Chapter 11
Theo
Conference semifinals. Storm versus Minnesota. The rink roared with fifteen thousand voices that blurred into a single animal sound—hungry, demanding, electric. My skates carved the ice with a precision born from muscle memory and repetition.
Three weeks of mechanical hockey. Three weeks of showing up, doing my job, keeping my mouth shut.
Three weeks since Luca had looked me in the eye and called me a mistake.
I pushed harder into the turn, chasing the puck into the corner. My shoulder screamed—it had been bothering me since the second period, a dull ache that sharpened with every hit—but I ignored it. Pain was easy. Pain was simple. Pain didn't ask questions I couldn't answer.
The crowd’s roar shifted pitch.
I glanced up just long enough to see the Minnesota defenseman bearing down on me. Too fast. Too high. His stick was already rising.
I braced for impact.
The hit came from behind—a vicious cross-check directly between my shoulder blades that drove me face-first into the boards.
Something in my shoulder popped. Not the gentle release of a joint settling, but a wrongness that radiated through my entire body like a lightning strike.
My knees buckled. The ice rose up to meet my face. My stick clattered away. Sound became muffled and distant, filtered through a haze of white-hot pain that originated in my shoulder and spread like wildfire.
I couldn't breathe. I couldn't think. I could only process the fact that my right arm hung at the wrong angle, completely useless, and my vision was graying at the edges.
Somewhere above me, the crowd was screaming.
Somewhere close, skates scraped the ice with violence.
"...the fuck off him!"
Luca’s voice. Luca’s hands grabbing jersey fabric. Luca dropping his gloves and launching himself at the Minnesota defenseman with a fury I’d only seen once before—the night I took a hit meant for him.
But this was different. This wasn't controlled aggression. This was rage, pure and absolute.
I tried to push myself up with my left arm.
My right hung useless and screaming. I managed to roll onto my side just in time to see Luca land a punch that sent the Minnesota player sprawling.
The refs were already moving, but Luca didn't stop. He grabbed the guy’s jersey and hit him again. And again.
"Luca..." My voice came out as a wheeze. No one heard me over the chaos.
It took three officials to pull Luca away. He fought them, eyes wild, mouth forming words I couldn't hear over the ringing in my ears. Blood streaked his knuckles. His chest heaved like he’d sprinted a marathon.
Our eyes met across the ice.
Luca’s expression cracked—just for a second—revealing something raw and desperate underneath.
Then the refs were hauling him toward the tunnel. The Storm’s medical team was surrounding me. The moment shattered.
"Don't try to move," someone said. Kieran, I think. Hands pressed gently against my good shoulder. "Medical is coming. Just breathe."
I closed my eyes and tried to do exactly that.
The hospital room was too white. Too quiet. It smelled like antiseptic and floor wax.
I lay on the examination table while a doctor with steady hands and a calm voice manipulated my shoulder. Each movement sent fresh waves of agony radiating down my arm. I bit the inside of my cheek hard enough to taste copper.
"Separated shoulder," the doctor announced, stepping back. "Grade two, possibly three. We’ll need an MRI to confirm, but you’re looking at minimum six weeks. Possibly surgery depending on what the scan shows."
Six weeks. The Conference Finals started in four days.
"Can I play?" I asked, even though I already knew the answer.
The doctor’s expression said everything. "Not a chance. You try to take a hit with this shoulder, you’ll be looking at permanent damage. Career-ending, potentially."
Career-ending. The words echoed in the silence.
I nodded once, mechanically. Of course. Of course this was how it ended. Not with a Stanley Cup, not with vindication or glory, but with my arm in a sling and my captain—ex-whatever—ejected from the game for trying to kill someone on my behalf.
"We’ll get you set up with a sling and pain medication," the doctor continued. "Someone from the team will arrange follow-up appointments. Do you have anyone here with you?"
"The team is still playing," I said. My voice sounded flat even to my own ears.
The doctor nodded sympathetically and left to arrange the paperwork.
I sat alone in the too-white room and stared at my useless right arm. The immediate sharp pain had dulled to a persistent throb that radiated from shoulder to fingertips. My hockey career—everything I’d worked for since I was six years old—had just been put on pause.
I should call my parents. I should text the team group chat. I should do something other than sit here feeling hollow.
Instead, I closed my eyes and saw Luca’s face—that split second when our eyes met across the ice. The way his carefully constructed mask had completely shattered, revealing something that looked terrifyingly like anguish.
Then I remembered Luca’s voice in the equipment room three weeks ago. It was a mistake. All of it.
My shoulder throbbed in time with my pulse.
The door burst open.
Luca stood in the doorway. He was still in his gear except for his skates and gloves. His hair was wild, his knuckles were bleeding, and he had four stitches above his right eyebrow from a punch I hadn't even seen land. His chest heaved like he’d run the entire way from the arena.
"You’re supposed to be playing," I said.
"I got ejected." Luca’s voice was rough, scraped raw. "Game misconduct. Doesn't matter. Are you okay?"
"Separated shoulder. Out for six weeks minimum, possibly surgery." I kept my voice neutral. "You didn't need to come."
"Didn't need to..." Luca took three steps into the room and stopped. His hands flexed at his sides like he didn't know what to do with them. "Theo, I—"
"You should go back," I interrupted. "The team needs you."
"The team is fine. I need to—I had to make sure you were..." Luca’s voice cracked. He pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes. "Fuck. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry."
I watched him with a strange detachment.
Luca looked wrecked—truly, completely wrecked—and three weeks ago that might have meant something.
Three weeks ago, I might have reached out with my good arm and pulled him close.
