Page 29

Evan

The season continues and we win a home game against the Tampa Bay Thunders, but then we lose our away game against the Washington Capitals. After that we win another home game against the Pittsburgh Phantoms, but now we have to face the Buffalo Rampage in an away game.

The pressure is brutal.

Every player on the team is now convinced we can’t win away games. As we skate onto the ice at the KeyBank Center in Buffalo, I swear even Coach looks like he thinks we can’t pull this game off. Road games have become our personal house of horrors.

“You’re going down, Riley,” someone shouts as I circle near the boards. “Ice Hawks suck!”

I keep my eyes forward, focusing on the crisp sound of my skates carving the fresh ice. The familiar pre-game tension coils in my stomach, but tonight it’s different, sharper, more urgent. We can’t afford another road loss. Not if we want to keep our postseason dreams alive.

“Feel good?” Rodriguez asks, gliding up beside me as we finish our warm-up laps.

“Feel ready,” I lie, watching Buffalo’s captain, Kowalski, fire pucks into the top corner of their net. He’s got five goals in his last three games. Torres and Mills will have their hands full tonight.

Back in the locker room, Coach Daniels keeps his pre-game speech brief. “They’re going to come out hitting. Match their intensity, but don’t get sucked into their game. Play smart, play our system.”

The buzzer calls us to the ice. As we line up for the national anthems, I scan the Buffalo roster across from us. They’re big, average size at least two inches taller and fifteen pounds heavier than us. Their game plan will be simple: punish us physically, force turnovers, capitalize.

The puck drops, and immediately I’m engaged in a battle with Kowalski. He wins it clean, kicking the puck back to their defenseman, Baranov. Torres steps up, pinching Baranov against the boards before he can advance the puck. Good start, aggressive but controlled.

Buffalo establishes their forecheck early, finishing every check, making us pay for each zone exit. Five minutes in, Deck takes a thunderous hit from their enforcer, Calhoun, but stays on his skates, clearing the puck up to Jackson who carries it through the neutral zone.

“On your right,” I call, driving toward the net as Jackson navigates around a Buffalo defender.

He threads a perfect pass through the seam, and suddenly I’m alone with the goalie, Vitek. I go forehand-backhand, trying to get him moving laterally, but he reads it, flashing his pad to deny me.

“Next time, Captain,” he says with a smirk as I skate past.

The first period is a chess match, neither team giving an inch. Noah makes a spectacular glove save on Buffalo’s top scorer, Wilson, robbing him from point-blank range. The Buffalo crowd groans collectively, then quickly resumes their hostility.

With two minutes left in the period, disaster strikes. Mills pinches too aggressively at their blue line, and Buffalo’s speedy winger Henderson springs free on a breakaway. Noah comes out to challenge, but Henderson’s shot finds a hole, trickling through his five-hole.

1-0 Buffalo.

The home crowd erupts, the goal horn blaring painfully in my ears. Mills slams his stick against the boards in frustration as he returns to the bench.

“Shake it off,” I tell him. “Plenty of time.” But even though I say the words of encouragement, gloom and negativity attack me. They drew first blood. Fuck.

Are we cursed?

As the period ends, the scoreboard tells a familiar story on the road: down a goal, being outshot 14-8, chasing the game again.

“They’re collapsing around their net,” Coach says during intermission, diagramming on the whiteboard. “We need to use the points more, get them moving side to side.”

Noah stands in the corner, still in full gear except for his mask, methodically spraying water on his face and neck. His eyes catch mine briefly. I can feel his dismay all the way across the room.

The second period begins with renewed intensity. Rodriguez nearly ties it thirty seconds in, his wrist shot clanging off the crossbar loud enough to hear over the crowd noise. The puck rebounds to their defenseman, who blindly clears it up the boards.

That’s when the game changes.

Calhoun, Buffalo’s enforcer, catches Torres with his head down as he pinches to keep the puck in. The hit is late and high, Torres’ helmet flying off as he crumples to the ice. The impact echoes through the arena, followed by an eerie momentary silence before Buffalo fans begin to cheer.

My blood boils as I watch Torres struggle to his hands and knees, clearly dazed. No penalty call.

Deck doesn’t hesitate. He drops his gloves and charges at Calhoun, grabbing him by the jersey. “That’s my teammate, you piece of shit.”

