Page 27

Evan

After the night Luca almost died, things have changed between us. Since we were both willing to be vulnerable and admit we want to be together, some of the tension has left us. It’s nuts that I’m falling for a guy like Luca, but I can’t change how I feel. On the surface, we’re two very different people, but when we’re together, our personalities complement each other.

I won’t pretend being with me has softened Luca. He’s no pussycat. He’s still ruthless in business and it’s not unusual for him to come home with a spot of blood on his collar. I know he personally took care of Tommy and Maria. I also know, from the things he said, they didn’t die swiftly. There are parts of him that I find unnerving, but with me, he’s been warmer and more open. When he’s with me, I have his full attention, and it’s intoxicating.

While things are going well on the personal front, my career has had more ups and downs than I’d like. Since our loss against the Toronto Strikers, we’ve since played the New Jersey Storms, where we won, an away game against the Philadelphia Blizzards, where we lost, and a home game against the Detroit Vortex, which we won. While none of our losses have been as humiliating as the one we suffered against the Blizzards, the team is beginning to get a thing in our head about the away games. Those are the games we keep losing.

Tonight, for example, we’re playing an away game against the New York Guardians.

There’s less than two minutes left in the second period, and we’re down 2-1 in their building. Madison Square Garden is deafening, a sea of blue jerseys pulsing with each hit and scoring chance. I twist away from the boards, lungs burning as I battle for position against Thompson, the Guardians’ hulking defenseman.

“Riley. Here.” Jackson calls from the half-wall.

I dig the puck out from my skates and slide it his way, immediately pivoting to create space. Jackson receives it cleanly, head up, looking for an opening. Rodriguez cuts through the slot, dragging his defender with him, creating a seam.

The clock above center ice shows 1:37 remaining. We need this goal.

Jackson threads a pass to Mills, who’s pinched down from the blue line. Mills one-times it, but Vasquez, the Guardians’ goalie, flashes his glove. The save looks effortless, practiced. The crowd roars its approval.

“Fuck,” I mutter, circling back through the neutral zone as the Guardians transition.

Marchenko, their Russian superstar, gathers speed along the right wing, Torres angling to cut him off. But Marchenko has the advantage, his edges carving the ice with precision as he crosses our blue line.

“Layer up,” I shout, backchecking hard.

Torres forces Marchenko wide, but the Russian sauces a perfect pass to Lindsey streaking down the middle. Miller steps up to challenge, stick extended, but he’s a half-second slow. Lindsey dekes once, then snaps a wrist shot that rises over Noah’s blocker.

3-1 Guardians.

The goal horn is a dagger, the sound reverberating in my skull as the home crowd erupts. My stomach drops. Each loss puts our playoff hopes in more jeopardy, and we’re running out of runway.

“Reset,” I call to my line as we gather for the center ice faceoff. “Still time.”

But there isn’t much, just 1:14 on the clock. I win the draw back to Torres, who moves it quickly to Mills. We advance through the neutral zone, but the Guardians have tightened up, clogging passing lanes, forcing us to dump it in.

Jackson races to retrieve, absorbing a punishing hit from Thompson to make a play. The puck squirts to Rodriguez in the corner, who finds me with a backhand pass as I cut to the net.

For a moment, I see daylight between Vasquez’s pads. I fire low, but the goaltender drops into his butterfly, the puck deflecting harmlessly into the corner. Another opportunity evaporated.

The final minute ticks away with us scrambling for any advantage. With fifteen seconds left, Coach calls Noah to the bench for an extra attacker. We gain the zone one last time, Mills firing from the point through traffic. The puck pinballs between bodies, tantalizingly close to crossing the goal line before Vasquez covers it with five seconds remaining.

Faceoff to Vasquez’s right. One last chance.

I crouch over the dot, facing Lindsey, the villain from the Guardians’ last goal. The linesman hovers, puck in hand. I can feel the pressure of seventeen thousand fans willing me to lose this draw.

