Page 30

Luca

From the owner’s box the players look smaller, the game more strategic, like chess pieces moving across a frozen board. The crowd noise is muted but still palpable, a distant thunder that vibrates through the floor. The air smells of expensive whisky and the catered appetizers that remain half eaten on silver platters.

I’m buzzing with anxiety. Tonight the Ice Hawks are playing their final game to see if they’ll secure a spot in the playoffs. They’re already deep in the game against the Montreal Renegades, who are a formidable team. When I first bought the Ice Hawks, I never really thought they had a chance of making the playoffs. They proved me wrong and are now balanced to claim the last spot.

If they can just win this final game.

It’s been a grueling game so far. I’ve had more whisky than I should simply because of the stress. I’m so nervous for Evan, I can barely see straight. At the moment, the scoreboard is Montreal 2, Ice Hawks 2. Third period. Ten minutes remaining. Playoff berth on the line.

“You need to relax,” Marco says, hobbling over to stand beside me at the glass windows that look down over the ice. He swirls his drink, the ice cubes clinking against crystal. “You’re going to have a coronary. You look like you’re ready to jump through the glass down onto the ice.”

I loosen my grip on my drink. “I’m perfectly relaxed,” I lie.

His knowing smirk irritates me, but I say nothing. Below us, a face-off in our defensive zone. The Renegades’ top line is out, and Coach Daniels has our top defensive pair on the ice, Torres and Mills, along with Evan’s line to match their speed and intensity. It’s a matchup he’s been leaning on all night. Statistically, it’s working. Evan has kept Duchaine, Montreal’s star center, off the scoresheet, but the tension is killing me.

Evan crouches low over the dot, stick blade hovering above the ice. The linesman drops the puck. Evan wins it cleanly back to Torres, who immediately fires it up the boards to Jackson. A clean zone exit. I release the breath I didn’t realize I was holding.

“It’s almost like you’re personally invested in this team,” Marco says. “Like, maybe it’s not just about the money you have riding on this game.”

“Obviously it’s not about the money anymore,” I reply without taking my eyes off the ice. “If they lose, Evan will be gutted. He came so close last time. If he loses after coming this close again, he might give up hope.”

Marco chuffs. “Good Lord, who are you and what have you done with Luca Barone?”

“Fuck off.” I give a grudging smile.

The truth, which everyone in this room knows, is that my overwrought emotions have nothing to do with the financial stake in the team or even the prestige of a playoff appearance. It has everything to do with number 19, my partner, currently backchecking hard through the neutral zone to disrupt a Montreal rush.

“Come on, baby,” I mutter, watching Evan.

“Riley is on fire tonight,” says Derek Calloway, our General Manager. “Kid’s playing like his life depends on it.”

“The whole team is,” I say, keeping my voice neutral despite the swell of pride I feel watching Evan strip the puck from Duchaine at our blue line.

The game has been a back-and-forth battle from the opening face-off. Montreal scored first, a seeing-eye shot from the point that somehow found its way through traffic. Jackson tied it minutes later on a beautiful feed from Rodriguez. The Renegades took the lead again in the second, but Mills pinched at exactly the right moment to hammer home a rebound just before the period ended.

Now, with ten minutes left in a tie game, the tension in the arena is thick enough to touch. If we win, we clinch the final playoff spot. If we lose, our season ends tonight. I don’t want to see Evan go through that heartbreak. I’d give anything to protect him from losing. But the things I could do to help him win, he’d never forgive me for doing. So I’m stuck watching the game like every other slob, praying luck is on his side tonight.

A Montreal defender fumbles a routine pass, and suddenly Rodriguez is on the breakaway, nothing between him and the goalie. The crowd surges to its feet. Rodriguez dekes forehand, backhand, tries to tuck it five-hole—

The goalie stones him with a pad save that defies physics.

“Fuck,” I mutter, clenching my jaw.

Marco gives me a sidelong glance but says nothing.

With eight minutes remaining, Noah makes a spectacular glove save on Duchaine, snatching a shot labeled for the top corner. The replay shows on the center-ice screen, drawing appreciative gasps even from the Montreal supporters scattered throughout the arena.

“Noah is earning his contract tonight,” Derek comments, running a hand over his white hair.

The pace accelerates as time winds down. Neither team willing to make a fatal mistake, both desperately seeking an opening. Miller nearly costs us with a turnover at our blue line, but Reeves bails him out with a perfectly timed stick check. Seconds later, Evan leads a three-on-two rush that fails to materialize when a Montreal defender makes a diving play to break up his centering pass.

