Page 25

Evan

As hyped as I am to battle against the Toronto Strikers, the moment I step onto the ice at Scotiabank Arena, it feels like it’s going to be a rough night. Maybe I feel negative because the stands are a sea of blue and white, and not a friendly face among them. Even during warm-ups, the Toronto fans are relentless, banging on the glass when we skate past. Screaming insults.

I thought Canadians were supposed to be polite?

“Can’t you just feel the love?” Noah’s grin is wry as he glides up beside me to circle our half of the rink. “I haven’t felt this much animosity since I broke up with my ex-girlfriend.”

I grin, trying to push through my morose feelings. “Our away game crew is definitely sparse tonight.”

“I guess they can’t make every game.” His gaze is assessing. “You doing okay? You seem stressed.”

I squint at him. “You saying you’re not stressed? If so, I want some of what you’re taking.”

“Oh, I’m plenty stressed. You just seem extra tense.”

I blow out a harsh breath. “Just feeling a lot of pressure as captain.”

“It’s not all on you, dude. We have to hold our own, the whole team.”

“I know.” I focus on the weight of the puck as I handle it, trying to get a feel for the ice. It’s harder than our home surface, less forgiving. I hope that’s not some cosmic sign.

“You sure you’re not feeling stressed out by your thug of a boyfriend?” His tone is causal, but I know he’s fishing. “You haven’t said much about him lately.”

My face warms. “Actually, things are going pretty well with him right now. I don’t have much to complain about.”

“Oh, really?” he laughs, looking uncertain.

“Yeah.” It’s the truth. Luca and I have spent every night since the wedding together. He’s been sweet with me, which is weird and confusing, but also really nice. To be honest, I’m a little worried about how much I like him.

“You’re not actually into him though, right?” Noah looks as if that’s unthinkable.

“Nah.” I avoid his gaze. “All I’m focused on right now is getting into the playoffs.” I should have known Noah wouldn’t approve of Luca and I growing closer. He hates Luca, and he has lots of valid reasons why. I should probably hate Luca too.

But I don’t. Not anymore.

“I really hope that’s true,” he murmurs, skating past me. “Cuz the team is all that matters. Not that asshole criminal.”

“I agree,” I say in a placating tone, watching him as he circles back around to me.

“Don’t forget all the stuff he did to you, Evan,” he grates out. “Sometimes you’re too fucking forgiving. The guy is bad news.”

“Dude, all I’m saying is he’s not being such a dick to me lately. Relax.”

Noah shakes his head and skates away as if he’s not buying it.

Anxiety shifts through me because I don’t want what I have with Luca, such as it is, to spoil my friendship with Noah. But now is not the time to worry about personal shit. Now is the moment to focus and win this game. The Ice Hawks need to keep our forward momentum. Because once you start losing, it’s hard to claw your way back.

Twenty minutes later, we’re lined up for the national anthems. I scan the Strikers’ lineup. They’re a formidable foe. Peters, their top center, is currently leading the league in points. Dougherty, their captain and defenseman, hasn’t allowed a goal while he’s been on the ice for the last four games. And their goalie, Temesvári, has a .932 save percentage.

The puck drops, and immediately we’re backpedaling. Peters wins the faceoff clean and kicks it back to Dougherty, who threads a stretch pass between our D pair. Their winger Yamamoto catches it in stride, forcing Noah to make a sprawling save in the first ten seconds.

“Wake the fuck up,” I bark as we reset for the next faceoff. “That can’t happen on the first shift. Jesus, guys .”

We manage to tighten up, but the Strikers are faster than us, more precise with their passes. Every time we get the puck in their zone, they collapse into a tight five-man box, clogging every passing lane. The first period is exhausting. We definitely chase more than we possess. It’s demoralizing to start off this lame.

With three minutes left in the period, I intercept a cross-ice pass and see daylight. I push the puck ahead and accelerate, legs burning as I create separation from the backchecking Striker. It’s just me and Temesvári now. I fake forehand, pull it to my backhand, then try to elevate it over his pad.

His glove flashes. The crowd erupts.

Fuck .

“Not today, Riley,” he says with a thick Hungarian accent as I spray snow stopping in front of his crease.

“Lucky save.” I force a smile, but inside I’m dying.

The buzzer sounds for intermission: 0-0, but we’ve been outshot 14-6.

That was not how we wanted our first period to go. The locker room reeks of sweat and athletic tape. Guys are gulping water, adjusting equipment, staring at the floor. Coach Daniels paces in front of the whiteboard.