The puck drops. I tie up Lindsey’s stick, kicking the puck back to Reeves at the point. He fires immediately, the clapper redirected by Jackson in front, but Vasquez somehow tracks it, kicking out his right pad as the buzzer sounds.

Period over. Still 3-1.

The atmosphere in our dressing room during intermission is suffocating. Noah sits silently in his stall, staring at nothing. Rodriguez unwraps the tape from his stick, replacing it with methodical precision. Torres is getting a cut above his eye treated by our trainer.

Coach Daniels’ jaw is tight and he keeps his message simple: “Get traffic in front. Take away Vasquez’s eyes. He can’t stop what he can’t see.”

Third period, and desperation fuels every stride. We’ve dominated the first five minutes, hemming the Guardians in their zone with sustained pressure. But Vasquez is locked in, turning away everything we throw at him.

Mills fires a point shot that I tip on the way through. Vasquez somehow adjusts, the puck glancing off his shoulder. Rodriguez pounces on the rebound, but his backhand sails over the crossbar.

“Stay with it,” I shout, circling back to the bench for a line change.

Jackson and Rodriguez step off with me, replaced by our energy line. We need fresh legs, the Guardians are starting to push back.

The shift indicator on the bench shows eight minutes elapsed. Time is becoming our enemy.

“Next shift, work it low to high,” Coach instructs as we catch our breath. “They’re collapsing down low. Get it to the point and crash for rebounds.”

I nod, gulping water, watching as Marchenko dangles around Deck at our blue line. Noah makes a huge glove save, then quickly swats the rebound to the corner to avoid a stoppage. Smart, we need the clock running.

“Riley, Jackson, Rodriguez,” Coach calls. “Go.”

We vault over the boards on the fly, catching the Guardians in a line change. Torres retrieves Noah’s outlet pass and hits me streaking through the neutral zone. Suddenly there’s space, the defense caught flat-footed.

Two-on-one. Jackson on my right. The lone defender, Conrad, shades toward me, taking away the shot.

I feign a pass to Jackson, then pull the puck to my forehand as Conrad commits. The lane to the net opens momentarily. I fire high glove, where Vasquez has been unbeatable all night. A psychological play, challenging his strength.

The puck finds the tiniest gap between his glove and the post. The red light flashes.

3-2. 10:26 remaining.

“That’s one,” Jackson bellows, slapping my helmet as we embrace by the boards. “We’re not done.”

The goal energizes our bench. Even in enemy territory, the momentum has shifted. The Guardians call their timeout, their coach gesturing frantically at the whiteboard.

“They’re rattled,” Mills says as we cluster around Coach Daniels. “Let’s go right back at them.”

The next five minutes are a war of attrition. Each team trading chances, bodies sacrificed to block shots. Noah stones Lindsey on a partial breakaway, sprawling to poke the puck away before the forward can elevate it.

Five minutes remaining. Still down by one.

Torres and Mills start a shift against the Guardians’ top line. Marchenko circles through the neutral zone with speed, but Torres steps up, delivering a perfectly timed hip check that separates the Russian from the puck. The crowd groans as Mills collects it and starts our breakout.

I hop over the boards with Rodriguez and Jackson, receiving Mills’ pass in stride as we enter the offensive zone. Rodriguez peels to the far corner, drawing his defender with him. I curl at the half-wall, looking for options.

The Guardians’ defense has tightened up, protecting the house. No clean lanes to the net. I work the puck back to Reeves at the point, then drive to the front of the net, feeling Thompson’s crosscheck against my back as I battle for position.

Reeves walks the line, then sends a slap-pass toward Jackson at the side of the net. Jackson redirects it through the crease, a perfect setup, but Rodriguez can’t get his stick on it at the far post. The puck slides harmlessly away.

“Fuck.” Rodriguez slams his stick against the ice.

Three minutes left. The Guardians are collapsing further, content to chip pucks out and kill time. Each dump-in is retrieved by Noah, who quickly plays it to our defensemen to restart the attack.

“Again,” I shout, as we reload through the neutral zone.

