Chapter Text
“Haas, you fucking pussy!”
Luca filtered in the chirp from the choir of howling voices, bodies staggering in waves of black and red that blurred together into one mass of pure, competitive fury. He more often than not avoided deciphering the chants that echoed from the stands, but today, it was as if someone had cranked up the amplitude and driven the output straight into Luca’s dumb-blond skull.
He made the fatal mistake of hesitating a second too long with the puck after Harrington-a Seattle Siren defenseman who outsized the star rookie by at least six weightclasses-had come sideways barrelling with the unquestionable promise to violently check Luca straight into the boards.
Luca dodged. Seattle’s winger stole the puck. The Ottawa crowd, already emotionally charged from being tied with Seattle for the last ten minutes, was not happy.
God forbid Luca stay alive in the last few minutes of the period. What did they expect? He wasn’t like Bood, who could somehow tank checks equivalent to the force of a ballistic missile.
Evidently, a lot of people had expected him to, because at least two people screamed “toughen up, Haas, you Eurotrash!” from somewhere behind him, and Luca’s breath caught in his throat at the fact he couldn’t even tell if that was from a Centaur or Siren anymore.
His protective pads felt like they were grating down his skin, and he was becoming acutely aware of how hot (or freezing? He could not tell at this point) the helmet felt against his jaw. Was he even moving? Had he not pushed himself off the boards not ten seconds ago, and went back to tailing the puck?
It was then Luca was hit with dreadful realisation that he had not moved at all from the 25-yard line, his body paralysed in a cold sweat somewhere on the ice, eyes were locked dead ahead, but watching the game play out from somewhere else entirely.
Oh no.
Luca begged his body to move. But everything felt so heavy and his body felt too light. The jeers, the three Seattle goals he couldn’t prevent, the past year he’s spent trying to keep up with the others, all of it came crashing down on him at once. The stadium felt so quiet and so loud at the same time and somewhere in between he could hear his breath quicken in sharp, uneven heaves.
It was obvious to anyone in the crowd that his sudden suspension wasn't an act of strategising. Nor was it a result of fatigue. Luca's body was tense and shaking. There was an overwhelming tightness in his chest made his grip loosen on his stick.
The roar of the arena dulled. His vision narrowed. The ice beneath him suddenly feeling unsteady and far away. It felt like he was falling.
Fuck.
Unwarranted headlines began embedding themselves into Luca’s mind; Haas fumbles the puck again under pressure– Haas has a meltdown in the last 5 minutes of the game– Ottawa rookie’s gutless play brings shame in comparison to the warrior Rozanov was at Haas’ age–
The final horn blares.
Luca finally dares to look up.
By some miracle, Ottawa scored in the last minute and won 4-3.
The bodies in the stands began thrashing wildly, clamouring in both exasperated celebration and bitter disappointment, and yet, Luca couldn’t hear any of it.
“Luca– Luca!”
Two firm but gentle squeezes are felt on the sides of Luca’s shoulders, and the noise suddenly returns.
“Luca! You are alright?” The hands glide up and down his sleeves reassuringly. “We need to line up now, yes? And then we get you off the ice. Come.”
Rozanov guides Luca to the handshake line, which Luca realised probably formed already for God knows how long while he was still frozen. But when he had finished shaking hands, or when he had torn off his gear, or when he had locked himself in a bathroom, was blurred together in Luca’s mind.
He swore at the reflection distorted in the bathroom mirror, his hand dragging its way down the curves of his face as he groaned.
“Luca?” A strident, Russian voice is muffled through the door. Then it gets gentler, “Luca, you are alright? The team has already packed up. They all wanted to check on you before they go.”
Luca doesn’t even know if he can face his captain–his idol–after what he had just done.
“Haas, hey we– wait– Ilya– okay– Ilya! Chill out! Don’t hammer the door like a serial killer. Fuck.” Was that Hollander? Oh god, even worse. “Hey, Haas? We’ve got your bag, and uh… we can even give you a ride home, if you’d like.”
“Oh. Um. No.” Luca croaked. The couple lived in the completely opposite direction to his apartment; another sacrifice they would have to make for him. “No it’s– ah– I’m okay, thank you.”
“Luca, don’t feel embarrassed about fumbling that puck, okay? That rotund piece of shit was going straight for the kil– Ah–?! What?! I am saying to Luca that is okay!”