The fight is brief but violent, both players landing heavy punches before tumbling to the ice. The linesmen separate them, issuing matching fighting majors. Torres is helped to the locker room for concussion protocol, leaving us down a top defenseman.

“Four-on-four,” Coach shouts as we regroup. “Riley, Rodriguez, Mills, Reeves, go .”

The open ice of four-on-four hockey suits our speed. Rodriguez dangles through two Buffalo defenders, drawing coverage before sliding the puck to Mills, who’s activated from the point. Mills fires a rocket that Vitek somehow stops, but the rebound sits tantalizingly in the crease.

I battle through a crosscheck, diving headfirst toward the loose puck. My stick connects, shoveling it past Vitek’s outstretched pad. The red light flashes.

1-1.

I pick myself up off the ice, jersey soaked with snow and sweat, lungs burning from the effort. Rodriguez helps me to my feet, slapping my helmet. “Fucking beautiful, Captain.”

The Buffalo crowd goes quiet, the momentum shifting perceptibly. Back at even strength, we start to impose our game, using our speed advantage against their size. Noah stands tall, turning away a point-blank chance with a spectacular pad stack that has even some Buffalo fans shaking their heads in appreciation.

With four minutes left in the second, we strike again. I win an offensive zone faceoff back to Reeves, who keeps the puck in at the line and floats a low shot through traffic, textbook safe play with a high payoff. Jackson, parked in front of Vitek, gets a piece of it, redirecting it just enough to change the angle.

2-1 Ice Hawks.

“One more period just like that,” Coach says as we file into the locker room after forty minutes. But we all know what’s coming. Buffalo will adjust, push back harder. They’re unbeaten in their last five home games for a reason.

Torres returns for the third period, sporting a nasty bruise on his cheekbone but cleared to play. His presence solidifies our defense, allowing Mills to join the rush more confidently.

Buffalo comes out with renewed physicality. Wilson nearly ties it with a one-timer that Noah somehow gets his blocker on, the puck deflecting high into the netting. The subsequent faceoff leads to a scramble in front, bodies piling up as we desperately try to clear the crease.

“Get it out,” Noah shouts, his usual calm replaced by urgency.

Miller manages to chip it to the corner, where I battle along the boards, feeling the crushing weight of Buffalo’s defenseman Baranov against my back. My ribs scream in protest, but I manage to push the puck ahead to Jackson, giving us a brief reprieve.

Midway through the period, disaster. Rodriguez takes a tripping penalty, sending Buffalo to the power play. Their unit is dangerous, converting at over 25% at home.

“Keep them to the outside,” Coach instructs as our penalty kill unit prepares. “Pressure the points, active sticks in lanes.”

The two minutes that follow are pure chaos. Buffalo moves the puck with precision, searching for seams. Noah makes three consecutive saves, each more desperate than the last. Torres blocks a slap shot with his shin, crumpling momentarily before dragging himself into position to disrupt another pass.

When Rodriguez finally emerges from the box, the bench erupts in stick taps against the boards. But our celebration is premature.

With six minutes left, Henderson strikes again for Buffalo, capitalizing on a defensive zone turnover. His snap shot beats Noah high glove side.

2-2.

The KeyBank Center is deafening now, the crowd sensing another Ice Hawks road collapse. My ears ring with their cheers, my mouth dry from exertion and tension.

“Stay with it,” I call to my teammates as we line up for the center ice faceoff. “One shift at a time.”

The final five minutes are a blur of desperation and determination. Both teams trade chances, the play flowing end to end. Noah comes up huge again, sprawling to deny Wilson on a two-on-one with an acrobatic glove save that defies physics.

“Holy shit,” Miller mutters as we tap Noah’s pads on the way to the bench.

With ninety seconds left, Coach calls timeout. We gather around, gasping for breath, sweat dripping onto the ice beneath us.

“One more push,” he says simply. “Riley’s line with Torres and Mills. Get it deep, cycle, find a lane.”

The faceoff is in the neutral zone. I line up against Kowalski, our eyes locked in mutual respect and determination. The linesman drops the puck, and I manage to tie him up just enough for Rodriguez to swoop in and kick it ahead.

Torres retrieves it, carrying it deep into Buffalo territory before taking a hit to make a play, sliding it behind the net to Rodriguez. The clock ticks under a minute.

