Page 32

Luca

I don’t know how to tell Evan his mother is gone.

Just as the game started, I got a call from his brother, Matt. Catherine wasn’t doing well. I left immediately, not because I thought I could help, but because someone needed to represent Evan. He couldn’t be there, so I needed to be his eyes and ears. He needed someone to see it, to remember everything for him.

When I got to the facility, Matt and his father, Sam, welcomed me into the room. I’d never officially met his family before. It was surreal, recognizing Matt as the sandy-haired guy from Evan’s Instagram. I’ll admit I was relieved, at least now I knew Evan’s “mystery guy” wasn’t an ex still hanging around. I just wish I hadn’t had to make that discovery under such grim circumstances.

Catherine was propped up in bed, IVs in her arms and wires attached to her bony chest, her body thin and fragile under a blanket. Her hair was black, threaded with silver, wispy around her temples. Her skin looked almost translucent. She seemed distant, staring blankly at the small TV playing the game. But her eyes were green, exactly like Evan’s. I recognized her from the photo on his refrigerator.

After the stilted introductions, we didn’t talk much. It wasn’t the time for conversation, not with Catherine so clearly fading, and the game unfolding in the background. All three of us watched in silence. I’d wanted to be at the arena, standing in the box, seeing Evan win in person. But it felt wrong not to be here.

In the last few minutes of the game, Catherine seemed to have a moment of clarity. She sat up straighter in bed and smiled at the TV. When the final buzzer went off and the Ice Hawks won, she pointed at the screen when Evan appeared. He pulled off his helmet, his face flushed, sweaty, hair matted to his head, but he was grinning. He looked so young and joyful.

“That’s my boy, Evan.” She looked right at me. “I’m so proud of him. I knew he’d win the Cup one day. I always told him, just never give up and you’ll get that trophy one day.” She gave a soft laugh. “He did it. My boy did it.”

“He sure did, honey. Just like you said he would,” her husband Sam said, moving over to hold her hand. They smiled at each other as tears streamed down his face.

“That’s my boy,” she murmured. “My youngest boy Evan.”

Her breathing changed then, becoming more shallow, less labored. None of us said anything else, I think we were afraid to break whatever miracle had granted her that moment of clarity. Her eyes remained open, fixed on the screen, on her son’s triumph.

Twenty minutes later, when she stopped breathing, it happened so quietly, it was a blessing. There was no struggle, no final gasp, just a gentle cessation, as if she’d decided that having seen her youngest son achieve his dream, she could finally rest.

Now, I wait just outside the players’ entrance, tucked into the shadow of a loading bay pillar. The air smells like exhaust and damp concrete. My phone buzzes again, another text from Derek, asking where I went. I don’t answer.

I can hear the fans still cheering inside. The roar of victory, the anthem of a lifetime achievement. The team’s name echoing in the stands. Somewhere inside that building, Evan is still grinning. Celebrating. Thinking this is the greatest night of his life.

And I’m about to break his heart.

Eventually, the door swings open, and for a moment, all I hear is laughter and voices echoing off concrete. Evan steps out into the loading bay, flanked by a few teammates, Jackson, Rodriguez, and Noah, a champagne bottle dangling from one hand. They’re glowing, all of them, flushed with triumph and booze and adrenaline. Jackson’s yelling something about a group photo. Rodriguez is already halfway through lighting a cigar.

Evan’s smiling. God, he’s radiating joy. He’s wearing his championship cap backward, and he spots me immediately, his grin widening.

But then he sees my expression.

The smile falters. Fades. His steps slow.

Rodriguez says something to him, nudging his arm, but Evan doesn’t respond. His eyes stay locked on mine, the color draining from his face. His shoulders stiffen. The buzz of celebration dies in him like a fuse cut mid-spark.

He knows.

I take a step forward, throat thick. His teammates don’t seem to notice anything is wrong, their voices dimming as Evan peels away from them, walking toward me like a zombie.

When he finally stops in front of me, he grates out, “Luca…” He lets out a harsh breath. “What’s wrong?” The words cracks right down the middle.

Noah stops first, but Rodriguez and Jackson continue a few steps before realizing Evan has stopped. They turn back, momentarily oblivious to the shift in atmosphere.

