launching for the hit.
"THEO!"
Too late.
The collision sent Theo airborne. His body twisted wrong. His helmet struck the ice with a crack that cut through eighteen thousand screaming fans.
He didn't get up.
I was moving before thought, crossing the ice as the whistle blew. Refs converged. Colorado’s players backed off, hands raised—clean hit, just brutal timing.
I dropped to my knees beside him. "Theo. Theo, look at me."
His eyes were open but unfocused. Blood trickled from a cut above his eyebrow, bright against his pale skin.
"Don't move." My hand hovered over his shoulder. Wanting to touch. Not daring. "Medical is coming."
His gaze found mine. For one second, everything else fell away—the crowd noise, the refs, the game. Just him, hurt. And me, powerless.
"I’m okay," he slurred. "Just... gimme a second."
"You’re not okay." My voice came out rough. "Stay down."
The medical team arrived with a stretcher. I backed off, giving them room, hands clenched into fists. I watched them check his pupils, ask questions, carefully support his neck.
I watched them help him off the ice to a standing ovation he probably couldn't hear.
I watched the tunnel swallow him, and something cracked in my chest that had nothing to do with hockey.
Jamie skated up beside me. "He’ll be fine. The kid is tough."
I nodded. I couldn't speak.
The game restarted. I played the remaining eight minutes in a fugue state—body executing, mind elsewhere. We won 3-2 on a late goal I didn't remember celebrating.
In the handshake line, Colorado’s captain murmured condolences about Theo. I shook hands, said the right things. And felt nothing.
The locker room celebration was muted. Guys showered and dressed quickly, asking about Theo. Coach said he was getting evaluated. Likely concussion protocol. Update tomorrow.
I sat in my stall until everyone left. Kieran lingered, watching me with eyes that saw too much.
"You going to check on him?" he asked quietly.
"Team doctors have it handled."
"Luca."
"What?" I looked up, suddenly furious. "What do you want me to say? That I’m worried? That watching him get hit felt like taking the hit myself? That I—" I stopped. I breathed. "It doesn't matter what I feel."
"Why not?"
"Because I signed the contract. I made my choice. And he’s better off without—"
"Without what? Someone who gives a shit about him?
" Kieran pulled his gear bag onto his shoulder.
"You know what the difference is between you and me?
I came out three years ago. Lost one endorsement, gained a dozen more.
And yeah, there were assholes on social media and in some arenas. But you know what I didn't lose?"
I waited.
"Myself." He headed for the door, then paused. "That kid made you happy. Made you better. And you threw it away because you’re more afraid of living than dying."
The door closed behind him with a soft click.
I sat alone in the empty locker room, surrounded by the smell of tape and sweat, and a victory that felt hollow.
My phone buzzed. A text from Mark.
Mark: Contract is official. Ownership thrilled. Keep your head down through playoffs—stay focused, stay clean. This is your legacy moment.
Legacy.
I thought about legacies. About what people remembered. My father’s Hall of Fame career was marked by points and awards, not by the family he’d neglected or the son he’d taught to hide.
What would mine be? A five-year extension and a captaincy earned by playing it safe?
Another text, this one from my father.
Dad: Congratulations on the contract. Dinner after playoffs to celebrate. Proud of you for keeping focused.
Keeping focused. Code for staying in the closet, avoiding distractions, being the son he could present to his old-boys' club.
I should have felt validated. I should have felt the satisfaction of his approval after years of chasing it.
Instead, I felt empty.
I changed into street clothes and left the arena through the player’s exit. The parking lot was nearly deserted, just a few cars under flickering lights.