Rodriguez circles behind the net, patient, scanning for options. Mills activates from the point, drawing coverage. I battle for position in the slot, Baranov’s stick digging into my lower back, right between the pads.

“Here,” Rodriguez calls to me, indicating a pass is coming.

But it’s a decoy. Instead, he feathers a perfect pass to Torres, who’s drifted in from the point unnoticed. Torres doesn’t hesitate, one-timing it through a maze of bodies.

The sound of the puck hitting the back of the net is the sweetest music I’ve heard in weeks.

3-2 Ice Hawks. 42.3 seconds remaining.

Buffalo pulls Vitek for an extra attacker, throwing everything at us in a desperate final push. The last shift is eternal, clearing attempts that don’t quite make it out, blocked shots, scrambling recoveries. My lungs burn, legs leaden from exhaustion.

Noah makes one final spectacular save with 5.8 seconds left, smothering the puck against his chest, refusing to give up a rebound.

The final faceoff is to Noah’s right. I’m not on the ice. Coach has our best defensive unit out, but I stand at the boards, knuckles white around my stick. Rodriguez takes the draw, but Miller reads the play and jumps on the loose puck, controlling it cleanly before moving it to Reeves.

The horn sounds. Game over.

The bench empties as we mob Noah, a tangle of exhausted limbs and exhilarated voices. Breaking our road losing streak feels like exorcising a demon, the collective relief palpable as we line up for handshakes.

“Didn’t think you had it in you,” Kowalski says with grudging respect as we shake hands.

Neither did we.

In the locker room, the mood is euphoric but tempered. We need to win one more game, and it’s the most important. Our final game against the Montreal Renegades is in three days. Even though we still have that obstacle to face, I allow myself a moment to savor this win. The ache in my muscles, the lingering taste of victory, the knowledge that we’ve kept our playoff hopes alive for at least one more game.

“How’s the cheek?” I ask Torres, dropping into the stall beside him.

“Worth it,” he says, grinning. “I told you we’d get the next one, Cap.”

I smile. “Yeah, you did.”

Tomorrow we fly home, but tonight, in this cramped visitor’s locker room that smells of sweaty balls and victory, we’ve proven something to ourselves. On the road, against the odds, we found a way. We didn’t give up. We kept fighting.

And in hockey, sometimes that’s all that matters.

****

While my love life and hockey are going well, Mom’s health has been in a steady decline recently. I visit her every week if I can make it happen, but she caught pneumonia a few weeks back, and she isn’t bouncing back like we’d hoped.

The pneumonia has left her frail, her breathing labored even weeks after the antibiotics finished their work. The nurses speak in hushed tones now, exchanging glances they think I don’t notice.

I went to visit Mom after practice today even though my muscles ached and I was exhausted. But the physical exhaustion is nothing compared to the hollow feeling that’s taken up residence in my chest since visiting Mom.

She didn’t recognize me again today.

She was asleep for most of my visit, and when she did wake up, she didn’t know who I was. For twenty minutes, I was just a nice young man who reminded her of someone. When recognition finally flickered in her eyes, it lasted only moments before sliding away again.

When I finally get to Luca’s home, I’m emotionally spent. Luca’s bedroom door is ajar, warm light spilling into the hallway. I find him sitting against the headboard, reading glasses perched on his nose, scanning something on his tablet. He looks up when I enter, his expression softening.

“How was she today?” he asks, setting the tablet aside.

I shrug out of my jacket, letting it fall onto a chair. “Not great.” My voice sounds distant, even to my own ears. “She thought I was my father for a while. Then she didn’t know me at all.”

Luca nods, not offering empty reassurances. It’s one of the things I’ve come to appreciate about him. He doesn’t try to bandage wounds with platitudes.

“The nursing director called me,” he says after a moment.

I pause in the middle of unbuttoning my shirt. “What? Why would she call you instead of me?”

“She called you first, left a message. You didn’t call her back, so she called me.”

I pull out my phone, seeing the missed call and voicemail. A spike of guilt hits me. I should be the one fielding calls about my mother, not Luca. No matter who’s paying the bills.

“What did she say?” I ask, resuming undressing. All I want is to climb into bed with Luca. I need his arms around me to help anchor me to something good. Life feels so bleak at the moment. Between the playoffs and Mom’s health, there’s almost more stress than I can handle.