“Ilya, don’t be an asshole. Haas- Luca, please just come out. We’re not mad or anything, promise.”
“Are you sure? You seemed–”
“Yeah, at the Sirens, not Luca, and you’re not helping.”
The slap of the metal door against the wall startled the couple out of their banter, and outstepped the rookie with a face that was evidently splashed with water prior to his exit.
“Um..” Luca’s shame forced his gaze down, slowly taking his bag from Shane’s grasp without a single look to spare. “I’m sorry.”
Luca could feel the two exchanging glances, and then a large hand patted his bicep in two grounding movements.
“Is fine,” Rozanov voice had shifted to something softer. “Do not blame yourself, the whole game was full of dirty-play. It must have been overwhelming for you, fighting big guys with even bigger sticks up their ass, but you are okay, okay? You made very valuable plays for the team today. You did good.”
The burning sensation at the back of Luca’s head fired throughout his entire anatomy. Rozanov sounded pitiful, not critical, and that somehow made Luca feel even worse.
Luca refused to look up his own name that night.
He barely went onto his socials, only occasionally flicking up his Instagram messages to reply to the sweet messages from his teammates.
Instead, he logged ‘Ilya Rozanov’ into the search bar, and scrolled to the achievements section of his Wiki as an act of self-punishment; a ritual that had guiltily found its way into his life lately after any minor inconvenience.
An MVP nomination and award.
Played for Team Russia in the fucking Olympics.
At twenty-two years old.
Not to mention how insanely ripped—so effortlessly fierce—Rozanov looked at Luca’s age, as if he had sculpted the hockey player archetype himself.
Luca’s arm flung a pillow to his face in an attempt to muffle the guttural groan he let out, rocking back and forth in his bed like a kid having a temper tantrum. Maybe if he enveloped himself in this blanket tight enough, he could actively wring out the memory of freezing up like an idiot in that arena, which totally was not replaying in his head over and over and over again against his will.
He finally let the pillow fall to his side, and began palming the sheets for his phone and—oh great—it was consumed by the giant comforter, now adding onto the long list of things Luca had managed to let go of today. So, Luca gave up and allowed his gaze to reunite with the ceiling.
Luca knew it was childish to play pretend. But lying back in the dark, with the distant drone of cars and the thrumming of late-hour birds being his only context clues; if he tried hard enough, he could fantasise that it was just another night in Zurich.
Earlier, he would have come home from a long day of practice, still full of drive despite the weight of the day. He likely would have shouted at his little sister to give him back his headphones, even after he’d bought her ones of her own, and then chased her around the house until their father called them for dinner. Then they would of sat in the living room, the larger couch being reserved for mammi and pappi’s weekly viewing of ‘Bäckerei Zürrer,’ and Luca would sketch in his favourite armchair while Mia doodled next to him (and Mia would of said she was very much not copying his artwork, if you asked).
And then he would of gone to bed, with his family only just down the hall, without a single care in the world
He bumped the back of his head onto the pillow again.
Luca knew that in a few hours, his family would be watching the game in their living room over breakfast.
“I miss you.” Luca whispered, and suddenly he wished he had left his headphones behind.
————
“Oh my god they are serving macarons in the lobby!” Luca hollered, guiltlessly abandoning his duffel bag on the floor as he bounded over to the reception.
“Luca, babes, calm down, you told us that already when we arrived.” Gen sighed, but Harris laughed at the enthusiasm.
“I swear the staff have to refill that plate every time he passes reception.”
“Nope. It’s not just Haasy,” Wyatt interjected, nodding his head in the direction of Ilya, who Shane was lovingly lathering with a google-search-recommended amount of sunscreen (to Bood’s disgust). “Rozanov literally stole a whole plate up to their room last night while everyone was at the campaign welcome buffet.”
Hollander stopped lathering (to Bood’s relief). “You did not.”
“Okay, in my defense, is free, and Heatwaves is paying for the whole retreat.” Rozanov forcibly moved Hollander’s hands to continue lathering him. “And it was Troy’s idea.”
Troy made a mocking psshh noise. “That’s a lie. Defamation. Harris, that’s defamation. Cancel Ilya Rozanov on Twitter right now.”
“That’s not how it works, honey.”
“It will work.”