“Guys, wake the fuck up. They’re playing their system and we’re playing into their fucking hands,” he says, voice tight with frustration. “We’re trying east-west passes through the neutral zone when they’ve got three guys stacked on the blue line. North-south, boys. Chip and chase if you have to. Make their D turn and work .”

He draws a few quick diagrams, but his words buzz in my ears. I know what we need to do. Everyone on the team does. Execution is the problem. We’re choking and it’s making me want to puke.

Torres elbows me. “You good, Captain? That shot to your knee hurting?”

“Nah.” My right knee is throbbing like a son-of-a-bitch where I blocked a shot late in the period. But the guys can’t know that. If I’m feeling weak, they’ll start doubting we can do this. “I’m Fine,” I lie. “I barely felt it.”

Second period starts better. We’re moving our feet, winning battles along the boards. I start to think our luck has changed, then five minutes in, Torres feeds me a perfect pass on a two-on-one. I one-time the shot, but the puck hits the crossbar with a sickening ping that seems to echo around the arena.

“Fuck.” I slam my stick against the boards as I return to the bench.

“Temper, Riley.” Coach gives me a warning look.

We try to rally, but things start to unravel from there. Three shifts later, it’s fucking disaster. Peters dangles around Miller, our defenseman, and threads a no-look backhand pass to Yamamoto on the backdoor. Noah has no chance. 1-0 Strikers.

The crowd is deafening, the air suddenly heavy with their celebration. I can feel the momentum shift even further in their direction. The guys keep looking to me for encouragement, but I’m too busy having a meltdown to be much help. We’re fucking spiraling. It’s embarrassing.

We push back, getting more offensive zone time, but Temesvári is a wall. Rodriguez has a point-blank chance that the Hungarian somehow snags with his blocker. Torres rings another shot off the post.

Jesus. Fucking. Christ. We can’t catch a break.

Then, with forty seconds left in the period, a chance: Dougherty gets called for holding, sending us to the power play.

“This is it,” I tell the power play unit as we take the ice. “Quick puck movement, get them moving side to side.”

We set up in their zone, working the puck around the perimeter. I find Mills with a cross-seam pass, and he immediately returns it to me as the defense shifts. I have a lane, I shoot—

Blocked. The puck kicks out to center, right onto Peters’ stick.

He’s off to the races, just me chasing. My legs are lead, lungs burning as I try to close the gap. He cuts across the crease, gets Noah to commit, then tucks it in on his forehand.

2-0 Strikers, shorthanded, with five seconds left in the period.

The Toronto crowd is in a frenzy. Peters celebrates by cupping his hand to his ear, drinking in their cheers. I want to break my stick over his head but instead skate slowly to our bench, feeling the weight of the C on my chest like an anchor.

“It’s not over,” I say in the locker room, trying to inject some belief. “We get one early, turn the momentum, and we’re right back in it.”

Some guys nod. Others stare blankly. We’ve been outplayed and we know it.

Coach also looks demoralized and keeps his speech simple. “Win your battles. Support each other. One shift at a time.”

Third period starts, and we’re desperate now. I take longer shifts, pushing through the burning in my legs. Eight minutes in, finally a breakthrough, Rodriguez forces a turnover behind their net, finds Jackson in the slot, who wires it top corner. The Toronto crowd goes silent for the first time all night.

“Let’s fucking go,” I shout as I fist bump Mills and skate back to the bench. “That’s one. Things are turning around.”

The energy changes. We’re hungrier, winning more puck battles. With seven minutes left, we get another power play when their defenseman Jensen high-sticks Miller.

“Same setup as before,” Coach says. “But get more traffic in front.”

We set up, working the puck with more urgency now. Mills finds me at the point, I fake a shot, then slide it to Rodriguez at the side of the net. He has Temesvári leaning the wrong way, an open net—

The puck rolls off his blade, sliding harmlessly through the crease.

No. Fucking. Way.

“Shit,” Rodriguez growls, slamming his stick on the ice. The chance evaporates as Toronto clears the zone.

With three minutes left, Coach pulls Jackson for an extra attacker. We’re throwing everything at them, shots from bad angles, desperate passes into traffic. I block a clearing attempt, keeping the puck in their zone, and fire a quick shot through a screen.

Temesvári doesn’t see it, but it hits a body in front and deflects wide.

The clock ticks down. Thirty seconds, then twenty. Toronto chips the puck out of their zone. Dougherty races to it, fires it the length of the ice.

