Page 21 of On Ice

Evan

I don’t see Luca before I leave for my away game against the Minnesota Wolves. I know he’s back from Italy, but apparently he couldn’t be bothered to make time to see me. Why does that irritate me? Is it just an ego thing? I don’t actually give a shit if Luca gives me his attention. At least, that’s what I tell myself on the bus ride over to the Ice Den Arena, when it’s game time.

Stepping onto Minnesota ice feels like coming home and trespassing simultaneously. My skates carve familiar patterns during warm-ups, muscle memory taking over as I weave between teammates. The pressure of wearing the captain’s C is intensified this close to playoffs. Sometimes I wish I wasn’t captain of the team, but I’m too much of a control freak to relinquish the title.

Fans press against the glass during warm-ups, some wearing my jersey from when I played for the state championship. One holds a sign: “WELCOME HOME RILEY.” I’m flattered, but their enthusiasm just adds another layer of stress on me. I don’t want to embarrass myself by playing shitty hockey in the state where I grew up.

In the tunnel before introductions, I close my eyes and let the pre-game sounds wash over me. The murmur of the crowd fills the space, Torres bounces on his skates like he might explode from nervous energy, and the gentle thump of Deck’s helmet against the wall once, twice, three times. It’s a little superstition he started a few years ago. A lot of the guys have them.

The Minnesota Ice Den lives up to its name, cold enough to see your breath even in the stands. Their mascot, a snarling wolf, glares down from center ice as we take our positions for the opening face-off. The Arctic Wolves boast the fastest top line in the conference, and their home crowd knows it, the ambient noise already building to a roar.

My heart pounds in my ears as the referee approaches with the puck. Across from me, Lindholm’s eyes narrow in focus. The rest of the arena fades away. There’s only this moment, and this battle that’s about to begin.

I win the first draw, but Minnesota’s Eriksson strips the puck from Mills before we can establish possession. They transition instantly, three players streaking up ice in perfect formation. Noah slides post to post as their shot rings off the crossbar, the sound echoing through the arena.

Stay with your man,” Coach Baker yells from the bench, his face flushed red.

The first period is a track meet. End-to-end rushes, odd-man breaks, goalies sprawling to cover pucks that somehow stay out of both nets. Minnesota hits everything that moves, and I’ll be feeling Bergstrom’s check on my shoulder tomorrow. The scoreboard reads 0-0, but I know it’s just a matter of time before one of us scores. It feels like playing with matches in a room full of gasoline.

During a television timeout, I gulp water at the bench, watching the arena around me. I used to dream about playing here as a kid. The reality is both more and less than I imagined, the lights brighter, the collisions harder, the stakes higher than that little boy could have comprehended.

Deck leans over, chewing on his mouthguard. “They’re pushing too hard on their breakouts. Getting cocky.”

I nod. “That’s good for us. We need to stay patient and capitalize on any mistakes.”

Between periods, the locker room is unusually quiet. Everyone knows what this game means for playoff positioning. Mills is favoring his ankle after blocking a slapshot with his boot. Noah sits in his stall, chest protector loosened and mask off, sweat dripping from his hair despite the arena’s chill.

Coach taps the whiteboard with his marker, circling the neutral zone. “They’re sending both wingers deep on the forecheck, leaving this seam wide open. When we get possession, I want quick outlets to the far blue line. First look is the stretch pass. Mills, Riley, you two hang high when we’re breaking out. Make them pay for overcommitting.”

I listen to him while sitting in my stall, jersey and shoulder pads removed. One of the trainers digs his thumb into the muscle where Bergstrom’s hit landed, making me wince as he works on the knot forming there. I guzzle a bottle of water between grimaces.

The second period starts with a Minnesota power play after Deck takes a tripping penalty. Their unit moves the puck with precision, finding seams in our coverage. Noah makes three saves in rapid succession before a point shot deflects off Torres’ skate and in. 1-0 Wolves.

Fuck.

Torres stares at the ice, devastation written across his face. I know that feeling, the helplessness of watching the puck go in off your own body. “Shake it off,” I tell him, slapping his back. “Not your fault.”

He nods, but he’s still blaming himself. That’s obvious from his dark expression. Hopefully he’ll use that anger to get even instead of imploding with guilt.

It sucks that the Wolves drew first blood, but we answer five minutes later. Mills threads a perfect pass between two defenders, finding me open on the back door. The goal ties the game but does nothing to slow the pace. If anything, Minnesota pushes harder.

The third period starts with the score still knotted at one. Every shift feels critical, every puck battle potentially decisive. My lungs burn and my thighs ache from exertion. Torres redeems himself with a diving play to break up a three-on-one. Noah stands on his head, making saves that will definitely make highlight reels. We’re all giving it everything we have.