Luca doubled back to the plate to take another handful for the team, ducking past the diverse group of athletes that were slowly loading out of the hotel lobby. He could recognise some of them; highly renowned faces that roared in football games, lesser-known players from chic tennis matches, soloist gymnasts that were elegant in every stride. But all these poster-faces being here, sporting casual tees and loose linen shorts in a random hotel in North Miami, it gave onlookers the impression they were a group of normal but infuriatingly hot people on holiday.
The event was almost akin to one, anyway. A month-and-a-bit-long retreat on the coast, hosted by some brand named Heatwaves, to showcase its new summer collection of elevated athletic gear and attire.
“—Using a celebrity immersion program as its newest marketing campaign.” Harris had explained enthusiastically.
A decent variety of notable sport teams from around Northern-America were invited, even including some NHL teams such as the Ottawa Centaurs, which Luca found ironic considering the nature of ice hockey.
But being that the retreat took up a decent chunk of their summer, Luca’s alliance of younger-Ottawa-Centaurs-players-who-regularly-get-bullied-by-the-older-players betrayed him for family vacations and overseas backpacking. It was just Luca, Young, Wyatt, Bood, Dykstra, Troy, the married captains and the social media team. Along with the twenty or so groups and their social media teams.
“Thank you, Luca, very good hotel service.” Ilya dramatically tossed the macaron into the air and caught it in his mouth. “Surely this hotel is rich enough to pay you too.”
“I mean, yeah, look at this place. It’s fucking crazy.” Harris dramatically gestured at the five gold-plated chandeliers in the lobby. “Literally lined up with the beach and they have the audacity to make the place look like a set from Bridgeton.”
“This is more of a modern imitation of the Rococo period, though. But with colourful lighting.” Shane finished lathering Ilya (which took much longer than the team warranted, mind you). “Bridgeton was like– the eighteen-hundreds.”
“Mmm yes keep talking, Mr Architecture, I’m close.” And Ilya got smacked.
“You watch Bridgeton–?”
“Still, so pretentious if you ask me. It’s like they designed a palace and then slapped a bunch of random purple LED lights all over. Like– pick a style, you know?” Luca laughed.
Dykstra nodded. “Hah! Yeah, it's giving Eurotrash.”
Luca realised after a few seconds he was the only one still laughing, and tilted his head in confusion when the team began shooting Dykstra pointed looks as he put the tips of his fingers to his mouth in regret.
“Oh– fuck– sorry.” Dykstra chuckled awkwardly, glancing at Luca apologetically. “Forgot about that, so sorry, Haasy.”
Oh.
Luca’s smile faded, his face flushing in a mix of embarrassment and another bitter feeling he didn’t dare identify. “What? Guys, it's– those chirps were months ago. I don’t care about that stuff.”
He attempted a reassuring smile.
In truth, every little mistake Luca has made lately took him back to that game. The media went absolutely feral for the narrative that a young hockey star was having a raw moment of vulnerability on the ice, fueling both criticisms and overdramatic pity-posts. That newfound nervousness became slowly more prominent in the way he played in practice sessions. Everyone else–including Coach Wiebe–reassurred him that he was doing great. But as much as Luca loved–adored his team, he couldn’t tell if it was all in his head or not that each praise was spiked with pity.
He was going to use this summer to forget about all that shit. This summer, he was going to take cool photos, fill up his sketchbook, get drunk and maybe even get a tan. Fuck it if the team walks on eggshells around him.
“Yes. See? Luca is too nice to care for bullies.” Ilya nodded.
An unfamiliar feeling close to offense washed over Luca, but like hell he’d call that out to Rozanov. “They were overly passionate fans, not bullies.” He mumbled, cringing on the word.
Ethan Young, the only other Centaur in his early-twenties that joined Luca, spoke up. “Hey, our van is in a couple groups! Luca and I call backseats.”
That snapped the whole group out of the awkwardness, chatting excitedly about the campaign opener they were taking vans to being set by the beach. Luca dragged Young to the front of the group so they could dibs the back of the van before anyone else could.
“Hey, you got an extra bottle of sunscreen I can borrow?” Luca squinted his eyes at the obnoxiously bright blue sky. “I am extra cooked because of how fucking pale I am.”
“Oh yeah, sure. Catch!”
Luca did not catch. The bottle hit the side of his face which sent his glasses flying.
“Dude.”
“Fuck– sorry! I thought you were looking at me!”
Luca groaned and bent to retrieve his glasses, only to find someone had already reached down for them and extended the frames in his direction.