The crowd is on its feet now with every rush, every shot, every save. Six minutes left. Then five. The tension in my body builds with each passing moment, a tightly coiled spring ready to snap.

“This is bad for your blood pressure,” Marco murmurs. “Your ears are red.”

I roll my eyes. “My blood pressure is fine.”

“You haven’t blinked in two minutes.”

I turn to him and give three exaggerated blinks. “Better? Will you stop nagging me now?”

He grins. “Yeah, I’ll lay off. Want another drink?”

“Of course I do.” I hand him my empty glass.

With 4:32 remaining, disaster. Deck takes a holding penalty, sending Montreal to the power play. I keep my face impassive, but inside, a cold dread spreads through my chest. Their power play is lethal, converting at nearly 30% at home.

Coach Daniels sends out his top penalty kill unit, Evan, Jackson, Torres, and Mills. A risky move given how much ice time they’ve already logged, but the right call. They know each other’s movements instinctively at this point in the season.

Montreal sets up their power play with practiced precision. The puck moves around the perimeter, point to half-wall, half-wall to goal line, back to the point. Our penalty killers rotate in response, maintaining perfect positioning in the shooting lanes. Torres blocks a one-timer from the point, the puck catching him in the shin.

The first minute of the penalty kill passes without a quality chance for Montreal. Our fans stomp and cheer with each successful clear, the noise building as time ticks down. With forty seconds left in the penalty, Evan anticipates a cross-ice pass and intercepts it, immediately charging up ice.

The Montreal defender backs off, respecting Evan’s speed. Shorthanded, Evan doesn’t have support, it’s a one-on-one rush. He cuts across the front of the net, drawing the goaltender with him, then spins back to his forehand, firing as he falls.

The red light flashes. The arena erupts.

I remain where I am while Derek and the team staff leap to their feet, maintaining my composure even as something wild and fierce surges in my chest. On the ice, Evan is mobbed by his teammates.

It’s not over yet though. Montreal isn’t going to accept defeat that easily.

Montreal pulls their goalie with a minute left, sending six attackers against our exhausted defenders. Noah makes three consecutive saves in a frantic sequence that has the crowd screaming. Mills clears the puck once, then again, buying precious seconds.

The final minute stretches like an eternity. I find myself yelling encouragement to the team without realizing it. It’s impossible to keep my composure now. Victory is so fucking close, I can taste it. And if I can taste it, Evan is probably having a meltdown right now. My hands are shaking and I’m breathless. I can’t imagine having to play while feeling this overwhelmed by emotions.

I almost swallow my tongue when Duchaine nearly ties the game with thirty seconds left, his shot ringing off the post with a sound that echoes through the arena. Evan wins a crucial defensive zone face-off with fifteen seconds remaining. Torres sends the puck around the boards, where Jackson battles two Montreal players to keep it pinned. The clock winds down. Ten seconds. Five.

The horn sounds. Game over.

The Ice Hawks have clinched the final playoff spot.

The arena explodes, a wall of sound and movement as fans celebrate. On the ice, the team pours off the bench, mobbing Noah and forming a jubilant huddle at center ice. Evan emerges from the scrum, searching the owner’s box with his eyes. When he finds me, he raises his stick in a subtle salute meant only for me.

I allow myself a genuine smile in return, not caring who in the box notices. I’m so damn proud of Evan and the team, I’m bursting.

“Holy fuck,” Marco says, sounding befuddled. “They did it. They actually pulled it off. “

I hug him, feeling legitimately joyful. “I can’t believe it.”

“Congratulations,” Derek says, his smooth, professional demeanor barely containing his excitement. “All the money you poured into the team helped make this happen. This is a dream come true for the team, sir. I hope you know how much we appreciate you.”

I let out a harsh breath. “The team did the hard part.” I allow a proud smile as I watch Evan lead the team in a victory lap, high-fiving fans along the glass.

The others in the box begin discussing playoff matchups, revenue projections, marketing opportunities. Their voices fade to background noise as I watch Evan, flushed with victory, beaming as he embraces his teammates, looking up toward the owner’s box one more time before disappearing down the tunnel.

“You should go down,” Marco suggests. “I’m sure your boyfriend would appreciate seeing you.”

I’m already standing, straightening my tie. “I think I will go congratulate the team in person. Tell Derek I’ll catch up with him at the reception.”

What I’m thinking as I move toward the door: I want to be one of the first people Evan sees when he comes off the ice. I want to embrace him in front of his teammates, feel his heart still racing from the game. I’ll tell him how proud I am, not just of the goal or the win, but of the leader he’s become.