The game feels both like an eternity and like it’s almost over before it’s begun. With two minutes left, Coach calls a timeout. We’re still tied, still urgently needing these points. My legs muscles are scorched from the double-shift, but adrenaline drowns out the fatigue. There’s only the next face-off, the play we need to execute, the two points we can’t afford to lose. Everything narrows to this moment; the game, the playoff race, the next 120 seconds that could possibly define our season.

“Riley, Jackson, Mills up front.” Coach Baker hunches into our huddle, voice cutting through the arena noise, breath fogging in the cold air. “Torres and Johnson on the back end. Offensive zone draw, we need this clean.” He taps two fingers on the bench, eyes intense. “Strong-side overload. They’ll collapse when Torres cuts to the net. That’s when we find Mills on the back door.”

Unfortunately, I lose the face-off clean despite getting perfect positioning. Minnesota’s center wins it back to their defenseman, who immediately fires the puck down the ice. We regroup, but their forecheck pressures us into a turnover at our blue line.

The final minutes are agony. Minnesota throws everything at us, their desperation matching our own. With thirty seconds left, Lindholm breaks in alone. Noah challenges, forcing him wide, but the rebound sits dangerously in the crease. Three Minnesota players crash the net. I dive into the pile, fishing for the puck blindly. Sticks slash, bodies tangle, someone’s skate blade passes inches from my face. I feel the puck jam up against my glove, and I sweep it desperately toward the corner.

Torres recovers, spins, and sends a perfect stretch pass to Mills breaking free at center ice. The crowd holds its collective breath as he crosses the blue line with ten seconds left. I’m still picking myself up off the ice, watching as Mills dekes forehand-backhand. The goalie bites, dropping to his pads as Mills lifts the puck over his outstretched glove and into the top corner. The red light flashes. The buzzer sounds.

2-1. We’ve somehow stolen this game in the final seconds.

Our team grabs each other and hugs with almost hysterical excitement. Although we’re all wrecked, we can’t contain our joy. I’m so spent, I can barely lift my stick to salute our small contingent of traveling fans. But we won. Two critical points.

One step closer to the playoffs.

****

We fly home that night on the red eye, and by the time I reach Luca’s house, I’m dragging. Sammy must take pity on me because he insists on carrying my suitcase up to my room. I’m still not comfortable having security, but Sammy isn’t a bad guy. I mean, technically he is a bad guy, but he’s been nothing but polite and helpful since he started driving me everywhere.

I don’t even bother to unpack because I’m too tired. Instead, I strip down to my boxers and nothing else, and I crawl in the big, soft bed. With a groan, I close my eyes, breathing slowly in and out. I have to admit, this mattress is a million times nicer than my bed at home. It sounds cheesy, but it’s like sleeping on clouds.

When there’s a soft knock on the door that connects my room with Luca’s, every muscle in my body tenses. I lift my head, wondering if I imagined the sound. After all, it’s 2:00 a.m. and Luca hasn’t talked to me since before he left for Italy. Why would he bother with a visit at this hour?

But when I hear the sound again, I sit up on my elbow. “Come in?” I say gruffly, a question in my voice.

Luca steps into my room, wearing a dark blue satin robe and matching pajamas. My pulse immediately starts to race as he approaches me. He’s just as gorgeous as I remember, which I hate myself for noticing. But even if he frustrates the hell out of me, there’s no denying his dark good looks are the epitome of masculine perfection.

His gaze runs over my bare chest and shoulders, coming to rest on my face. “You’re home,” he says.

“Yes.” I frown. “Is something wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong.” Uninvited, he sits on the foot of my bed, looking perfectly at ease. “I saw you won your game against the Minnesota Wolves.”

I give a raspy laugh. “And you thought you’d come congratulate me at 2:00 a.m. in the morning? That probably could have waited.”

A muscle works in his cheek. “I wanted to give you time to think about something.”

I narrow my eyes. “What do I need to think about?”

What fresh hell is coming my way now?

He avoids my gaze, smoothing his hand over his satin-covered thigh. I’m beginning to realize that’s a little gesture he does when he’s stalling. When he finally lifts his eyes to mine, his expression is guarded. “As you know, we need to be seen in public as a couple. We should have already done that, but I had to fly to Italy.” He clears his throat. “I’d like you to accompany me to a wedding tomorrow.”

Surprised at the invitation, I blink at him. “A wedding?”

“Yes. My longtime associate Mario Spongilla’s daughter is getting married, and I need to make an appearance. Most of the bosses will be there, so it’s the perfect opportunity to be seen together.”

I’m fully aware our arrangement is all business, but his offhand delivery and timing gets under my skin. Who asks someone out on a date, even a fake one, in the middle of the night? Does he think I have nothing else to do but wait around for him to remember I exist? “So, you want to parade me around for your mafia friends like a show pony?”