“These yours?”
Luca lifted himself back up. “Ah, thanks man…”
Luca’s voice trailed off as his adjusted to see the speaker. And holy shit.
Luca didn’t exactly know what the term sunkissed meant, but to him, this guy looked like the literal definition of it. He had the most dewy, golden-brown tan Luca had ever seen, bronzed and warm as if the sun itself had blanketed him. Light brown freckles dotted his collarbones and the curve of his neck. His dark-brown hair fell in gelled, long, lazy curls that framed his face like he was fresh from the beach. They were almost the same height, with Luca being maybe a few centimetres taller.
And those eyes–the narrow eyes that stared back at him–were two different colours; one rich brown, the other a flicker of gold-green, and Luca felt the intense urge to draw him.
A motherfucking plen-air artwork had just handed him his glasses and Luca was standing there like an idiot.
“Thank you.” Luca prayed to whoever was listening that his flush—that betrayed him in times like when Troy called him a “good boy” or when Luca accidentally showed Shane a screenshot of his fanfiction instead of his schedule—was not creeping to his cheeks.
“I uh… sorry– my teammate gave me sunscreen.” Luca explained, noticing his glasses had flown all the way into the group in front of them.
The guy tilted his head, a questioning look on his face. “That’s a weird side-effect of sunscreen.” His voice had a slight sultry twang, accompanied by an accent mixed of American and something else.
“Oh, hah,– no, I mean he threw it in my face. Sorry.”
“It’s fine,” He sounded frustratingly bored in comparison to Luca’s awkwardness. “You could use some sunscreen in the face, to be honest.”
“Wh.. What?”
Luca watched as he pointed at his own face and lazily twirled his finger, “You look a little red.”
“Oh fuck, am I?” Luca chuckled and possibly got redder. “It’s not a sunburn or– or anything, just… I’m just super hot and it shows easily, Swiss genetics, you know?”
The guy raised his brows in mock-disbelief. “Did Swiss genetics also give you that arrogance?”
“Fuck– no, I meant hot as in the weather makes me hot!” He began scrunching his blond hair in embarrassment, stupidly smiling. “I am so sorry…”
“You’re kind of vain, but,” then the guy genuinely smiled, his eyes gazing at Luca’s figure sleepily in a way that made his head go foggy, “kind of not wrong either.”
Luca chuckled bashfully. “Well, I’m kind of offended, but also kind of flattered.”
The bored expression immediately split into a genuine laugh, shaking his head in amused disbelief, and Luca internally celebrated at this win.
“Just take the damn glasses, weirdo.”
Luca realised his glasses still remained gently intertwined between the other’s fingers, while his own hands had retreated shyly into his pockets.
”Oh—“
”Here.”
The man had gently lifted the glasses up to the blond’s face, in which Luca then instinctively tipped his head down to meet him. With a soft, swift motion, the guy slid the temples into place around Luca’s head, the mundane gesture doing ungodly things to his heart rate.
“Can you see me now?”
Luca was always able to see him. “Clearly.” He stuttered out.
The group ahead of the Centaurs began moving forward as their ride slowly pulled into the curb.
“See you around.”
Luca watched as he followed his group into their van, making small remarks to his team mates while shooting a few more parting glances back at him.
Behind him, suddenly, came a unified chorus of coos, the kind usually reserved for giggly schoolgirls watching a romance, except this time it rumbled from a group of testosterone-heavy voices.
Ilya slung an arm around him. “So…”
Luca groaned into his hands, but couldn’t fight the smile on his face. “Leave me alone!”
As the Centaurs began loading into their van too, Ilya let loose the teasing. “I cannot believe you’re all grown up now, eye-fucking hot people all on your own.”
“Holy shit, I was not.” Luca said exasperatedly, leaning sideways into Young’s reassuring pats. “I didn’t even know who that guy was! Ethan, I’m gonna murder you, I swear!”
Young thrust his phone into Luca’s hands. “Those guys are from an MMA youth academy based in Toronto. I saw the name on one of their bags.”
Luca scrolled through the instagram page of ‘Titan’s Peak Toronto MMA’, noticing how every student looked to be between sixteen and twenty. His eyes locked onto that familiar wavy hair in one of the posts from two years ago; “Big time congrats to Angelo Perez for winning the UFC strap for the Bantamweight division at twenty-one years old! Bringing the gold back to Titan’s Academy and inspiring the next wave of fighters in the gym.”