Empty net goal. 3-1 Strikers.

The buzzer sounds like a funeral toll. I’m in shock. Gutted. My guys look pissed and wrecked. I want to throw a fucking tantrum to end all tantrums. We tried so fucking hard but we just couldn’t get there. My jersey is soaked through with sweat, sticking to my back as I line up for the obligatory handshakes. My hand feels heavy as I raise it to meet each Toronto player.

“Good game, Captain,” Peters says when we shake. His expression is neutral, respectful. “You guys are better than your record.”

Ouch.

My throat is tight as I say hoarsely, “Thanks. Good game.” I force myself to do and say the right thing because my team is watching me to see how I handle the loss. I can’t give into my desire to bitch and moan. We lost. Period. They outplayed us.

The visitors’ locker room at Scotiabank Arena is eerily quiet as we undress. The only sounds are equipment being dropped into bags, the occasional sigh or muttered curse. The air is thick with disappointment and the sour smell of wet gear.

“It’s one game,” Coach Daniels says finally, breaking the silence. “Clean up, get on the bus, and we’ll regroup tomorrow.”

He’s right, but the problem is one game can end things for a team in our position. We’re not out yet, but if we lose again, our chances of being in the playoffs are probably over. We don’t have any buffer now and that’s terrifying.

I sit in my stall long after most of the guys have hit the showers. When I finally drag myself under the water, I let the heated water pound against my aching muscles. That game was vicious. It’s one thing to leave everything on the ice and come out with a win, but getting your ass handed to you like that? The pain doesn’t even feel worth it.

As I dress, I check the standings on my phone. We’re still clinging to the final playoff spot, but the cushion is gone. The next game becomes that much more important.

Outside, the Toronto night is cold, a biting wind whipping between the downtown towers. The team bus idles by the curb, exhaust rising in the frigid air. I board last, nodding to the driver, then sink into an empty seat near the back.

As the bus pulls away from the arena, I watch the Toronto skyline slide past the window, the CN Tower illuminated against the night sky. In my head, I’m already replaying every shift, every missed opportunity, every mistake.

When my phone buzzes, I can’t deny the little thrill that goes through me. I’m kind of hoping it’s Luca. Not that I expect him to text me while I’m away, but part of me would like to know he’s thinking of me. Disappointment prods me when I see it’s Isabella texting, not Luca. But when I read the text, my heart almost stops.

Luca was ambushed. He’s in intensive care. You might not be safe right now. Tony will meet you at the airport when you land. Do not leave with anyone but Tony.

Isabella.

I reread the message over and over, feeling shocked and confused. Luca is in intensive care? Her message is cryptic, and I should be probably be worried about my own safety. Instead, my thoughts are consumed by what has happened to Luca. I can barely breathe at the thought Luca might die. Isabella didn’t give me any details. Was Luca shot? Stabbed? What exactly happened to Luca?

I grit my teeth, trying to stay calm. I need to remember he’s still alive. For the moment. Once I’m back in Seabrooke, Tony will meet me and I’ll have more answers. Will I be allowed to see Luca? Would Luca want me to visit him? Do I care if he’d want me there? I feel compelled to be there either way.

What if Luca dies before I can get there and I never see him again?

I’m not prepared for the wave of grief that washes over me. My emotions aren’t logical. Not if you think about how our relationship began. Yet, I feel a profound sense of loss at the idea Luca might pass. I clench my teeth against the panic and sadness that grips me. I try to picture Luca gone and it’s inconceivable to me. He’s such a force of power and aggression, how could a man like him be snuffed out?

Coach begins passing out Gatorade, and Noah makes his way unsteadily up the aisle to bring me one. He must see something on my face because he immediately takes the seat next to me.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, studying me. “Is it your mom?”

“No.” I swallow hard, trying to gather my thoughts. “I just got a text saying Luca is in the hospital,” I say softly. “He… he was ambushed or something.”

Noah’s eyes widen. “What the hell?”

I crack the lid open on my drink just to distract myself. I take a sip of the sweet liquid, staring at the back of the seat in front of me. “I don’t really know how bad it is or what happened.”

Noah leans back in the seat, looking stunned. “But he’s alive, right?”

“Yeah. At the moment.” My hands tremble when I put the lid back on my drink. I feel Noah’s gaze on me and when our eyes meet, he looks perplexed. I quirk my brows in question.