Mills carries it this time, waiting until the last moment before dropping it to me as I curl behind him. The misdirection works. I find a seam between defenders and drive wide toward the goal line.

No shot, but I spy Rodriguez ghosting into the high slot, momentarily forgotten by his checker. I center it through traffic. Rodriguez one-times it, a laser aimed for the top corner.

Vasquez flashes the leather, somehow getting a piece of it. The crowd rises in appreciation of the robbery, but I catch the slight bobble as he tries to secure the puck. It drops from his glove, sitting in the blue paint for a heartbeat.

Jackson, crashing the net, gets his stick on it just as Vasquez dives backward. The puck squirts free, sliding toward the open side—

Thompson sweeps it away at the last possible moment, inches from crossing the line.

“So close.” Jackson pounds the glass in frustration.

Two minutes remaining. Coach signals Noah to be ready for the extra attacker. We need one more offensive zone faceoff.

The Guardians are content to defend now, stacking four players across their blue line. We dump it in, Rodriguez winning the foot race to negate the icing. I battle along the half-wall, buying time for our defensemen to activate.

Torres pinches down, keeping the cycle alive. The clock shows 1:30 when Coach finally calls Noah to the bench. Six-on-five.

“Spread them out,” Mills calls, quarterbacking from the point.

We work the puck around the perimeter, Rodriguez to me, back to Torres at the point, across to Mills, down to Jackson at the goal line. The Guardians rotate with us, their box collapsing tighter with each pass.

The crowd is on its feet now, sensing the kill. A minute left.

Mills winds up for a one-timer off Torres’ feed, but Lindsey blocks it, the puck ricocheting toward center ice. Rodriguez hustles to prevent the empty-netter, buying us another chance.

Torres makes a desperate pinch to keep it in at the blue line, but Marchenko anticipates it, chipping the puck past him. Suddenly it’s a Guardians’ two-on-one against Mills, our last man back.

Mills plays it perfectly, taking away the pass, forcing Lindsey to shoot from an angle. Noah’s abandoned net looms empty behind them.

Lindsey fires and hits the post. The puck caroms all the way down the ice for an icing with 38 seconds left.

One last gasp. Coach calls timeout, diagramming a set play. My heart hammers against my ribs as I gulp water, legs burning from the extended shift.

“Win the draw clean,” Coach tells me. “Rodriguez, find the seam. Mills will be activated off the faceoff.”

Back on the ice, I settle over the dot in the Guardians’ zone, facing Lindsey again. The official hesitates, making sure both teams are set. The tension is palpable.

The puck drops. I win it clean back to Torres, who touches it quickly to Mills crashing down from the point. Mills fires through traffic, but the shot goes wide, rimming around the boards.

Rodriguez battles for it, keeping the play alive. Twenty seconds remaining.

We reset. Torres fires from the point. Blocked. Jackson retrieves, finds me in the slot. I fake a shot, then slide it to Rodriguez with a clear lane—

His one-timer is deflected high into the netting by Vasquez’s shoulder. Faceoff with 7.9 seconds left.

One final chance. I’m gasping for air now, legs cement, but there’s no time for a change. The entire building knows I’m taking this draw. Lindsey crouches opposite me, eyes locked on mine.

The puck drops. I tie him up, feeling Rodriguez swooping in to help. The puck squirts toward the boards where Jackson battles, sending it back to Reeves at the point.

Three seconds.

Reeves winds up, firing through a maze of bodies. I’m battling at the edge of the crease, Thompson’s stick across my mid-section. I feel the puck glance off my shin pad, changing direction.

Vasquez lunges desperately—

The horn sounds before I can see if it went in. The referee immediately waves it off: no goal.

The Guardians celebrate while the officials review the play, but I already know. We were a fraction of a second too late. The clock hits zeros just before the puck crosses the line.

Final score: Guardians 3, Ice Hawks 2.

The handshake line is a blur of platitudes. “Good game... tough one... nice battle.” My jaw is clenched so tight it aches.