“Cap, you coming?” Noah asks, glancing between us. He’s accepted that Evan and I are together. But he still doesn’t like me.

Evan doesn’t look away from me. “You guys go ahead. I’ll catch up.”

“You sure?” Jackson frowns slightly, finally sensing something’s off.

“Yeah. Save me a spot.” Evan’s voice is steady, but I can see the tension creeping into his shoulders, the joy being gradually replaced by apprehension. Dread.

“Evan, you sure you’re okay?” Noah’s voice is alert. He obviously knows his friend well.

Evan’s throat works as he tries to speak, then he says hoarsely, “I’m fine. I’ll be right there, okay?”

They hesitate for a moment longer before nodding and continuing toward the players’ parking area, their voices fading as they round the corner. In the sudden quiet, I can hear distant traffic, the hum of the arena’s massive air conditioning units, the soft sound of Evan’s breathing.

He approaches me slowly. “What’s wrong?” he asks. “Why’d you disappear?”

I take a breath. There’s no gentle way to say this, no perfect words that will soften the blow. I have to say the words that will gut him and there’s just no way around it. “Evan, your mom she… she died.”

His posture changes instantly, a stiffening, a bracing. His hands curl into loose fists at his sides. He shakes his head. “No.”

“I’m so sorry, baby.” My voice breaks.

He takes a half-step backward, as if physically struck. The Cup-winning smile is gone completely now, replaced by a blankness that’s somehow worse than any visible pain.

“Matt called me during the first period. I went right away,” I say.

“You were there?” His eyes search mine, desperate for details, for something to hold onto.

I nod. “With Matt and your father.”

“Really?” He sounds like a little kid. “You were really there with her?”

“I swear to god.”

“Did she—” His voice cracks slightly. He swallows hard and tries again. “Was she in pain?”

“No. She was comfortable.” I step closer, close enough to touch him, though I don’t yet. “Evan, she had a moment of clarity at the end. She saw you win.”

His eyes widen slightly. “What?”

“The game was on in her room. When you won, when they showed you on screen, she sat up. She pointed to you and said, ‘That’s my boy, Evan.’ She said she was proud of you, that she always knew you’d win the Cup someday.”

Tears fill his eyes but don’t fall. He blinks rapidly, processing. “She... she knew me? She recognized me?”

“Yes.” I reach for his hand now, feeling his fingers cold against mine. “She knew exactly who you were and that you won the Cup. She was lucid, Evan. She was so fucking proud of you.”

His breathing becomes uneven. I watch him struggle to maintain composure, his jaw working silently. The juxtaposition is jarring, the distant sounds of fans still celebrating his victory, all against the backdrop of this devastating news.

“I should have been there,” he says finally, his voice hollow. “Someone should have told me. Should have come and got me.”

“No, she wouldn’t have wanted that.”

“But… she died . And I wasn’t there.” The raw pain in his voice is like a knife to my heart.

“Evan, the game had started.” I shake my head. “You were exactly where she wanted you to be. Winning the Cup. Fulfilling the dream she always had for you.”

“But I didn’t get to say goodbye.” Tears streak down his cheeks. “I didn’t get to say goodbye .”

“God, I know.” I put my arms around him, holding him tight as his body shakes with sobs. “But she saw you win. She was so happy, baby.”

He grips my jacket, breathing ragged. We stay like that for minutes, me holding him, and him clinging to me like I’m the only thing keeping him upright. I rub his back, kissing his hair, wishing I could take the pain from him.

“Honestly,” I say softly, “It’s like she waited until the game began. So you wouldn’t leave your team and go to her. She knew you’d do that. She wanted you where you were, so don’t regret anything, Evan.”

He doesn’t say anything, but he seems calmer now. He straightens, wiping roughly at his eyes. “I need to call Matt and Dad.”

“Of course. I have a car waiting. I can take you to them, or to the facility, or...” I leave it open, ready to accommodate whatever he needs in this moment.

He nods absently, already reaching for his phone. Then he stops, looking lost. “The team... the celebration...”

“I’ll let Derek know. He can tell the team. They’ll understand. Obviously, they’ll understand why you aren’t there.”