“Dr. Linney believes your mother’s condition is complicated by the pneumonia. Her recovery has stalled.” Luca’s voice is matter-of-fact, but his eyes are watchful, gauging my reaction. “They’re concerned about her heart now too.”

I sit heavily on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping beneath my weight. “Shit.”

“I’ve made some calls,” Luca continues, his tone careful. “There’s a specialist at Johns Hopkins, Dr. Eleanor Rhodes. She’s pioneered treatment protocols for Alzheimer’s patients with post-pneumonia complications.”

I look up at him, understanding dawning. “You want to bring her in?”

“If you agree.” He sits forward, removing his reading glasses. “She can be here by Friday.”

“Luca...” I rub my hand over my face, feeling the day’s stubble rasp against my palm. “Those kinds of specialists cost—”

“Money isn’t relevant,” he cuts me off, a hint of impatience coloring his voice. “The question is whether you want her to see your mother.”

The room feels suddenly too warm, too close. I stand, moving to the window, staring out at the manicured grounds of Luca’s estate. “I don’t know if I’m comfortable with you paying for any more than you already pay for.”

“Why?”

I shrug. “It’s just too much. She’s my mother, not yours. You’ve never even met her.”

“What does that matter? She’s your mother and I love you. I want to help you.”

I relish hearing him say how he feels about me, but the guilt remains. “Still,” I mutter. “It’s too much.”

The silence stretches between us. I hear the soft sound of Luca rising from the bed, his bare feet nearly silent on the carpeted floor. He slips his arms around me and I lean back against him. He kisses the side of my neck, and I shiver at his breath warm against my skin.

“Baby, I want to do this for you. For her,” he says.

I rest my arms on top of his. “I feel guilty.”

“Why?” He rests his chin on my shoulder. “I need to help somehow and this is the only way I know. She’s your family and you know how important family is to me. I can feel how worried and depressed you are lately. I… I want to fix this for you.”

I smile, although my heart aches. Mom’s illness can’t be fixed, not really. Even if they get her body healthy again, her mind is gone. The best specialist in the world can only manage her mental decline, perhaps make it less painful, less frightening. The outcome remains the same.

“You think money can fix anything, don’t you?” I ask.

He sighs, turning me around gently. His expression is so tender, it hurts to see it. He knows bad things are coming my way, and he’s hurting for me. “No. But it can sometimes help. Isn’t it worth a try?”

I hold his gaze. There’s a lump in my throat as I voice my deepest fears. “What if it doesn’t help? What if she’s just... dies anyway?”

Luca’s expression doesn’t change, but his eyes flicker. “Then she’ll go with the best care possible. And you’ll know you did everything you could.” He touches my cheek. “I know you, Evan. You need to feel you did all you could, or the guilt will destroy you. I want to protect you from that, okay?”

I nod, swallowing against the tightness in my throat. “Okay.”

“Yeah?” He lifts his brows, looking hopeful. “You’ll let me bring in the specialist?”

“If you really want to, yeah.”

He squeezes my shoulder once, then lets his hand fall away. “I’ll make the arrangements.”

“Thank you.” I smile weakly.

I expect him to return to bed, to pick up his tablet and resume whatever work occupied him before my arrival. Instead, he remains beside me, his gaze steady.

“What?” I ask finally.

“Does it bother you that I want to help?” he asks quietly. “Do you think I’m trying to control you?”

“God. No. Not at all. I’m… I’m just not good at needing help,” I admit.

A ghost of a smile touches his lips. “I’ve noticed.”

“Even from you,” I add softly. “Maybe especially from you.”

His expression doesn’t change, but I see the question in his eyes.

“You’ve helped me so much financially,” I try to explain. “Sometimes I feel like I’m not holding up my end.”

“Are you serious?” He scowls. “Having you here. Beside me. It’s everything. Your love, is everything. Do I not show that enough?”

“But loving you is so easy, and you’ve spent so much money on my family. If you compare the two things, it doesn’t balance.”

“Love isn’t a balance sheet, Evan,” he says. “Even I know that isn’t how it should be.”

“I… I know, but—”

“There is no ‘but,’” he says gruffly. “My love for you isn’t transactional. I realize that might be hard to grasp, considering how I was in the beginning. But that Luca doesn’t exist anymore. Not where you’re concerned. I want to give you anything you need. Anything, okay?”