He frowns. “For your own sake you need to be seen with me. This is the perfect type of event for something like that. Everyone will be there.”

I sigh. “Look, I literally just got back into town. I’m exhausted. I don’t want to go to some dumb wedding for people I’ve never met.”

“What do you care if you’ve met them? It’s just a way to have us seen together.”

I scowl. “You should have given me some warning.”

He rubs his jaw, looking sheepish. “Truth be told, I forgot about the wedding until my mother reminded me. But then I realized this wedding would be the perfect opportunity to introduce you around.”

Since he seems less bossy and more relatable now, some of my irritation fades. “Well, even if I wanted to go, which I don’t, I don’t have a suit here. I didn’t bring any with me from my apartment.”

“That’s fine. Odds are the suits you have are cheap. I’d prefer you wore something nicer if you’re going to be on my arm.”

I bristle at his snobby tone. “My suits aren’t cheap.”

He arches one brow. “I’ll bet a hundred bucks they’re off the rack.”

My face warms because he’s right. “So?”

He shrugs. “You need to dress for the part of my lover.”

“I’m sorry.” I laugh humorlessly. “Did you actually just say I need to dress for the part? Like I’m a stage prop?”

“Don’t be so touchy.” He obviously sees nothing wrong with his statement. “I’ll have some suits custom made for you. You’ll need them if you’re accompanying me places.”

“Do you really not hear yourself right now?”

He wrinkles his brow. “What’s wrong? You need to look a certain way to convince people we’re together. Why is that a bad thing?”

I squint at him. “You’re just so… arrogant about it all. Like I’m not good enough unless you step in and give me a makeover.”

He hesitates. “All I’m saying is whoever I’m with needs to look a certain way.”

“Yeah, I got that loud and clear.” I shake my head. “But you could put things nicer. You could make your point without putting me down at the same time.”

He watches me and then he shrugs. “What I should have said was you deserve a suit that looks as perfect as you.”

“Okay, now you’re just mocking me.”

“I’m really not.” He runs his gaze over my bare chest. “You know I find you extremely attractive. You have nothing to be insecure about.”

“I’m not insecure .” I frown. “I’m annoyed that you’re acting like you’re doing me a favor by being seen with me. Believe it or not, I don’t have trouble getting guys.”

“I’m sure that’s true.”

“And this is all a moot point anyway because if my cheap suits aren’t good enough for you, then I don’t have anything to wear to the wedding. So, that means I’m not going.”

“What if I told you I can have the perfect suit delivered in a few hours?”

“I’d say you’re nuts. You can’t DoorDash a tailored suit.”

“Have you forgotten who I am? I can get anything I need, remember?” He looks smug, which irritates me all over again.

I grumble, “That doesn’t change the fact that I’m exhausted.”

“True,” he says agreeably. “But if you go to sleep in the next few minutes, you could sleep until 10:30 a.m. and get a full eight hours rest.”

“Even so,” I mutter, glancing at my phone to check the time. “I’m still not thrilled about going at all.”

He gives an impatient grunt. “So, it’s not just that you’re tired or that you don’t have a suit. You simply don’t want to go.”

I grimace. “Luca, if you want me to go places with you, you need to give me more warning. You can’t just spring something like this on me in the middle of the night the day before the event.”

“I know.” He winces, and his tone is surprisingly appeasing. “I’m sorry. Like I said, I forgot all about the wedding.”

His apology throws me. I expected him to respond with anger because I’m not cooperating. That would be his usual MO. But he seems more conciliatory than upset. He reminds me more of the Luca I met that first night. Is he manipulating me? Playing the nice guy role? Probably. Just because he’s not outright intimidating me, doesn’t mean he’s now a good person.

He bites his bottom lip, studying me. I wait for the threats to come, but instead of bullying me, he says softly, “You don’t think, after a little sleep, maybe you’d be more willing to go with me?”

I’m so confused by why he’s being patient with me, I’m speechless. I finally grate out, “I’m not sure.”

He grimaces. “I’m stuck going either way. I hate weddings. It sure would be nice to have your company.”

His coaxing voice gets through to me. After all, he’s not asking anything that difficult of me. We do need to go places together if we’re ever going to establish that we’re a couple. My safety depends on people accepting that narrative.

“What time is the wedding?” I ask gruffly.

“We’d need to be at the church by 3:00 p.m. So we’d need to leave here at 2:00 p.m.” He leans toward me. “What do you think? Would it really be so bad to spend some time with me, drinking expensive champagne and feasting on delicious Italian food?”