Luca stupidly wondered if Angelo was looking up his profile right now too, and then a wave of shame hit him as he realized what might pop up if Angelo searched his name on Twitter.
“Luca, come on, everyone could tell you were into him,” Harris said, twisting from the front seat to face Luca with a grin “It looked like a scene straight out of a romcom.”
“I always thought Luca would be into blonds,” Wyatt said.
“He still is. But Luca is blond,” Bood interjected.
“What? Blond people can’t date other blond people?”
“Blondcest,” Troy said wisely.
“I hate that,” Shane groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I hate that you said it. I hate that it makes sense.”
“It does not make sense,” Bood shot back. “You can’t just add ‘-cest’ to things. That’s like me saying Rozy being into Hollander is mancest.”
“Yeah, okay, but that’s because there’s already an existing term for that,” Shane said.
Troy nodded seriously. “An Asian fetish.”
“HOMOSEXUALITY, Troy. Homosexuality!” Shane yelled.
Wyatt crossed his arms. “Wait, I’m still stuck on the blond thing. Is it weird no one here is dating someone with the same hair color?”
“Oh my god,” Bood groaned. “Let it go.”
“Maybe it makes for a more visually cohesive couple?” Dykstra said.
“Exactly,” Harris said. “Branding matters. You two together? Strong aesthetic. Very marketable.”
“I am not a brand,” Luca snapped.
“Not yet,” Troy said. “Give him time.”
“I know we're in the same event, but there's like- sixty people here. How do I just run into him again casually?” Luca asked.
Ilya grinned evilly. “We make it happen.”
“Absolutely not,” Luca said.
“Absolutely yes,” Bood countered. “This is what friends are for.”
Troy pointed. “You can either be embarrassed now, or later when we do this without your consent.”
“That is not reassuring.”
Harris beamed. “Step one: casual run-in. Step two: conversation about the weather. Step three: planning a time to meetup for dinner-”
“Step four: mancest,” Troy added.
“Stop saying that!” Three voices yelled.
Luca had already found angel.operez through the tagged accounts. “Wh…Whatever. It’s not that deep. He looks good, that’s all.”
“Yeah, well, Cassie looking good is what got Bood to have a whole ass kid with her.”
Luca’s head snapped up. “It’s not like I’m trying to get him pregnant!? That doesn’t mean anything to me, Dykstra!”
“Yeah, Luca is not for that life,” Bood laughed. “Don’t taint the poor kid with the details.”
“It’s hard enough that Luca’s poor eyes are subjected to that every day.” Wyatt madly gestured to where Ilya and Shane were, who were shamelessly exchanging soft kisses before being interrupted by the whole team exclaiming with disgust. “Get a room!”
“Already booked into one together, technically.” Shane grinned, earning a dismissive wave from Wyatt.
“It’s gross,” Luca folded his arms. “But I’m not being tainted by this or anything. Like- I’ve done it before. Sex isn’t.. repulsive.”
Troy laughed. “Yeah we don’t wanna know, Haasy. You’re like– twelve. The only things you’d do with someone alone in your hotel room is watch cartoons and build legos.”
The whole van spurred with laughter, and Luca sunk further into his seat while Ethan rubbed his back.
“Okay okay guys, let’s not forget Luca is fucking bachelor, alright?” Ilya was teasing, but the way his voice curled around the words felt comfortingly defensive. “Luca has many people online frothing for a piece of him. Men and women. Being young and handsome has perks, I would know, and Luca can play legos and fuck in the same night if he wanted to.”
Hums of approval and “damn rights” was the response.
“Ignore the words, everyone thinks you are hot, even that MMA guy, probably.” Ilya turned around in his seat to face them. “If you want to fuck, then fuck.”
“Can we take like… two steps back? I don’t even know if he… you know.” Luca had never forwardly came out to his team, but there was an unspoken consensus that Luca wasn’t entirely straight. Luca didn’t even know himself where he fit on the spectrum, so how could he possibly tell where Angelo stood?
By using his crazy captain’s russian-enhanced gaydar, clearly. “No. His heart-eyes for you reminds me of myself when I first laid eyes on my Shane.”