I look at him, really look at him. The man who most people only see as dangerous, calculating, heartless. Who is all those things, but also the man who watches every one of my games, who told me he loved me first, and who is bringing in a specialist for my mother without being asked.

I move to hug him, pushing my face against his chest. He wraps his arms around me, kissing my hair. “I’m sorry if I seem ungrateful,” I say quietly. “I’ll try not to be so prideful.”

“You can be however you need to be. I’ll do what I think is best.”

I smile because there was a time when I’d have thought he was being arrogant. But he’s just being Luca. He’s taking care of me, and if that means paying for things that make me cringe, he’ll still do it.

“Now,” he says in a bossy voice, “Strip out of the rest of your clothes and get in my bed.”

I laugh and begin to undress. Even though he returns to his side of the bed, I feel his eyes on me. He watches me take off each piece of clothing, and when I look up, his eyes are dark with lust. My pulse spikes at the hunger in his eyes and I climb into bed.

He grabs lube from the drawer, and slips out of his pajama bottoms. Then he gets under the covers with me. He moves closer, running his eyes and hands over my naked body. I moan at his touch, craving more.

Mom is slipping away. Has been for years, really, but now the process is accelerating, becoming tangible, inevitable. But having Luca in my life helps me cope. As stressful as my life is, I have him to come home to at the end of each day. I’ve never had that before. Someone waiting for me. Looking forward to me arriving home each night. If I suddenly lost it, I don’t know what I’d do.

He lubes his dick and smears cool gel over my hole. Watching me intently, he slips two fingers inside me. I groan and spread my legs wider, digging my nails into his thighs. His lips part as he moves his fingers in and out of me, shivering at my needy sounds.

“Need you inside me,” I whisper, desperate to be filled and stretched.

“You’re a greedy little thing tonight,” he rumbles.

I nod. “Yeah, I am. Greedy for you.”

He gives a soft growl and pulls his fingers from my ass. He covers my body with his, his weight pressing me into the mattress. I can hardly breathe I’m so excited. I never tire of sex with Luca. I simply crave it more and more. Some nights he rolls me over and takes me from behind, but not tonight. Tonight he stares into my eyes as he pushes slowly inside me.

I cry out at how hard and thick he is, panting as I take him all the way. Theres a beautiful burn as he stretches me open. I don’t just want his body, I want him. All of him. He kisses me as he begins to thrust, mimicking the movements of his cock with his hot tongue. My chest aches as he stares into my eyes, devouring my mouth and fucking me so deep and hard.

He gives a hard, jagged thrust and I arch my back, groaning at the deep penetration. I meet his movements, wrapping my legs around his hips. We’re one now, joined intimately as we thrust and take. He’s so deep inside me, I feel him in my abdomen. His hips pick up speed and I welcome that. He’s losing control, which I fucking love.

I squeeze his firm ass, giving him a challenging smirk. He narrows his dark eyes and his thrusts falter and become uncoordinated. He’s about to come. I can see it in his glazed eyes. I’m not complaining. I love it when Luca begins to unravel. I love to hold off until I see that loss of control in his eyes, and then I allow myself to fall over the edge with him.

Every cell in my body is humming as my climax nears. He kisses me, tonguing my mouth, and groaning. I shudder as my orgasm begins to unfurl deep inside of me. His cock throbs and jerks and I feel the warm spread of his cum filling me. I moan in excitement and allow myself to let go. The pleasure swamps me like a warm wave, and my cock spills between our heaving stomachs.

I’m engulfed in a lusty euphoria that spreads up my spine to every inch of my body. I hold onto Luca as my orgasm wrecks me, leaving me a mumbling, shuddering, sweaty mess. He thrusts through my orgasm and his, giving me ultimate pleasure. We’re both breathing hard as he finishes inside my quaking hole.

His mouth finds mine in a lusty kiss that softens gradually to nothing but tenderness. I run my fingers up his back, and he smiles down at me, looking happy. After a bit, he gently pulls out of me, and he reaches over and grabs some tissues. He carefully cleans our stomachs, then tosses the used Kleenex on the nightstand.

I move over to him and we wrap around each other. Life can be so stressful and challenging, but moments like these with Luca makes it manageable. Everything I’m going through isn’t because of Luca. It all would have happened, regardless.

But I might actually be able to get through all of my trials and tribulations because of Luca.