He grimaces. “It’s just, you actually seem upset.”

“I am upset,” I rasp. “He could die .”

“Right.” Noah nods. “Then he’d be out of your life.”

I glare at him. “Don’t fucking go there, Noah,” I growl.

He wilts slightly, but still says, “Isn’t that what you wanted all along? To get free of him?”

I grit my teeth, trying not to lose my temper. He doesn’t understand how drastically my feelings have changed in the last week. How could he? I’ve barely mentioned Luca lately because I figured Noah wouldn’t want to hear about him. Of course my sudden change of heart is confusing for him. It’s confusing for me.

“Look,” I say quietly. “I know you’re just watching out for me. But like I told you earlier, things have been good with Luca.” I clench my hand against my thigh. “If he dies, I’m not going to be happy about it.”

“I get that things have been good.” He frowns. “But how long do you think that would last? You know what he is. It’s never going to last, and you could end up dead just being around that violent asshole.”

I blow out a harsh breath. “Noah, I know you mean well, but don’t—” I shake my head. “Don’t say something you might regret, okay?”

He presses his lips tight, a line between his brows. “I can’t believe you actually care about him. He tried to murder you. How can you care about a man like that?”

“He’s not like that to me now.” I close my eyes, feeling sick and confused. “I… I’m telling you I don’t want him to die. Maybe you can’t grasp that I’d feel like I do, but don’t wish death on him, okay? Just don’t fucking do that, Noah.” My voice breaks.

“Okay,” he says in a quiet voice, patting my arm. “I’m sorry. I just worry about your safety.”

“I know. But I can’t handle any negativity right now.”

“All right.” He squeezes my arm. “I’m really sorry.”

“It’s okay,” I mutter.

I stare out the window and my reflection in the glass looks haunted. I’m shocked at just how distraught I appear. For so long I thought I hated Luca, and Noah’s right, I wanted him gone from my life. But this past week, something changed. I started looking forward to seeing him. The sex was amazing like always, but our connection had turned into something more. We talked about personal stuff and we laughed a lot. What began as a semi-hostage situation has morphed into something that feels like a real relationship. The idea of never hearing his laugh again, or feeling his touch guts me. But that could very well be what’s about to happen.

The terrifying reality is Luca might die before I can get to him.

****

Tony picks me up at the airport just as Isabella said he would. There are several armed men with him and he doesn’t smile when he sees me. His expression is grim as he leads me to the SUV. Once inside the vehicle, I turn to him, almost afraid to ask about Luca.

Maybe he sees something in my expression because the first thing he says is, “He’s alive.”

I slump with relief, closing my eyes as my emotions get the best of me. Clenching my jaw, I stuff down what feelings I can, and open my eyes again. “Can I see him?”

“No. Not yet.”

Frustration nips at me. “Why not?”

He chuffs. “Because it’s not safe. Why do you think I rushed over to pick your ass up? Luca was worried you’d be in danger. Significant others are easy marks.”

I frown. “Wouldn’t I be safe at the hospital with Luca?”

“The hospital isn’t secure. We can’t worry about protecting you and him, okay? I’m taking you back to the house like Luca requested. You need to relax and just let us do what we do best, Evan.”

I hold his gaze, wanting to argue, but then I relent. “Can you at least tell me what exactly happened? What’s wrong with Luca?”

He lets out a shaky breath. “He has a head injury. The assholes who attacked him tried to murder him by shooting up his car. When that didn’t work, they rammed his SUV. He suffered blunt force trauma to the temple and a deep laceration that, according to Marco, bled like a tsunami.”

“Jesus,” I hiss, feeling sick picturing Luca bleeding and broken.

“Yeah, but thank goodness Marco was with him.” A twisted smile plays around Tony’s lips. “He’s a beast when it comes to protecting Luca. Fuckers thought they had the upper hand against Luca, but Marco wasn’t having it.”

“Who attacked Luca?”

“Some dirty snakes who pretended to be loyal decided to make a move.” His voice is laced with disgust. “Maria Calabrese seduced Tommy O’Malley into helping her stab Luca in the back.”

I heard those names brought up at the wedding, but no details stuck. “I thought you wise guys were all about loyalty?”

He laughs humorlessly. “Maria murdered her own husband. I don’t think loyalty is in her vocabulary.”

“She what?” I recoil.

“Nobody could prove it, but everybody knew the bitch did it.” His voice is harsh. “But that situation doesn’t matter anymore. Since she took on more than she could chew today and failed miserably. She’s fucking dead meat. Tommy too.”