I grimace. “I’m sure I’d enjoy myself some . I truly am tired though. Yeah, we won, but it was a brutal game.” I rub my eyes with the heels of my hands, and then rest them in my lap. “Honestly, I’m wiped. I don’t even know if eight hours is enough sleep to get me ready to go socialize with a bunch of strangers.”

He looks disappointed. “I see.” I wait for aggressive Luca to appear, but instead he says softly, “Well, if you’re too tired, you’re too tired.”

That’s it? What the hell is he up to?

I watch him warily, convinced that Threating Luca is lurking beneath his polite mask. “You’re okay if I don’t go?”

He shrugs. “I mean, I want you to go with me. But I understand why you’re exhausted,” he says. “I saw the last half of your game on TV. It was a nail bitter, but you guys played your hearts out. I was proud of you.”

I’m surprised by how much I enjoy his praise. It warms me and makes me feel more open to him. “They wanted it as bad as we did.”

“Yeah they did.” A gleam of satisfaction appears in his eyes. “But you beat them, and that’s what matters.”

“Damn straight.”

“Keep playing that well, and the Ice Hawks are guaranteed to get into the playoffs.”

I clench my hands. “I hope so. I can almost fucking taste it.”

“I’ll bet.” He smirks. “I did notice a few things about the Ice Hawks defense. I’d love to share my observations with the team.”

I narrow my eyes. “Luca, don’t you dare. Anything you saw Coach will have seen too.” He grins and my stomach tightens. I don’t see him smile often, but when he does it’s beautiful.

“I’m just kidding,” he says softly. “I had you going there for a few moments, though, didn’t I?”

I laugh sheepishly. “Yeah, you did. As I recall, last time we were together you didn’t hold back.”

“True, but I’ve been told I should keep my brilliant observations to myself.” His lips twitch.

I’m surprised at how well we’re getting along. We’ve been at each other’s throats since the morning after we slept together. It’s a relief not to be angry with him for once. Not that I think this truce will hold. It’s only a matter of time before his asshole side reappears, I’m sure.

He watches me for a few moments, then he stands. “I’ll try to think of some other event for you to join me at. I’ll give you more warning next time.” He turns and starts to head to the door that connects our rooms.

Baffled that he’s accepted my rejection, I find myself calling out, “Luca, wait.”

He stops and turns back toward me. “Yes?”

I really don’t want to go to that damn wedding, but I also feel bad rejecting him. It’s not a logical reaction, especially after all he’s put me through. But he’s being nice about it, and I feel guilty. “If… if you really want me to go with you, I guess I can go.”

“Really?” He blinks at me, and his surprise seems genuine.

I shrug. “You seem to think it’s important, so I’ll do it.”

He smiles and heat flutters through me. “That’s fantastic. Thanks, Evan.”

“Uh, sure.” I’m not sure why it feels so good to make him happy.

Some of the tension in his shoulders eases. “It’ll be fun. My family will be there too, so you’ll know a few people.”

“Will they be there?” I brighten. I’m especially happy to hear Isabella will be there. She’s so warm, I feel the most comfortable with her.

“Yes. Mario Spongilla is an important ally of the Barone Syndicate. The whole family wants to be there to celebrate his daughter’s marriage. Thanks again for agreeing to be there with us.”

“You’re welcome.” I grimace.

“It’ll be nice to spend some time with you again.” His gaze travels over my bare chest and shoulders. I can see the heat in his dark eyes, but he simply moves toward the connecting door.

“What am I going to do about a suit?”

“I’ll call my tailor when I get back to my room,” he says over his shoulder. “I’ll ask him to deliver the suit early tomorrow morning.”

I frown. “Doesn’t he need my measurements for the suit?”

He stops and pivots, facing me. “No.”

“No?” I give a confused laugh.

He gives a salacious smile. “I’m familiar with your body, remember?”

My cheeks warm. “I’m familiar with yours too, but not sure I could order you a suit from memory, and have it fit right.”

He hesitates, pursing his lips. “Tell you what. If the suit doesn’t fit well, I’ll let you out of our agreement.”

Shocked, I blink at him. “Seriously?”

“Sure.” He tugs at one of his robe cuffs, looking unconcerned.

I laugh. “Just like that? You’d really let me out of our agreement with no repercussions?”

“Absolutely. If the suit doesn’t fit you like a glove, you’re a free man.” He meets my gaze again, his expression cocky. “Deal?”

“Uh… yeah, deal,” I mutter, eyeing him suspiciously. “How do I know you’re not just toying with me?”

“I’m not. You’ll just have to trust me.”

“You don’t ask for much, do you?” I say wryly.

He smiles. “Have a good night’s sleep, Evan.” He leaves my room without another word.

I slide down under the covers, bewildered by why he’d make a bet like that. He’s either supremely confident, or he really has lost interest in me. I’m bewildered to feel a nudge of disappointment that it might be the latter.