I push through the crowd gathering outside the locker room, security guards stepping aside with respectful nods. The corridor to the ice is thick with the commingled scents of sweat, rubber, and the metallic chill of the arena. The roar of the crowd still echoes through the concrete passageway, a continuous wave of sound celebrating what just happened.

I arrive at the mouth of the tunnel just as the team begins filing off the ice. Players stream past me, Noah still in his goalie pads, Torres limping slightly but grinning through the pain, Mills with his arm slung around Rodriguez’s shoulders. They acknowledge me with exhausted nods or celebratory fist bumps, their faces flushed with exertion and joy. I return their greetings, but my eyes search for only one person.

Evan is last off the ice. When he sees me waiting, his face transforms, the focused intensity of the game giving way to something softer, something meant only for me despite the crowd of staff and media hovering nearby. His hair is matted with sweat, his jersey dark with moisture, face still flushed from exertion.

“You did it,” I say simply as he reaches me. “You’re moving forward.”

He drops his gloves and helmet with a clatter on the rubber flooring and wraps his arms around me, not caring about the sweat and grime of the game, not caring who sees. I feel the heat radiating from his body, his heart still hammering against his chest pads, his breath coming in warm, ragged pants against my neck. He smells of adrenaline and effort, of the wintergreen balm he rubs on his shoulders before every game, and of victory.

“ We did it,” he corrects me, pulling back just enough to meet my eyes, his hands still gripping my shoulders. In his gaze, I see not just the euphoria of the win, but something deeper, an acknowledgment that helped make this moment possible. It’s a look that makes me feel simultaneously powerful and humbled.

Around us, camera shutters click and phones rise to capture the moment as teammates whoop and holler, but for a moment, it feels like we’re alone in the arena, suspended in this perfect instant of accomplishment and promise.

Tomorrow, there will be playoff preparations, strategic meetings, the next challenge to face. But tonight belongs to this feeling, this rare, perfect moment when everything we’ve worked for crystallizes into reality.

****

I insisted Evan go out with his team without me. He invited me to join them, but I know Evan needed to let loose with his team. If I was there, he’d feel obligated to keep me entertained. This way, he can do and say anything he feels without worrying about my feelings on the matter.

I do, however, stalk his Instagram. There are a ton of photos of him with the team. He looks so damn happy, it makes me happy. I realize winning tonight is no guarantee they’ll win the playoffs, but if you don’t get past this part you don’t even have a chance of claiming the trophy.

The Instagram photos entertain me, and I like knowing what Evan is up to. Everything is fine and dandy, until I come across a video of Evan with a tall, sandy haired guy. I instantly recognize him as the mystery man who met Evan at the arena parking lot a month or so ago. Marco never identified the guy because I’d forgotten all about him when Evan refused to throw the Chicago game.

There’s an obvious affection between them. It comes through in the video. My gut churns watching them smiling at each other. Evan has his arm around the guy’s waist, and they’re leaning into each other. Jealousy and anger boil inside of me as I study the two of them together.

I don’t believe Evan would cheat on me. He’s too good of a person to do that, but is it possible he has feelings for this other dude? I don’t like the thought of that at all. Not one little bit. I want all of Evan’s attention and affection. Who is this guy anyway? An ex-lover? Why does he keep randomly popping up?

The video ends and I watch it ten more times, searching for anything between them that hints at more than just friendship. They don’t do anything like kiss, but there is an intimacy I don’t care for. I’m not sure if I should mention that I saw the video or not. I don’t want Evan knowing I’m jealous, but if I don’t say something it will eat at me. Maybe this is an opportunity for me to grow. I need to trust Evan and not let suspicion fester.

It’s 3:00 a.m. by the time Evan comes home. He enters the dark bedroom quietly, and there’s only the rustle of him undressing. Then he gets into bed and moves over to where I’m lying. That comforts me a bit, the fact he wants to be close to me physically. I pretend to be asleep, until he starts kissing my shoulder. He’s naked, which makes my dick instantly hard.

I lift my head, studying his dark silhouette. “Did you have fun?” I ask softly.

“Mmm, hmm.” He slowly runs his hand down my bare chest, stomach, finally slipping his hand inside my pajama bottoms to grip my dick. “I’d rather have a certain kind of fun with you though.”

“Yeah?” I say breathlessly.

“Fuck, yeah.” He sounds a little drunk.

I smile and roll over on top of him. He lets out a squawk of a laugh, slipping his arms around me. I settle between his muscular thighs, kissing him. He moans into my mouth and drags his nails down my spine. I rock my hips against his, and he pushes his hands under the band of my pajama bottoms.

