Chapter 10 #2
I sat in my truck with the engine running, heat blasting, not driving anywhere.
I pulled up my texts with Theo. Three weeks of nothing. Before that, weeks of coded messages and stolen moments that had been the best parts of my day.
The last message was from me. Can't do this anymore. I’m sorry.
His response, an hour later. Me too.
Two words that said everything.
I typed: Are you okay?
I stared at it. I deleted it. What right did I have to ask? I’d ended it. I’d made my choice. I’d told him he was a mistake.
But watching him take that hit, watching him lie motionless on the ice...
I realized something I’d been avoiding for three weeks.
I didn't just care about Theo Callahan. I didn't just want him.
I loved him.
And I’d thrown it away for a contract that felt like a prison sentence.
My phone buzzed again. Text from Coach Reeves.
Coach Reeves: Theo is concussed. Out minimum 7 days. Playoffs aren't the same without him. Whatever you two had going, we needed it.
Whatever you two had going.
Past tense.
I leaned my forehead against the steering wheel, breath fogging in the cold truck. I’d won the game. Won the contract. Won everything I thought I wanted.
And lost the only thing that mattered.
One week later. Conference finals.
We advanced without Theo, grinding through games with defense and goaltending. Kieran was playing possessed. Jamie elevated his game. Tyler took on more responsibility.
We were winning. Three wins from the Stanley Cup Finals.
And it felt meaningless.
Theo was cleared to practice but not to play—still in protocol, another three days minimum. He came to games, sat in the press box, wore a suit instead of gear.
I watched him on the Jumbotron sometimes, when I was on the bench. He clapped at the right moments. He stood for goals. He looked engaged.
But the light was still gone.
Game Three. Tied series 1-1. Physical, desperate hockey. I took a high stick that opened a cut above my eye—same spot Theo’s had been. The trainer patched it quickly and sent me back out.
Blood trickled down my temple, warm and sticky. I played through it. I threw hits. I blocked shots. I did everything a captain should do.
When the final horn sounded—3-2 win, series lead regained—I felt nothing.
In the locker room, team doctors checked my stitches. Kieran dropped beside me, still in pads.
"Four stitches," the doctor said. "Keep it clean, no complications."
He left. Kieran stayed.
"You played great," he said.
"We won."
"That’s not what I said." He studied me. "When’s the last time you looked in a mirror?"
"What kind of question..."
"Look at yourself, Luca. Really look."
I stood up. I walked to the mirror mounted by the sinks. I saw what Kieran saw.
Hollow eyes. Sharp cheekbones. The stitches above my eyebrow were neat. The expression underneath was dead.
I looked like my father—successful, controlled, empty.
"This is what winning looks like?" Kieran asked quietly. "Because from here, it looks like you’re dying by inches."
I touched the stitches and winced. "I made my choice."
"Then unmake it."
"It’s not that simple."
"Why not?" He stood, still in full gear, imposing and honest. "The contract is signed. The team is winning. You have everything you said you needed. So what’s stopping you from being happy?"
"I can't..." My voice broke. I gripped the sink edge. "I can't be what he needs. Can't give him what he deserves."
"What does he deserve?"
"Someone who isn't afraid. Someone who can stand with him publicly. Someone who—"
"Someone who loves him?" Kieran’s reflection met mine in the mirror. "Because you do. It’s written all over your face every time you look at him. And you’re miserable without him. So either the closet is more important than your happiness, or..."
"Or what?"
"Or you’re just scared." He stripped off his jersey and shoulder pads. "And I get it. Coming out is terrifying. But you know what’s more terrifying? Living a lie so long you forget what truth feels like."
He walked away, leaving me alone with my reflection.
I stared at the stranger in the mirror. Captain. Franchise player. Five-year contract.
Miserable.
The locker room door opened.
Theo.
He was still in his suit, probably looking for Coach. He froze when he saw me.
We stared at each other across fifteen feet that felt like miles.
He looked thinner. Tired. The cut above his eyebrow was healing, a faint scar already forming.
Mirror image.
"Sorry," he said quietly. "Didn't know you were still here."
"Theo."
"Congratulations on the win." He turned to leave.
"Wait." The word tore out of me. "Please."
He stopped. He didn't turn around.
"I..." Everything I needed to say jammed in my throat. "I made a mistake."
His shoulders tensed. "You made your choice."
"I was wrong."
"Luca." He finally turned. His eyes held nothing—no hope, no anger, just exhaustion. "You got what you wanted. The contract, the captaincy, the perfect closeted life. Don't... don't mess with my head just because you feel guilty."
"It’s not guilt." I stepped closer. "It’s—"
"What? What is it?" His voice cracked. "Because from where I’m standing, you made it pretty clear that I was a distraction. A mistake. Something you couldn't afford."
"I was scared."
"And you aren't now?"
Honest answer. "I’m terrified."
He laughed, bitter. "Great. That’s great, Luca. You’re terrified, so you ended it. And now you’re still terrified, so—what? We get back together and you hide me better? I’m not interested in being your secret again."
"I don't want you to be a secret."
Silence.
Theo stared at me like I’d spoken a language he didn't understand.
"I signed the contract," I continued. The words came faster now, desperate. "I got everything I thought I wanted. And it’s... it’s empty. Meaningless. Because you aren't..." I stopped. "Because I love you."
His breath caught audibly.
"I love you," I repeated, and saying it again felt like breaking through ice.
"And I’ve been dying for weeks without you.
Watching you dim. Knowing I did that. And then seeing you get hit, and thinking.
.." My voice broke. "All I could think was that I wasted weeks being afraid when I could have been with you. "
Theo’s eyes shone with tears he refused to let fall. "You can't just... you can't say that now. After everything."
"I know."
"You called me a mistake."
"I was wrong."
"You chose the contract."
"I chose wrong." I closed the distance between us. "Theo, I don't know how to do this. Don't know how to be public, how to come out, how to... but I want to try. If you’ll let me. If I haven't..."
"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.