Page 33

Evan

My tie feels too tight. It’s the same one I wore for post-game interviews after we won the Cup, now repurposed for my mother’s funeral. The past five days have been a blur of contradictions, smiling for cameras while grief hollows me out, giving sound bites about teamwork while arranging funeral flowers, planning my day with the Cup while selecting my mother’s casket.

Hawthorne & Sons Funeral Home sits on a quiet street lined with oak trees. The building itself is understated, all muted grays and tasteful landscaping. Inside, Mom’s casket is surrounded by lilies and framed photos of her life, laughing with Dad on their wedding day, holding newborn Matt in her arms, cheering from the stands at one of my high school games.

“How are you holding up?” Luca asks quietly, his shoulder pressed against mine in the front pew.

The question feels illogical given where we are, but I appreciate his asking it anyway. I nod, not trusting my voice. Luca’s been my constant through this impossible week, standing slightly off-camera during my media appearances.

Matt sits on my other side, stoic and red-eyed, while Dad occupies the space beyond him, looking fragile in a way I’ve never associated with him before. We make a strange tableau, the Riley men and the mob boss who somehow belongs among us now.

Someone from Sports Illustrated texted this morning about rescheduling our cover shoot. The parade is set for Tuesday. Noah called about plans for a team gathering at his lake house next weekend. Life and hockey continue their relentless forward motion while we sit here, suspended in grief.

The minister speaks about Mom’s kindness, her strength through illness, her love for her family. His words wash over me without fully penetrating. I find myself instead remembering Mom quizzing me on spelling words at the kitchen table. Mom sewing name tags into my first travel team jersey. Mom making chicken soup when I had the flu during playoffs my junior year.

“Would anyone like to share some memories of Catherine?” the minister asks.

Matt stands first, sharing stories that pull reluctant laughter from the gathered mourners, Mom’s terrible singing voice, her competitive streak at family game nights, her uncanny ability to know when we were lying about homework. I watch my brother speak, marveling at his composure, knowing it will crumble later when the public performance is done.

When it’s my turn, I approach the podium on legs that feel disconnected from my body. The speech I prepared sits in my pocket, but I don’t reach for it.

“My mom was at every game she could physically attend,” I begin, my voice steadier than expected. “From frozen ponds when I was ten to major junior championships. She’d bring hot chocolate in a thermos, even in warm arenas, because she said winning or losing, hot chocolate made everything better.”

Scattered smiles appear among the mourners. I see teammates in the back rows, Noah, Torres, Rodriguez, Mills, Deck, all in dark suits.

“When I got drafted, she framed my first professional jersey before I even played a game. She believed in me before anyone else did.” I pause, gathering myself. “Last week, we won the Stanley Cup. And in her final moments, she was lucid enough to see it happen. I’ll forever be grateful for that one thing. That one moment.”

My voice cracks on the last word. Luca shifts in his seat, a subtle movement, but I notice. He’s so protective. He probably wants to jump up here with me and drag me off somewhere to grieve in peace.

“I wasn’t with her at the end. I was on the ice. But in some ways, that’s where she’d have wanted me to be, finishing what we started together all those years ago on those frozen ponds.”

I stop talking abruptly because my throat closes up. I return to my seat, feeling Luca’s steady hand on my back as I sit. Matt grips my shoulder briefly. Dad nods once, a gesture containing volumes.

The remainder of the service passes in fragments, the final prayer, the procession to the cemetery, the devastating finality of dirt on the casket. Through it all, Luca remains a steady presence, neither overstepping nor retreating.

At the small gathering afterward, I move through conversations on autopilot. Distant relatives tell me they recorded my Stanley Cup interviews. Old family friends mention seeing me on the cover of the local paper. The worlds of grief and achievement continue their uncomfortable collision.

“I need a minute,” I tell Luca after the third person congratulates me on the Cup while offering condolences in the same breath.

He nods, understanding immediately. “Garden’s through that door.”

I find my way outside, where spring has painted the funeral home’s garden in soft colors that seem almost offensive in their beauty today. I loosen my tie, gulping in fresh air.

“Thought you might need this,” Luca says, appearing beside me with a glass of water.

I accept it gratefully. “Thanks. For everything this week. The way you’ve handled the press, the parade planning, all the team obligations...” I clear my throat. “I feel like I’m going to collapse under the weight of it all.”

“I know.” His gaze is concerned. “I worry about you.”

“It’s just that, everyone expects something. ESPN wants the triumphant interview. The team needs their captain for the parade. The league has all these appearances lined up. I know I need to do all of that stuff. It’s expected of me. I get it. I mean, I want it, even though I don’t. I worked fucking hard to get here, so I earned it. But it’s just a lot, you know?” He winces. “Fuck, I sound like a whiney baby.”