I might have said it’s okay or I’m fine or any of the easy comforts that came naturally.
But three weeks ago, Luca had looked me in the eye and chosen fear.
"It’s not your fault I got hit," I said.
"That isn't what I’m apologizing for." Luca lowered his hands. His eyes were red-rimmed, desperate. "I’m apologizing for being a coward. For pushing you away. For—Christ, Theo, for everything."
The hollow feeling in my chest expanded. "Luca..."
"I signed the contract," Luca said in a rush.
"Five years, no-movement clause. I met with my father afterward and he talked about keeping my image clean and avoiding distractions and I just..
. I nodded. I agreed with him. I came to practice the next day and looked at you and convinced myself that ending things was the right choice. The smart choice."
My shoulder throbbed. My head felt stuffed with cotton. "Why are you telling me this?"
"Because I watched you take that hit and I..." Luca’s voice broke completely. "I couldn't breathe. I couldn't think. All I could see was you on the ice and I just—I lost it. Completely lost it."
"I noticed." My mouth was dry. "You put a guy in the hospital."
"He deserved worse." There was no remorse in Luca’s voice, just flat certainty. Then his expression crumbled. "But that isn't... Theo, when I saw you go down, nothing else mattered. Not the contract, not my career, not my father or the closet or anything. Just you."
The words hung in the sterile air.
I wanted to believe him. God, I wanted to believe him so badly it physically hurt. But I’d already done this dance—already opened myself up and gotten shut down. I’d already let myself hope.
"You’re scared," I said quietly. "I get it. But being scared doesn't give you the right to wreck me every time you panic."
Luca flinched like he’d been struck. "You’re right. You’re absolutely right. I’ve been—I’m a mess, Theo. I’ve been closeted since I was fourteen and I don't know how to... I don't know how to be anything else."
"Then maybe you should figure that out before dragging someone else into it."
"I don't want to figure it out alone." Luca crossed the remaining distance between us and dropped to his knees beside the examination table. Up close, I could see the cut above his eyebrow was still oozing slightly. I could see the burst capillaries in his knuckles, the wild desperation in his eyes. "I’ve been alone for sixteen years and I’m so tired, Theo. I’m so goddamn tired of pretending. "
My chest constricted. My good hand twitched with the urge to reach out, to touch, to comfort. I forced myself to stay still.
"What happened?" I asked instead.
Luca closed his eyes. "I told you about Sam. We were stupid about it—held hands in the hallway, kissed behind the bleachers. Someone saw. Posted pictures online. Within twenty-four hours, everyone knew. My teammates. My coaches. My parents."
"What did they do?"
"My father sat me down and explained—very calmly, very rationally—exactly how being gay would destroy any chance I had at a hockey career. How scouts and coaches and GMs would never take a risk on someone like that. How I’d be a liability in the locker room.
" Luca’s voice was hollow. "Then he enrolled me in a new school, moved me to a different team, and told me we would never speak about it again. "
My stomach twisted. "Luca..."
"Sam left his house that night and got jumped by three guys from our school. They put him in the hospital with a broken jaw and two fractured ribs." Luca opened his eyes, and they were bleak. "He was fifteen. And it was my fault for not being careful enough."
"It wasn't your fault," I said immediately. "It was theirs. The guys who attacked him, the people who outed you—"
"I know that logically." Luca’s laugh was bitter. "But I also learned that being visible has consequences. And I’ve spent ten years making sure I was invisible enough that no one would ever get hurt because of me again."
The pieces clicked together. The rigid control. The panic. The way Luca had pushed me away the moment things felt too real.
"I’m not Sam," I said carefully. "And you aren't fourteen anymore."
"I know. I know that. But when my agent started talking about image and my father started talking about avoiding distractions, all I could think was.
.." Luca pressed his palms against his thighs, fingers digging in hard enough to leave marks.
"All I could think was that if anyone found out about us, you’d be the one who got hurt.
Your career is just starting. I have the captaincy, the contract, the reputation.
I couldn't let you become collateral damage. "
"That wasn't your choice to make for me."
"I know." Luca’s voice cracked again. "I know, and I’m sorry. I thought I was protecting you and I just... I wrecked everything instead."
My shoulder throbbed. My head felt too heavy. The pain medication was starting to make everything fuzzy at the edges, and I needed to think clearly. I needed to figure out if this was real or just guilt and panic talking.
"What are you going to do about it?" I asked.
Luca looked up at me, eyes red and desperate and completely stripped of the mask I’d spent weeks trying to see beneath.
"Whatever it takes," he said. "I’ll tell the team. I’ll tell my father. I’ll hold a press conference if that’s what you need.
I don't care anymore, Theo. I can't... I can't keep living like this. "
"You’re scared," I said. Not an accusation. Just an observation.
"Terrified," Luca admitted. "But I’m more scared of losing you."
I closed my eyes. My shoulder was screaming, my head was spinning, and Luca Moretti was on his knees in a hospital room promising to blow up his entire carefully constructed life.
It should have felt triumphant. It should have felt like vindication.
"I need to think," I said quietly. "I need... I can't do this right now, Luca. I’m on pain meds and I just found out my season is over and I—"
"Okay." Luca stood immediately, carefully not touching my injured side. "Okay. Take all the time you need."
He turned to leave.
"Luca."
He stopped, hand on the door handle.
"I believe you," I said. "About being scared. About wanting to try. I just... I need to believe you’ll actually follow through when it gets hard."
Luca’s shoulders hunched. "I will. I promise, I will."
Then he was gone, and I was alone in the too-white room with my ruined shoulder and the complicated weight of hope.