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luca

I ’m supposed to be thinking about my stride. About my stick angle. About defensive coverage and closing gaps and staying light on my skates.

But instead, I’m thinking about Nova.

Duh—what else is new?

Ha.

Coach is barking drills, and I hear him— kind of —but it’s like his voice is underwater, distant and distorted. Like it’s competing with the replay in my head of her bare shoulders under the bathroom light and the sound she made when I kissed the inside of her knee.

I swear I’ve hit the boards three times today because I was zoned out.

“Babineaux!” Coach shouts, jolting me. “Wake up!”

“Yeah.” I give him a thumbs-up inside my glove. “All good.”

It’s not.

Because Nova left this morning without a goodbye.

No note. No text. No nothing.

And I can’t decide if that’s a bad sign—or just her way of protecting herself from whatever this thing is between us.

As hard as it is, I’m trying to give her space .

I swear I am.

Even though every cell in my body is itching to reach for my phone. Even though all I want to do is check if she made it home okay, if she slept at all, if she’s feeling as twisted up inside as I am.

“Luca!” That’s Horowitz, our team captain, skating up beside me and nudging my shoulder with the blade of his stick. He taps it on the side of my helmet. “You alive in there?”

“Barely.”

“You’re skating like your legs are filled with cement. Everything okay?”

“Yup,” I lie, glancing toward the other end of the ice where Gio is on his knees, blocking a slap shot during shooting drills. Our eyes catch for half a second—nothing more—but it still punches the air out of my lungs.

He doesn’t know. He can’t know.

But he’s watching me today for some reason.

Clocking something.

Horowitz follows my gaze and his brows raise inside his helmet. “There a problem?”

“Eh? No.” I shrug. “Just didn’t sleep well.”

Didn’t sleep because I was up most of the night fucking and spooning Montagalo’s sister , who I’m falling in love with but who keeps me her dirty little secret.

The deeper my feelings get, the heavier the secret weighs on my chest.

Pressing down like a stone sitting on me.

I’m used to playing with pressure. I thrive under pressure. Late-game minutes, overtime faceoffs, penalty kills with the game on the line—I can handle all that.

It’s beginning to feel messy. There’s too many feelings involved.

When I have nothing more to add, Horowitz skates off, unconvinced but done pushing. I focus on keeping my blades under me long enough to finish the next drill without collapsing under the weight of all the shit I’m not saying.

Across the ice, Gio drops into a butterfly, pads flaring wide as he tracks the puck with laser focus. He snatches it clean out of the air with his glove, like it was nothing. Everything comes easy to him.

He rises. Stretches. Skates by with a smirk, fist-bumping one of the rookies as he passes.

And I feel sick.

Eventually we have a break, and wouldn’t you know it, he skates over to stand next to me, flipping up the plastic of his mask to let in a rush of cold air and take a swig from a water bottle.

“You look like shit,” he tells me, something casual you say to jerk-around a teammate.

“Thanks,” I mutter, dragging my glove across my mouth, wiping sweat and drool from my mouth guard.

Fucking gross.

“No, seriously.” He squints at me. “Are you dying? Or just hungover?

If I give him nothing, maybe he’ll move on.

But Gio doesn’t move on.

He wipes the sweat from his brow with his blocker and tilts his head. “Wonder if something’s going around—Nova feels like shit too.”

My heart skips a beat.

“Oh?” I force myself to sound vaguely interested, not like my entire nervous system just short-circuited. “She sick or something?”

“She said she was tired,” he says, rolling his eyes. “But she looked...” He forces out a laugh. “I know it sounds fucked up, but we have this weird twin thing and I feel like…”

Gio clicks his tongue. “She’s hiding something.”

My stomach drops into my ass .

Every muscle in my body goes taut, like I’ve just taken a hit along the boards and haven’t caught my breath yet.

Hyper-aware.

Razor-sharp.

Reading between the lines like it’s muscle memory.

Gio’s job is to study people; their movements. Their eyes. Where they’re looking to anticipate their next move before they make it.

Fuck.

“Yup, she’s hiding something,” he says—quieter this time, testing the words out on his tongue.

I scoff, but it comes out forced. “Nova is always hiding something. That’s her default setting.”

Gio doesn’t smile—he studies me.

And I realize, too late, that this was the wrong thing to say .

He knows his sister and he knows me—and I’ve never been the type of dude to make snarky comments, especially about his personal life. Ever.

Gio narrows his eyes. “You two haven’t spoken lately—have you?”

The air in my lungs freezes. “Eh?”

“You and Nova,” he says, wiping sweat from his jaw with his blocker. “You don’t talk.”

Slowly, I shake my head. “Nope. Why?”

I can’t look at him when I say it.

Can’t meet his eyes.

Because I just lied to his face.

I skate away in a slow circle; shake it off. Look natural. Be cool. Act like I’m gassed from drills and not visibly shaking from the inquisition.

Why the fuck did I stop moving? If I say one more thing to Gio it’s going to be words I can’t take back.

Something like:

Yeah, Gio, I talked to your sister.

All night long with my mouth on her body …

While she was in my bed wearing nothing but my number.

Naked.

I push off harder, circle the net, snap my head down like I’m adjusting my visor. I need a second. One breath. One beat to get myself together.

I hate myself.

I can already picture the fallout if he were to find out. No—when he finds out:

The betrayal.

The silence will be colder than any hit I’ve taken.

Maybe he’d swing.

Maybe he’d walk away.

Maybe he’d say nothing at all— which somehow feels worse .

I’ve seen Gio pissed. He doesn’t blow up when he’s mad. He shuts down. Locks the door and throws away the key and I know if it came down to choosing between me and Nova?

He’d pick her.

Every time—as he should.

She is his blood. His sister. His twin.

The part that guts me? I wouldn’t blame him for never speaking to me again because I’m not just some random guy who hooked up with his sister.

I’m his teammate.

His friend.

The guy he trusted with stories, locker room secrets, team drama, game strategy — his life.

I skated right over the line.

The acid hits my throat before I realize it’s coming, then it’s just reflux—violent, messy, and humiliating .

I hunch over and puke.

Right there on the pristine white ice, behind the boards near the Zamboni gate.

Someone whistles. Someone else groans.

“Jesus Christ, Babi?—”

That’s probably Horowitz talking .

Skates scrape as a few guys slow down, glance over, but I don’t lift my head. I stay doubled over, gloves on my knees, forehead nearly touching the glass.

It’s not just nausea—it’s everything.

The secret.

The guilt.

The weight of Gio’s guarded tone lingering in my head because I had Nova’s body in my bed.

“Yo—someone get him water!”

A stick clatters to the ice behind me. A hand touches my back. “You okay, man?”

I nod. Barely . “Sure.”

But I’m not.

I’m absolutely not okay, man.

I feel hands on my shoulders, steadying me. Coach shouting something about pulling me off the ice, telling me to hit the locker room, go cool down.

I lift my head long enough to see Gio watching me from the goalie box.

Helmet tipped up.

Stick braced on his knees.

The eyes locked on my face are sharp. Curious.

Suspicious.

There’s a crease between his brows. One I’ve seen before—during losses, during fights, during team drama when he couldn’t make sense of it.

I push off the ice, cutting toward the locker room tunnel with slow, stiff strides. My legs feel like they’re made of rubber; heavy with adrenaline and bullshit and fear.

Behind me, the whistle blows.

Practice resets.

But I’m already gone.

And I swear, I can still feel his eyes on my back the whole way out that makes one thing clear:

I can’t do this.