“No you don’t. You’re just under a lot of pressure.”

“Yeah, but it’s okay. I just need to get through it.”

Luca is quiet for a moment. Then, “Yes, you do. You have to get through it. And like you say, a part of you wants it because you earned it. But what if you could just escape afterward? Go somewhere no one wants anything from you?”

I look at him, confused. “What do you mean?”

“I’ve made arrangements,” he says carefully. “After the parade and your day with the Cup. A place where no one knows you’re a hockey player or a grieving son. Just somewhere to... recalibrate.”

I widen my eyes, excitement rippling through me. “Where?”

“There’s an Island in the Maldives. I have a private villa over the water. We could go there together, if you want. There would be no media, no schedules. Just sun and ocean, and me.” His eyes search mine. “Say the word and we’re there. Or say no and I’ll cancel it all.”

The offer catches me completely off guard. Not just its unexpectedness, but the thoughtfulness behind it. Luca, has changed so much toward me. He’s so much softer and careful. I’m amazed he thought of this, simply to help me heal in peace.

“I do have a month before I need to be back for training,” I say, already imagining the respite of anonymity, of space to process everything that’s happened.

“I know.” He smirks. “I’m the owner of the team, remember?”

I laugh, suddenly feeling lighter. Like maybe I can handle the stress of everything after all. If I could get some distance from obligations, just for a while, I could deal with my grief, rejuvenate my mind and spirit, and start fresh for the new season.

Behind us, voices filter from the reception. I should get back, shake more hands, accept more conflicted congratulations and condolences. My dad and brother are still inside, carrying the same impossible weight.

“Yes,” I tell him. “After the parade. After my day with the Cup. I want to go.”

Luca grins, looking very pleased with himself. “Then we’ll go.”

****

The water stretches endless and impossibly blue around our villa, so clear I can see tropical fish darting beneath the surface from where I lounge on our private deck. My muscles have finally stopped aching, the brutal playoff run and the Cup celebrations left me with bruises in places I didn’t know could bruise. But after a week in paradise, my body is remembering how to exist without constant pain.

“Another drink?” Luca asks, holding up a pitcher of something fruity and rum-heavy.

I nod, stretching like a contented cat in the midday sun. “Keep ‘em coming.”

He refills my glass, the ice clinking pleasantly. Luca looks different here, his usually perfect hair tousled by the ocean breeze, designer suits replaced by linen shorts and an unbuttoned shirt. His skin has taken on a golden tan that makes his eyes seem even more intense.

“I spoke with Derek this morning,” he says, settling into the lounger beside me. “Team’s negotiating with Torres. They want to lock him in for five years.”

“Good. Kid’s going to be a star.” I take a sip of my drink, the sweetness cutting through the rum’s bite. “Thought we agreed to a moratorium on hockey talk.”

Luca’s lips quirk upward. “Force of habit.”

On the horizon, windsurfers catch the afternoon breeze, their colorful sails bright against the blue gradient of sky and sea. I’ve been eyeing them all week, remembering summers at my uncle’s lake house where I first learned to windsurf.

“Let’s do that later today,” I say, nodding toward them.

Luca follows my gaze, his expression skeptical. “I’ve never tried it.”

“Perfect. Something I can finally teach you.”

His eyebrow arches. “You’re assuming I can’t pick it up immediately.”

“That’s exactly what I’m assuming.” I grin at him over my drink. “The great Luca Barone, at the mercy of wind and water.”

He accepts this challenge with a slight incline of his head. “We’ll see.”

****

After a little coaxing, I finally get Luca out on the water with me.

“Balance is key,” I explain, stabilizing the board as Luca stands on it in the shallow water off the beach. “Keep your knees bent, weight centered.”

“How did I let you talk me into this?” Luca grumbles, concentration etched in the lines of his face.

Ignoring him, I warn, “When you pull up the sail, it’s going to feel heavier than you expect.”

Luca scoffs. “I think I can handle it. All the Barones have excellent balance.”

I step back, giving him space. “Show me, then.”

He grips the uphaul rope and begins to pull. The sail rises from the water, heavy with seawater, and for a moment, he maintains perfect form. Then the breeze catches the sail before he’s ready, the board wobbles, and Luca Barone, feared mob boss, business genius, owner of a Stanley Cup-winning hockey team, topples sideways into the crystal-clear water with an undignified squawk.

I try to contain my laughter. I really do. But the sight of him emerging from the water, his perfect hair plastered to his forehead, indignation written across his features, breaks something loose in my chest. I double over, laughing harder than I have in months.

“Perfect balance, huh?” I guffaw.

“I’m glad you find this amusing,” he says, but there’s no heat in it. His lips twitch, fighting a smile.

“Try again,” I encourage, once I’ve caught my breath. “It takes practice.”