“You have too much clothing on, sir,” he whispers.

“You want me naked?” I tease.

“Yes.” He tugs at my bottoms.

While I shimmy out of my pajama bottoms, he grabs the lube. Now we’re both naked. He straddles me, his skin almost feverish against mine. He seems impatient tonight. Like he can’t get my cock inside him fast enough. I can’t help worrying he’s in a horny mood because he’s been hanging out with his ex all night. Was he wishing he could fuck that other guy? But he didn’t because he’s too honorable? So now I’m sloppy seconds?

“I missed you,” he says softly, lying down on top of me and slipping his arms around my neck.

I like hearing that, so I try to relax into the moment. I’ve never been insecure before. I hate it. It’s not my style to doubt myself. But it’s hard to get the image of Evan smiling at that other guy out of my head.

He’s mine. I don’t need to worry.

I really want to believe that. He says he loves me, so I need to try and trust that. Never being in love before is a handicap right now. I’m not sure if it’s normal to be jealous or not. If we love each other, I think I’m supposed to trust him wholeheartedly. Even if that’s not in my nature. If I love Evan, I should try to change my suspicious tendencies, right?

“Luca,” he moans, rolling his hips and dragging his dick over mine. “Fuck me. Fuck me deep and hard.”

My mouth goes dry with lust. I grab the lube bottle on the pillow and he sits up to allow me room to lube my cock. Then the takes the lube and slicks two of his fingers. He holds my gaze as he pushes them inside himself. Moaning, he prepares his hole for my cock. By the time he’s done, I’m aching to be inside him.

“Sit on my cock,” I command hoarsely.

He lifts his hips and slides down on my thick shaft. We both groan loudly, and I can’t help immediately thrusting up into his tight hole. He groans and throws his head back, riding my cock as I fuck my hips up hard and fast.

“Is this what you wanted, baby?” I growl, digging my fingers into his hips, holding him where I want him.

He hisses and nods, leaning forward with every punishing thrust. “Been thinking about getting fucked all night.”

By me or someone else?

His words add fuel to my insecurities. But I’m enjoying the tight squeeze of his hole too much to stop. No, I’m going to take what I want, and give him what he needs. He’s mine. He says he loves me, so I have to believe that. I will believe that. I can’t lose him. And if I say something jealous and stupid, I might lose him.

He arches his back, panting as I ram into him. He’s stroking himself, staring up at the ceiling, mouth open. “Oh, God,” he wheezes. “Oh, fuck it feels so good.”

“Yeah? You like my cock?”

“Mmmm.” He shudders and rolls his hips.

The friction of his clamping ass combined with his greedy little sounds is too much. I can’t last. Not when I’m inside his tight heat. Not when he’s begging me to fuck him. To finish him. To breed him.

“Shit, I’m coming,” he whimpers, body going rigid. His cock spits a stream of creamy white release over his hand and my abdomen. His moans are achingly sweet as he trembles on my cock, slowly rocking his hips.

My vison blurs as I come hard, pumping my load deep inside his quaking asshole. His clenching and unclenching hole milks my throbbing dick so perfectly, I can’t breathe for a moment. My orgasm feels too good. Too all consuming. It’s like every inch of me is buzzing with pleasure. As I finish inside him, he rests some of his weight on his hands, my cock still buried in his beautiful ass.

He blows out a breath and laughs sheepishly. “Sorry I jumped your bones.”

“You think I’m gonna complain?” I frown, closing my eyes. My body is warm and loose after my glorious orgasm. “Feel free to jump me anytime.”

He laughs and pulls off of my dick, reaching for tissues. He cleans me first, then himself. When we’re both spotless, he lies down beside me again, molding into the curve of my body. His hand rests lightly on my arm, and his breathing slows. I smell tequila on his breath, and I shake my head. Whenever he drinks tequila, he gets super horny. That’s probably why he was in such a hurry to fuck tonight. Not because he was thinking of that other guy.

I shift my position. “Hey, put your head on my shoulder.”

He murmurs something sleepily, but he obeys. I slip my arm around his waist and tug him closer. I love sleeping with Evan half on top of me. I never liked sleeping with anyone until Evan. But he fits into my body perfectly.

He fits into my life perfectly too.

That’s probably why I feel paranoid. I don’t want to lose him. For once in my life, I have a man who I love and who I want to stick around. It’s all still very new and very fragile. I’m determined that I won’t be the one who fucks things up. So long as I behave, Evan probably won’t leave me.

So I’ll behave.