“No, you looked at me in that parking lot like I carried a disease.” Shane scoffed, then also turned to Luca. “Hey, don’t feel ashamed for what you do or don’t wanna do. Trust me, I get it, people insisting you’re never gonna have sex is just as annoying as being teased into doing it.”
Luca silently agreed.
—
The main part of the campaign opener finished relatively quicker than Luca thought, making the fact it was the middle of Summer a little more bearable for him. The marketing director had given a speech about the history of the brand, serving bubbly champagne to the athletes under several large umbrellas with decorative barrel-tables underneath them, their canvas shades glowing softly in the afternoon sun. This part of the beach had been sectioned off into an event ground, the borders lined with sponsors for fizzy drinks and ice creams. The air smelled faintly of salt and sugar. There was no press here, thankfully; instead, a designated promotional team was spread amongst the groups doing mini interviews and filming candidly like a reality-TV show.
Luca had answered each question with earnestness, feeding spoons of ice cream into his mouth while doing so, the cold sweetness melting quickly in the heat. Despite his initial nervousness, answering questions regarding his deep love for hockey was always something he could discuss passionately. The grudge he held from the van ride and the anxiety about being on the media, faded to the back of his mind slowly. He noticed that the young reporter was giggling an excessive number of times whenever he spoke.
“Maybe they saw our posts of you modelling the Centaurs gear,” Harris winked while snapping a few photos of Ilya and Wyatt chanting “chug!” at Shane downing one of the unbearably bubbly peach sparkling waters. “They’re gonna make you the poster-boy of Heatwaves crocs or something.”
Luca was about to respond when a burst of vehement banter yanked his attention away. Across the venue, Angelo was trading jabs with his teammates. One of them said something particularly snarky, and Angelo exploded into exaggerated outrage, laughing as he shoved him, sunlight catching in his curls as the group broke into rowdy laughter. Luca felt a bit jealous at how carelessly youthful they could act.
He wondered what that felt like; doing something as mundane as being able to turn a passing moment into a kind of boyish spectacle.
Luca didn’t realise that Ilya had quietly appeared beside him, following his gaze like a lifeguard clocking a shark in very shallow water.
“Oh my goodness,” Ilya sighed, squinting at the other umbrella. “I can’t take this anymore. You are so corny.”
Luca looked up at him, brows raised. “Oh, I am corny?”
“Yes. Pathetic, actually. Just go up to him and ask if he’d like to try a lick of your ice cream.”
“HELL no.”
“Here is what you– look at me, Luca.” Ilya snapped his fingers beside Luca’s face like he was summoning a particularly slow golden retriever. “Here is what you will do. You walk over there with fizzy drink, but don’t actually say anything; hover. Wait until he notices you, then tell him you recognise him from UFC.”
“I’m not gonna hover around him pretending I don’t see him.” Luca sighed.
“It works, trust me. Then you talk–yappa yappa yappa–and then take his phone and give him your number.”
Luca giggled despite himself, a little flattered by how Rozanov wildly overestimated his ego. Still… he kind of wanted to believe him. To believe he had the confidence to walk over to anyone at this beach party, sun blazing, music humming, everyone smelling faintly of sunscreen and coconut perfume, and ask for their number.
He had never really cared much for dating before. Hockey had always been the most romantic thing in his life. The cold rush of a good play on freezing grounds, that had been enough.
But talking to Angelo earlier had felt more electric. And Luca wanted this summer to be different.
“Okey, ready?” Ilya asked.
“Why the fuck not…”
“Okey, good. Shoo. Go for it, Luca.”
Luca begrudgingly grabbed another fizzy drink and made his way over. The sand crunched beneath his feet, warm and grainy, grounding him as the salty breeze rolled off the ocean and brushed against his skin.
He casually–very casually, obviously–drifted towards the barrel behind Angelo’s group, scanning for that warm skin and dark curls.
Luca frowned, not being able to spot him at first.
“Are you trying to throw your glasses at us again?”
Luca whipped around. “What? No. Hi, by the way.”
Angelo stood there, looking somehow even more golden in the scattered sunlight, his skin dewy from the beachside humidity.
Angelo glanced at his friends, and Luca could see him debating whether to stay or go back to them. Miraculously, Angelo chose to stay, but his face remained bored.
Luca decided to push through anyway, trying to ignore Troy’s words echoing in his mind.
“I don’t want this drink anymore,” he said quickly, holding up the dripping fizzy drink. “You uh… want it?”