He does, with the same determination that characterizes everything he does. And he falls again. And again. By the fifth attempt, he’s laughing too, a rare, uninhibited sound that makes my heart swell.

On his seventh try, he manages to stay upright for almost thirty seconds before a stronger gust catches him off guard. Progress. But he looks pissed that he isn’t perfect immediately.

“Your turn,” he says, swimming the board back to me. “Show me how it’s done, Captain.”

I take the board, settling into a stance that feels like muscle memory despite the years since I last did this. The sail comes up smoothly, and I position myself, feeling the wind fill the canvas. Then I’m off, skimming across the water’s surface, making a wide turn to circle back toward him.

“Show-off,” he calls, but he actually looks proud of me.

I cut through the water again, the exhilaration of speed and balance momentarily washing away everything else, the lingering grief, the pressure of being a champion, the responsibilities waiting for me back home. For these minutes, I’m just a man on water, chasing the wind.

When I finally return to shore, Luca is waiting, a towel in his hands.

“That was impressive,” he admits, wrapping the towel around my shoulders.

“Years of practice. And a low center of gravity, according to my junior coach.”

He smiles, genuinely this time. “Want to get dinner? The resort chef mentioned something about freshly caught grouper today.”

“In a minute.” I take a seat on the warm sand, patting the spot beside me. “Let’s just sit for a while. I want to enjoy the moment with my sexy mob boss boytoy.”

“That’s quite a mouthful.” He snorts a laugh, joining me, his shoulder against mine. We watch the horizon in comfortable silence, the rhythm of the waves a soothing constant.

The sand is still warm beneath me, even though the sun’s starting to dip. It presses up through the towel and into my palms as I lean back. The tide rolls in and out, soft and steady. Gulls flutter above us, crying out with throaty screeches. The wind carries the tang of salt and sunscreen, with just a whisper of bonfire smoke drifting down from further up the beach. My skin’s sticky from saltwater, the edges of my swim trunks stiff with dried ocean water.

“This is perfect. Thank you for bringing me here, Luca,” I say softly, turning to meet his dark gaze.

“I’ve wanted to run away with you many times.” He smiles.

I return his smile. “It’s so weird how I used to think winning at hockey was everything.”

“Yeah?”

“Yep.” I sigh. “Back in January, when we were in that awful slump, I’d have given anything for a single win. My entire world narrowed down to that next game, that next point in the standings.”

Luca listens, his eyes on the distant edge where blue meets blue.

“I still remember that game against the Blazers, my head pounding, legs burning, but none of it mattered except getting those two points.” I dig my toes into the warm sand. “I thought that feeling during Game 7, lifting the Cup, I thought that would be the pinnacle. The moment that made everything worth it.”

“Wasn’t it?” Luca asks quietly.

I consider this, thinking of the confetti falling from the rafters, the weight of the Cup in my hands, my teammates’ faces transformed by joy. “It was incredible,” I acknowledge. “Everything I’d dreamed of. But it wasn’t... enough. Not by itself.”

A small hermit crab scuttles past our feet, barely diving under the sand before a seagull eats it for dinner.

“When Mom died that same night—” My voice catches, but I push through. “It put everything in perspective. The Cup was a dream come true, but it’s still just a thing. A beautiful, historic thing, but still just metal and memories. I’d give it up in a second to have her back. With her memories intact, and healthy again.” My eyes burn.

Luca’s hand finds mine in the sand, his fingers threading through mine.

“But this,” I continue, squeezing his hand. “This is what makes the wins sweeter and the losses bearable. Having someone who understands both.”

He turns to face me, his expression open in a way few people ever get to see. “I still can’t believe how lucky I am. When I bought the team, I was thinking about expansion, legitimacy, new revenue streams. Not...” He gestures between us. “Not this.”

“Yeah, it’s crazy. Our journey has been… insane.”

He gives a sheepish laugh. “Yes.” The breeze picks up slightly, ruffling his already disheveled hair.

“You know, I still want to win,” I tell him. “Next season, and the one after that. It’s in my DNA. But I’ve learned there’s more than one kind of victory.”

Luca smiles, the unguarded one that transforms his entire face. “Like teaching a mob boss to windsurf?”

“ Attempting to teach,” I correct, laughing. “We’ve got a long way to go there, buddy.”

He leans forward, kissing me with salt-tinged lips. “Good thing we have time.”

“Yeah, we do, huh?” I rest my head on his shoulder, truly content. “We have the rest of our lives.”

He chuffs. “If you think you’re getting rid of me even after death, think again, Evan.”

I laugh. “Works for me.”

We have two more weeks in this paradise before reality reclaims us, before training camp and business meetings, before the defense of our championship and the continued navigation of grief.

But for now, there’s just this: warm sand beneath us, endless blue around us, and the unexpected gift of finding something more valuable than any trophy.