In the locker room, the silence is deafening. Noah stares at the floor, still in full gear. Rodriguez methodically removes his tape, face a mask of frustration. We came so close.

“Plane leaves tomorrow at 9:00 a.m. sharp. Let’s be on the bus by 8:30,” Coach says quietly, offering no comment on the loss. He won’t stay quiet for long. We’ll get an earful tomorrow. But even he needs time to process what just happened. I’m sure he’s well aware the team is starting to get squeamish about away games. He’ll need to address that at some point.

As I peel off my jersey, the sweat-soaked fabric clinging to my shoulder pads, I have to admit, I actually am starting to feel like we’re cursed every time we play an away game. I don’t want to think like that. I don’t want to jinx us. But our playoff position grows more precarious with each passing game. Every loss is a nail in our coffin.

As I sit in my stall, unlacing my skates, Torres drops down beside me. “We’ll get the next one,” he says, voice low. “Right?”

He’s looking to me for comfort, but I’m struggling to dig my way out of my own fears. I’m gutted, just like he is. I nod, not trusting myself to speak yet. The sting is too fresh.

Torres gives a weak smile. “I mean, because in hockey, like life, there’s always another game.”

“Yeah.”

Until suddenly, there isn’t. Eventually, we’ll run out of road.

“Hey, Riley,” one of the trainers calls out. “You have a visitor.”

Frowning, I stand. I don’t know anyone in New York and there’s no way my brother flew here for our game. I stand and head out of the locker room to the hallway. When I see Luca standing there I’m speechless. My mouth falls open and I gape at him in shock.

“What are you… Luca… you’re…” I sputter.

He grins and my pulse races. “I thought I’d surprise you.”

“I’m surprised.” I laugh. Even with a medium sized bandage on his forehead, he looks fucking gorgeous in a dark suit and blue tie. His black hair and deep brown sensual eyes make my dick throb. “Surprised but happy.”

“You’d better be happy.” He smirks. “Aren’t you going to kiss me hello?”

I grimace, looking down at myself. “I’m kind of disgusting right now. I haven’t showered.”

He shrugs, running his gaze over my bare torso. “That’s fine. Give me a kiss, Evan.” His voice is commanding.

A little thrill goes through me and I obey. He slips an arm around my waist and tugs me against him. He’s never been this openly affectionate with me anywhere near the team, so I’m self-conscious. But he doesn’t seem to care that there are people wandering past, or how I smell. He takes my mouth hungrily, and doesn’t lift his head until he’s good and ready.

When the kiss ends, I laugh self-consciously. His gaze is so intense, I feel jittery. “Do you have business in New York?” I ask.

He scowls. “No. I just told you I came to surprise you.”

“I figured you were already here for business, and you fit me into the schedule.”

He looks displeased. “You weren’t an afterthought. You were my reason for coming to New York. I thought I made that clear.”

I can see he’s offended, so I say softly, “I’m glad you’re here.”

His grumpy expression softens slightly. “Are you?”

“Yes.” I let out a shaky breath. “We lost again. I could use some cheering up.”

“I know.” He grimaces. “Go get cleaned up and meet me outside. I’m taking you to dinner. Then you’ll spend the night with me at my hotel, and we’ll fly back on my private jet tomorrow morning.”

I hesitate. “Are you sure this isn’t too much trouble?”

Scowling, he leans toward me. “If it was too much trouble, I wouldn’t be here. Do you wish I hadn’t come? Is that the problem?”

I blink at him. “No, I’m… I’m really happy to see you.” I laugh gruffly. “I’m sorry. I’ve never had a guy do anything like this for me before.”

That seems to please him. “Good. I like that I’m the first.” He adjusts his cufflinks. “Now go do whatever it is you do in there, and get outside ASAP. I’m starving.”

I smile, suddenly feeling much happier. “I won’t be long.” I hurry back into the locker room, ignoring the curious looks. I know it’s weird for the team that I’m dating Luca, but I’m not going to stop simply because they’re uncomfortable. I text Noah about my plans, just so he’s not worried, then I hit the showers.