“Right. Of course.” His voice is dull. He takes a deep, shuddering breath, seeming to draw strength from the certainty in my voice.

I guide him toward the waiting car, my hand at the small of his back. Behind us, fans continue to stream out of the building, many wearing his jersey number, all celebrating the victory he can no longer fully enjoy.

I hate that I can’t fix this for him. I feel so powerless. I hate that I can’t just take his pain from him and let him be happy with his victory tonight. Life can be so fucking cruel sometimes. Even though he knew this was coming, for it to happen on this day is beyond harsh.

I’m one of the most powerful men in this city. I can crush men if I want. Build them up if I want. I can say whether men live or die. But I couldn’t stop this. Couldn’t buy her more time. Couldn’t keep the light in Evan’s eyes from dimming the moment he learned she was gone. I can command boardrooms, silence senators, make entire companies kneel, but I couldn’t protect the one person I love most from unbearable pain.

I’m Luca fucking Barone. And all I can do is watch Evan suffer.

****

Outside, the dawns dull and gray. The sunlight barely makes a dent in the dense clouds, as if the weather is mourning right along with us.

Evan didn’t sleep. I know this because I woke up every couple of hours to find him staring at the ceiling, his body rigid next to mine. He didn’t say much when we got back from seeing his dad and Matt, just enough to let me know he was grateful I was there. After that, silence. A silence that feels impenetrable.

I leave him in bed to make coffee. Once it’s brewed, I take the cups back to our room, hoping he’s fallen asleep even for a few minutes, but he’s already sitting up, bleary-eyed and still not quite present.

“Here. Drink this.” My voice is gruff as I hand him the coffee. I’ve never had to really help anyone grieve, other than family. I desperately want to do and say the right things for Evan, but I’m a little out of my comfort zone.

“Thanks.” It comes out rough and exhausted.

“I’m going to call Isabella today. She can arrange stuff. Help with... whatever you need. She good friends with the funeral director of Hawthorne & Sons Funeral Home.” Isabella will know how to be soft and supportive, areas where I fear I might lack in. I want Evan to have all the loving support he can get, and worry I’ll fall short. Isabella is a natural at comforting people, plus, she adores Evan.

He manages a nod, cradling the mug between both hands like it might help keep him together for another minute. “That’s great. I love Isabella.”

“Is there anything else I can do?” I ask quietly. “Me personally?”

“No,” he says. Then he looks at me with those big soulful eyes that just break my heart. “Can you come with me? When we talk to the funeral director?”

“Of course. You don’t have to ask.” I touch his cheek lightly, relieved when he doesn’t pull away. Sometimes people don’t like to be touched when their upset. “I’m here for whatever you need, Evan. All of it.”

He leans into my touch, closing his eyes for a moment. I sense the conflict in him, grief warring with relief that he doesn’t have to face this alone. He’s a proud man and leaning on me probably feels wrong. But I’m so glad he trusts me enough to be with him at this awful, heartbreaking moment.

Later, once we’re dressed, Isabella meets us at Hawthorne & Sons Funeral Home. The minute she sees Evan, she throws her arms around him, her eyes already red-rimmed like she’s been crying through the night too. She’s an incredibly empathetic little thing. I struggle with empathy usually, although when it comes to Evan, I’ve been in agony right along side him. His pain is my pain.

“Evan,” she says thickly. “I’m so sorry.”

“Thank you,” he says quietly.

The funeral director, Harold Hawthorne, is a small man with a nervous smile. He shuffles papers and provides options with the solemn cheer of someone who does this every day. Evan listens, though it’s clear he can barely absorb the details.

Isabella steps in, asking all the right questions about flowers and programs. She suggests music and makes sure Evan knows he can come back to change anything if he has second thoughts later. Her gentle confidence puts him at ease, lets him focus on what matters instead of all the logistical bullshit.

Once all the arrangements are made, we stand outside the funeral home. Isabella watches Evan with an empathetic expression. “It’ll be a funeral your mother would be proud of,” she assures him, squeezing his shoulder.

“Thanks, Isabella.” His voice cracks. “Really. I don’t know if I could have got through all of that without you.”