“I don’t understand your world,” I say in disgust, glancing around uneasily at the cars outside on the road. “How can you ever really trust anyone?”

“You can’t.” He watches me and then adds, “Or at least, you can’t trust blindly.”

“But didn’t Luca trust that Maria bitch?” I scowl.

“Hell no, he didn’t trust her. He doesn’t fully trust anyone but family and Marco.” He shrugs. “But he kept them around because Maria and Tommy were useful. Now they’re not.”

“Will Luca kill them?” I ask hesitantly, pretty sure I know the answer.

He glances at me, anger simmering in his dark eyes. “Don’t worry about it. It’s not your problem.”

I lean back against the seat, feeling conflicted. I’m not someone who loves violence, off the ice. But I can’t say the idea of that Maria bitch and Tommy whoever dying bothers me. I’m angry they tried to murder Luca, even as I realize that’s the world he lives in. I know he’s killed people. I know he doesn’t even think anything is wrong with taking a life. Still, I want Maria and her cohort to pay for what they did to Luca. I guess the more I’m around Luca, the more he’s rubbing off on me.

“How long will he be at the hospital?” I ask.

“His CT scan was clear and there’s no brain bleed. The doctor said he could go home in a day or two.” His grin is wry. “Of course, Luca threw a fit and thought he should go home immediately. Even half dead he’s thirsty for revenge.”

“I suppose if he’s able to throw a fit, he must not be on death’s door?” I ask hopefully.

He sighs. “Hard to tell with Luca. He’s like Marco. They could have a knife stuck in their eyeball and they’d say they were fine.” His phone buzzes in his pocket and he tugs it out. “Frankly, he was more worried about you than himself. Stubborn son of a bitch wouldn’t relax until he knew you were safe.”

My chest tightens at the thought Luca cared that much about my safety. It reassures me that maybe what I’ve been feeling isn’t one sided. I turn to look out the window as he speaks softly into the phone. He seems to be having a quiet argument with someone. I tune him out because I have no interest in listening in on his conversation. If I can’t go see Luca, I just want to go home and crash. It’s been an awful twenty-four-hours. First we lost our game, then I find out Luca was almost killed. I just want to sleep and pretend the world isn’t pure dog shit right now.

When we reach Luca’s home, it’s around 5:00 a.m. Tony drops me off and then immediately leaves again. I drag my suitcase up to the front door, and before I can use my key, the butler, Williams opens the door.

He steps aside. “Come in, sir. I apologize, I thought it might be Miss Isabella arriving home.”

“She’s not here?” I’m disappointed to hear that. I know Isabella would have given me all the dirty details I wanted.

“No, the family is at the hospital with Mr. Luca,” he says, shaking his head as he closes the heavy door behind me. “Terrible business. We’re all very grateful he’s going to be all right.”

“Yes.” I smile tiredly, hoping that’s true. Head injuries are tricky and can have lasting repercussions.

“Would you like something to eat? I could have breakfast brought to your room, if you’d like?” He peers at me with his slate gray eyes. “Perhaps some coffee?”

“I think I need sleep more than anything else.” My body is sore from the game, and my mind overwhelmed from what happened to Luca. I want to escape to my bed.

“Of course.” Williams nods. “Have a good rest, Mr. Evan.”

“Thanks.” I trudge up the stairs with my suitcase. It feels about a hundred pounds heavier than when I left.

I already showered after the game, so I strip down to my briefs and climb into bed. I lie there for a while, trying to shut off my mind, but I can’t. No matter how hard I try, I can’t stop thinking about Luca. I worry the doctors might have missed something. I really wished Tony would have let me see him. Even if only briefly. I’d have felt better hearing his voice and seeing for myself he’s okay.

An idea comes to me, but I hesitate. Would Luca mind if I slept in his bed while he’s in the hospital? He probably wouldn’t care. I feel like just being in his bed might relax me. Comfort me. I give a sheepish laugh and throw back the covers, and head to the connecting door between our rooms.

When I enter his room, my heart twinges at the familiar scent of his cologne. I go straight to his bed and I climb under the covers. I push my face into his pillow and I close my eyes. Luca doesn’t need to know that I sought comfort in his room. I’m certainly not going to tell him. He’s never hinted this thing between us is anything but sex. Probably because that’s all it is for him.

Still, I feel better lying in his bed with his scent surrounding me. I close my eyes and give a contented sigh. What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him.