The restaurant Luca takes me to is tucked away on a quiet street in the West Village, no name on the door, just a small brass plaque with the number 27. A doorman nods to Luca with the familiarity of recognition. It’s the way people respond to him everywhere, with deference.

Inside, the lighting is amber and intimate, coming from fixtures that seem to float near the high ceiling. The walls are lined with dark wood paneling and what look like original paintings, not reproductions. The tables are spaced generously apart, each with its own small pool of light, creating the illusion that each party exists in its own private world.

“Mr. Barone,” the host greets us, looking somewhat intimidated. “Your table is ready.”

We follow him past the bar, where crystal decanters catch and fracture the light. The place smells of old wood, fine leather, and hints of truffle and garlic from the kitchen. Classical music plays at a volume just loud enough to appreciate but soft enough to converse comfortably.

Our table is in a corner alcove with a view of the garden courtyard, illuminated by strings of lights that seem to hover among bare winter branches. Two crystal glasses are immediately filled with water so clear and cold it numbs my throat when I take a sip.

“This place looks very exclusive,” I say, eyeing the other diners. They’re a mix of Wall Street and celebrities types. I know I’ve seen several of the women on TV before. I didn’t plan on eating anywhere this fancy, so I feel underdressed. I’m wearing a collared shirt, but only jeans and no tie. Luca is in a suit and most of the other customers are also dressed up. “I’m surprised they let me in without a tie.”

Luca shrugs, a subtle motion beneath his perfectly tailored suit. “They wouldn’t dare turn you away if you’re with me.”

“I don’t doubt that,” I say.

The menu has no prices, which usually would make me nervous if I were paying. As I study the menu, a server appears with a bottle of red wine, presenting it to Luca, who merely nods. The ritual of opening and pouring unfolds with practiced precision.

“This is a 2009 Barolo,” Luca explains as our glasses are filled. “From a small producer in Piedmont. They only release about five hundred bottles a year.”

The wine catches the light, deep ruby with garnet edges. I’m no connoisseur, but even I can tell this is exceptional when I taste it. The flavors are complex layers of cherry and rose and something earthy that lingers on my tongue.

“Thanks for this.” I meet his gaze. “It’s a nice distraction, seeing you.”

He smiles, but then his expression becomes more serious. “I was watching your game and could see it wasn’t going well. I had a bad feeling you were going to lose. I immediately decided to fly in and cheer you up.”

“I’m flattered. I know you’re a busy man.”

He lifts one shoulder. “I hoped my presence might help. I knew you’d be down if you lost, and I figured either way I’d like to see you.”

Something warm unfurls in my chest that has nothing to do with the wine. The idea that Luca, with his empire to run and enemies to outmaneuver, was more worried about how depressed I’d be after losing a game touches me.

“You continually surprise me,” I say softly.

“Do I?” He wrinkles his brow.

“Yes. I’m still not used to this version of you.”

“Not many people see this side of me.” He fingers the stem of his wineglass and when he flicks his dark eyes to mine, he looks uncertain. “I can’t trust almost anyone.”

I nod, wishing he didn’t look so wary. “You can trust me.”

“Can I, Evan?” he asks quietly.

“Yes. I’d never hurt you on purpose.”

There’s a little flicker deep in his eyes. “I’d love to believe that.”

“Maybe one day you will.” I smile. “If we last longer than a month.”

He looks away, a muscle working in his cheek. “I don’t usually care if anything lasts past a week.”

“Same.”

He turns back to me, his dark eyes unreadable. He seems to struggle with whether or not he wants to continue the conversation. Then he says gruffly, “I like this thing we have. Do you?”

“If I didn’t, I’d have left when you said I could go.”

He lowers his head in acknowledgment. “Good point.”

I’m not huge on PDA, but I feel compelled to touch him. I reach across the table and touch his hand that rests near his plate. He immediately turns his hand over and grasps my fingers. We stare at each other and something inside of me aches at the wariness I see in his eyes. He’s fearful of fully trusting me. I can see it clearly. He’s not nearly as cold and hard as he pretends. Even though he’s used to life in the mafia, it must wear on him that so many people hate him, or want him dead. It has to be a horrible feeling to not know who you can trust.