I nod, well aware I wouldn’t have been much help. I don’t handle things like funerals. I have people who handle those things. Isabella and Mama took care of my father’s funeral with little to no input from me.

“Let me know if you need anything else,” Isabella insists. “I’m serious.”

“I will,” he says softly.

She gives a guilty smile. “I’d stay and have lunch with you guys, but Marco gets the cast off his leg today. He wanted me to be there.”

“Did he now?” I raise my brows.

Her cheeks tint pink. “Yes. He said I calm him.” She laughs. “Which is pretty funny, considering how much we butt heads.”

“I’m glad he invited you,” I say smoothly. “He should have someone with him. He tends to be too much of a lone wolf.”

She nods. “I agree.” She has a funny little smile.

I meet Evan’s gaze and he winks. He knows I’m hopeful that Marco and Isabella will get together. I think they’d make a wonderful couple, and they’re both already head over heels for each other. It’s just neither one of the will make the first move.

The drive home, Evan is quiet. Not surprising. What is surprising is when we get home, he wants sex. I thought maybe he’d want to go for a swim, or workout to burn off energy. But he has another way to burn off energy in mind. He leads me into the bedroom, and immediately strips down to his black briefs. His eyes are feverish, and I suspect he’s desperately trying to escape his depressing thoughts.

While I’m surprised he’s horny, I’m not about to say no. Not when his voice is low and desperate, not when his eyes are dark with a hunger that goes beyond the physical. Sex between us is never just routine, it’s often fucking primal. We have our moments when it’s slow and tender, all soft kisses and whispered promises. But right now, from the look in his eyes, this session is going to be raw, animalistic, a collision of bodies that leaves us both gasping and bruised.

I guess he wants pain, to bury the other pain.

I can see in his eyes that he wants to be filled to feel wanted in the most visceral way possible. He just needs me inside him, balls-deep, claiming him in a way that leaves no room for doubt about how much I want him. And Christ, grief or no grief, who am I to deny him that? My cock is already throbbing, pulsing with the need to bury itself in his tight, willing body.

I push him down onto the bed, his back arching as I yank his underwear down in one rough motion. He rolls over, his ass is bare, firm and perfect, just begging to be spread open and devoured. I don’t waste time with foreplay. I slick myself up with lube, my dick glistening and hard as steel, and position myself against his hole. He whimpers, and I feel his body tense, but then he pushes back, greedy, hungry for it.

“Fuck me,” he breathes, his voice trembling. “Help me forget for one fucking minute.”

“Yeah, baby? You want it rough?”

He groans, clutching the sheets. “Just… ruin me, Luca.”

And ruin him I will. I slam into him in one brutal thrust, my cock splitting him open, stretching him wide. He gives a chest deep groan, arching off the bed as I bottom out inside him. His ass is fucking perfect, hot and tight, clenching around me like a vice. I don’t hold back. I pound into him with everything I have, each thrust driving him deeper into the mattress. The sound of skin slapping against skin echoes through the room, mingling with his choked moans and my ragged gasps.

He reaches back, fingers digging into my thigh as I fuck him harder, faster.

“Yes,” he groans, his voice breaking. “God, yes. Don’t stop. Don’t fucking stop.”

“I won’t.” I grab his hips, holding him in place as I drill into him, my cock pistoning into his ass with a rhythm that’s almost savage. His body jolts with every thrust, and he slips his hand under his hips, squeezing his cock.

I feel the pressure building, my balls tightening as I get closer and closer to the edge. “Feel me inside you?” I growl, my voice rough and low. “You’re mine. Just fucking mine .”

He doesn’t argue. He just moans louder, pushing back against me as if he can’t get enough. And then I’m coming, my cock exploding inside him as I fill him with hot, sticky cum. He cries out and comes too, his body shuddering as he soaks the sheets with his cum.

Afterward, I collapse onto the bed beside him. We’re both sweaty and spent. He’s still grieving, I can see it in the way his body curls into mine, seeking comfort in the aftermath of our raw, messy fuck. But he knows I’m here. I’m not going anywhere. I’ll be here for him, no matter how long it takes for him to heal.