“Oh, so you were the one who took the last mango flavour.” Angelo narrowed his eyes–wow, the golden brown and green in those eyes. Luca wanted to paint it. Frame it. Hang it in a museum. “Thanks, you’re so sweet saving it for me.”
Oh my God. Luca could’ve sworn Angelo practically cooed those words. His face turning hot again was proof of it.
He glanced back toward the Centaurs umbrella.
Ilya began making kissy faces and laughed.
Traitor.
“So–” Luca cleared his throat. “I recognised you. Angelo? You won a UFC belt, right? That’s gotta be a record for your age.”
“Yeah, it was.” Angelo shrugged, the casual pride making Luca smile. “But it was two years ago. There’s only so many times I can brag about it before it sounds like I fell off.”
Luca wanted to mention his hockey achievements too, but couldn’t find a way to slide it in without sounding like he was trying to one-up him.
So he settled for “I play hockey, so I get it. I’m Luca, by the way.”
“Oh no. Winter sports.” Angelo cringed. “Luca, how do you willingly spend your career in the cold?”
“What?! Hey, I could say the same about summer sports. Like, you’re constantly sweaty.” Luca laughed.
“I’m used to being hot,” Angelo said, completely straight-faced. “Filipino genetics, you know?”
“Hah hah. Very funny.”
Another silence slipped in, the air around them hot and breezy as they leaned back against the barrel. Angelo took another gulp of the drink, chilly condensation from the can dripping onto his chest.
Luca had a sinking feeling Angelo was serious about hating winter athletes. And also therefore not being interested in talking to him.
“I don’t watch much hockey,” Angelo said eventually, “but my cousins in Ottawa love it.”
Ottawa!! Yes!! That’s me!! I am Ottawa!!
“All I know from my cousins and hockey news is like… how hot Hollander is, how their captain has a million sport cars,” Angelo listed, tapping his fingers on the drink thoughtfully, “And how some guy on their team cost the game ‘cause he had a meltdown and just gave up.”
And there it was.
Luca had expected it to come, but it still hit like a puck to the ribs.
“Oh… right… Man, that was embarrassing,” he said automatically. He’d meant to follow it up with the fact that “the guy” was him (and they had actually still won), but instead, he just sounded like an enthusiastic participant in the trash-talk.
Angelo laughed shortly, seeming to engage in the conversational switch to gossip, shaking his head like the whole thing was too ridiculous to believe. “Yeah. I mean, how do you even do that? One minute you’ve got the puck, the whole team’s counting on you, and the next you’re just… done.”
He turned towards the barrel, setting down the drink to rest his elbows on the rim.
“I’m not saying it to be mean, but if you can’t handle the pressure, maybe don’t step on the ice in the first place, you know? In those kinds of team sports it’s not just an option to win, it’s like- an obligation to them.”
It was hard enough hearing the words from online posts and snarky reporters trying to subtly interrogate the details out of Luca, but he came here expecting a conversation about—I don’t know—his cat Gherkin, or what the best ice cream flavour is. Instead it felt like he was being punched in the gut.
Luca stared down at his hands, trying to keep his face neutral and not daring to meet Angelo’s eyes. “Yeah.” His voice came out bitter. We still won anyway, asshole.
Angelo kept going. “I mean, imagine being that poor guy right now. That kind of screw-up sticks. People remember stuff like that.”
“I think the media just turns it into a big deal for clicks,” Luca’s voice wavered ever so slightly. “I’m sure they make tantrum compilations for UFC fighters all the time as well.”
Angelo paused, assessing the level of passive-aggression that had accidentally slipped out of Luca’s tone, then let out a breath of laughter. “Yeah, okay, I guess. But it’s not like the fighters can afford to freeze up mid-round.”
Something twisted hard in Luca’s chest.
He didn’t care about this stuff. He said that himself in the hotel. Overly passionate sport fans. Internet idiots. People with overdramatic misconceptions who didn't even watch shit about hockey in the first place.
He didn’t care.
He was polite. Luca was too nice for bullies. Too nice to clap back.
He took pride in how people saw him as passive.
He isn’t like other, angry hockey players.
Luca isn’t like other players, who can fight back against blatant disrespect.
Luca isn’t like Ilya Rozanov.
“I dunno. I do a solo sport. You’re the one who plays hockey. I guess it’s different stakes for us individually.” Angelo cleared his throat. “Did he end up quitting?”