He clears his throat. “How about we just enjoy the nice meal we’re about to have? I’m thinking too far ahead, which isn’t necessary.”

“Okay,” I say softly. “But I want you to know, I’m really happy you came tonight. I’ve never had anyone do anything like this for me. It means a lot to me that you cared enough to make this much effort simply to cheer me up.”

“I like it when you’re happy.” He shrugs.

I smile because I believe him. There was a time when I’d have thought he was mocking me. But now I know he truly is trying his best to please me. “So, how did Isabella’s date go?” I ask, changing the subject. His sister joined a dating app, much to the chagrin of her family.

Luca’s brows pull into a scowl. “I don’t know why she won’t just date Italian men. I know so many good men she could marry. She’s the most bullheaded person I’ve ever met.”

I can’t help but laugh. The entire Barone family is bullheaded. Honestly, Luca is the worst of them all. But he looks irritated at my grin, so I quickly say, “Why doesn’t she just date Marco? I swear there’s a spark between them.”

He shakes his head. “I’ve said this to both of them many times. Marco says she’s like a little sister to him. He’s lying. I suspect he likes her, but she’s so dismissive of dating anyone in the mafia, he’s too prideful to let her know his feelings. As far as Isabella’s side of things, I know she has a crush on him. She’s had one since she hit puberty. But she’s scared he’s going to get himself killed.”

Since that’s a constant worry for me too, I’m not sure how to respond. But I’m saved from having to say anything when the first course arrives. The waiter sets down a small plate of hamachi crudo, each slice arranged like petals around a center of bright citrus and tiny herbs. It’s almost too beautiful to eat, but when I do, the flavors are clean and bright against the lingering richness of the wine.

The next course is risotto with black truffles, the aroma rising in an intoxicating cloud when the server shaves paper-thin slices over our plates. The rice is perfectly al dente, each grain distinct yet part of a creamy whole.

“Good?” he asks.

“This is delicious.” I smile at him and he smiles back.

Around us, the restaurant hums with quiet conversation and the gentle clink of silverware against fine china. The sounds feel distant, as if Luca and I exist in our own bubble, insulated from everything beyond our table.

The main course is dry-aged ribeye for Luca and branzino for me, the fish deboned tableside with surgical precision. The fish’s skin is crisp, the flesh beneath moist and delicate, garnished with herbs and lemon. Beside it sits a small mound of fingerling potatoes roasted with rosemary and garlic. Every bite is perfect, comforting yet refined.

We eat in companionable silence for a while, the food and wine working their magic on my tense muscles and bruised ego. I hadn’t realized how hungry I was, how much the loss had hollowed me out. Luca seems to sense this, keeping the conversation light.

By the time dessert arrives, a dark chocolate soufflé for me and espresso for Luca, I feel almost human again. The ache of defeat hasn’t disappeared, but it’s been tempered by good food, exceptional wine, and the undivided attention of a man who I’m rapidly falling for more and more.

Outside, the night air is knife-sharp after the restaurant’s warmth. Luca’s driver appears with the SUV, and as we slide into the leather backseat, Luca’s hand finds mine in the darkness. His fingers are warm, his grip firm and reassuring.

It hits me suddenly that the man I used to fear and want to escape is now who makes me feel safe. I’m lonely when he’s not near and happiest when I’m in his arms. He’s burned into my heart. He’s dangerous and unpredictable, but I’m in love with him. It’s a shock to acknowledge it, but I think I’ve known it for a while now. Why else was I unable to stay away? I think from the first moment I met Luca, I knew I’d need to belong to him.

What I don’t know is how Luca feels. I know he likes being around me, and the sex is beyond amazing. But does a man like Luca want love? My love? Does he want me in his life permanently? The idea he might not want that causes a wave of anxiety to jolt through me.

If I tell Luca how I feel, will he send me away?