“Can you just shut up about it?” Luca snapped before he could stop himself.
Angelo blinked.
“Whoa. My bad. Was he your favourite player?”
“Fuck you. I didn’t cost the game. We won. Hockey’s a lot more fucking complicated than just beating people up.”
“Oh.” Luca’s head was too hot to register whether Angelo sounded regretful or not. “Fuck– I thought that guy was a grown man. You’re literally a kid–”
“The hell?! I’m your age!” Luca snapped out of his reserved stance, now turned towards the other with hands shaking. “Sorry I don’t have some useless belt to show it off!”
Angelo scoffed exasperatedly. “Holy shit, relax! I was just saying what everyone else had been writing online. Don’t come at me and my sport just cause you’re an embarrassment to yours!”
Luca was on his feet.
—
Ilya kissed the side of Shane’s head for the fifth time in two minutes, smirking as he watched the hot competitive surfer awkwardly clear his throat and walk away. Classic beach drama; champagne, ocean breeze, and overly territorial PDA.
“Are you gonna scare off every guy that walks up to us with your public displays of affection?” Shane spat, but there was zero bite, and Ilya immediately categorised his look into the I-love-how-fucking-territorial-you-are-but-I’m-gonna-pretend-I’m-annoyed-by-it Shane expressions.
“Yes! If one more person flirts with you I swear on Hayden Pike’s life I will eat you out right here, right now.”
“Then let Pike die.” Troy gagged. “Let Pike die. We’ll sacrifice him for the sake of everyone’s eyes.”
“No one is letting Hayd die!” Shane groaned.
“You know, I thought Hollander and Pike were a thing back then, solely because of the very misleading Shayden truthers,” Harris chimed in.
“Harris, I will throw you into the ocean. Do you want that?”
Troy struck a satirical, defensive pose in front of Harris, arms up. “Oh, you wanna go, Rozanov?”
“Yeah, I deal with you, and then that traitor!” Ilya declared, though he couldn’t help smiling at Shane’s hearty laugh beside him.
Ilya lightly smacked Troy’s chest for emphasis, but froze mid-act when the crowd suddenly gasped.
He glanced over Troy’s shoulder. Chaos had erupted on the far side of the venue. Yelling. Shoving. And profanity. Lots of it. And from an all-too-familiar voice
Without hesitation, Ilya charged forward, Centaurs in tow, the hot breeze whipping past their ears as the scene unfolded.
And seeing the scene unfold genuinely disturbed Ilya.
A blond man had someone pinned under him. He shoved him to the ground, as they yelled incoherent things at each other. The blond raised his arm again. The one under him pushed him off. One looked shocked. One looked completely livid.
Polite, kind, charming Luca Haas; the same soft-spoken man who’d share his chocolate with Ilya without thinking, who’d wait politely if someone cut in line, who’d blush adorably when the team teased him for crushing on a boy,
Had just struck MMA fighter Angelo Perez in the face.
Seething. Pure, unfiltered, out-of-character seething. Even Ilya had to look at Shane to make sure he wasn’t hallucinating. But when Angelo’s MMA team finally rushed in, pulling their fighter away, Ilya snapped out of it and, with Wyatt and Shane, yanked Luca back by the armpits before he could do more damage.
“You egotistical asshole!” Luca spat, writhing against the arms that held him. Ilya genuinely didn’t think Luca could scream like that.
“Luca! That’s enough! You got him! No more!” Ilya groaned as he dragged him away.
Angelo looked more dazed than hurt, proof Luca’s punch was more shock value than actual harm.
Ilya didn’t break eye contact, glaring at Angelo as they guided Luca away.
“The fuck was that?!” Shane exclaimed, equal parts exasperated and horrified, clearly just as shocked as the rest of the team.
“It doesn’t fucking matter! This was stupid! Turns out- he’s an asshole. Are you happy now? Happy now that I’ve done something to get a laugh out of again?!” Luca snapped back, voice harsh but softening as he realised who he was yelling at.
“Sorry– fuck… I’ll just– I’ll meet you in the van,” Luca muttered, shaking his head.
Ilya watched Luca march ahead to the parking lot, guilt kicking his head in. He knew he’d pushed him into this mess, just wanting Luca to get lucky with the guy he had a relatively innocent crush on, but damn it, he was curious. What the hell happened with their rookie?