Page 131 of On Ice

We stand in silence for a while, the yacht gliding through the water, taking us nowhere in particular. Just away. Away from hospitals and hockey arenas, from responsibilities and expectations. The sun feels good on my face, and for just a moment, I allow myself to exist solely in this space, with this man, without the weight of tomorrow pressing down.

“I dream about her sometimes,” I say suddenly. “Not how she is now, but before. When I was a kid. She’d come to all my games, even when my dad couldn’t make it. She’d bring this ridiculous thermos of hot chocolate, no matter what season it was.” The memory surfaces with unexpected clarity. “After every game, win or lose, she’d say the same thing: ‘That game means nothing. You’re going to win the Cup one day, you just watch.’”

Luca listens, his thumb tracing small circles on the back of my hand.

“In the dreams, she knows who I am,” I continue, my throat tightening. “She sees me, really sees me, and she’s proud of everything I’ve accomplished.”

“She is proud of you,” Luca says with quiet certainty.

I look away, blinking rapidly against the sudden burn in my eyes. The truth is, the mother who raised me is already gone.The woman in the care facility shares her face, her voice, but the essence of her, the memories, the personality, the connection, has been slowly erased by the disease.

“What if she goes while we’re playing tomorrow?” The fear that’s been haunting me finally escapes into the open air. “I can’t imagine not being there when she dies.”

Luca’s hand tightens on mine. “You can’t think like that. You can’t know the future. If that were to happen, you have to know she’d be looking down on you, rooting for you, right? Free of her diseased body. Happy again.”

Something breaks loose in my chest, a knot of tension so tight I actually grunt in pain. I turn into Luca, burying my face against his shoulder, allowing myself this moment of vulnerability. His arms come around me immediately, solid and sure.

“It’s okay, baby,” he murmurs against my hair.

It’s hard to believe this man, tenderly comforting me, is the same man who had Marco drive me up a mountain to murder me. That man seems like a figment of my imagination these days. Luca loves me with a fierceness I’ve never known in a lover. I believe he’d happily die for me, and I feel the same toward him. This violent, scary man is my soulmate, and I don’t regret one second of my time with him.

“I love you,” I say against his shirt, breathing in the scent of him, expensive cologne mingled with sea air.

His arms tighten around me. “I love you more.”

I laugh gruffly. “Not possible.”

“Yes it is. Don’t argue,” he teases. “You know I know best.”

We stay like that for a long while, the yacht swaying gently beneath us, the sun warm on our shoulders. Eventually, I pull back, offering him a smile that feels genuine despite everything.

“So,” I say, “you mentioned something about lunch?”

Luca’s expression softens with relief at seeing me emerge from the darker thoughts. “The chef has prepared quite a spread. Assuming you can eat before the big game.”

“Just try and stop me.” I grin. “I’m fucking starving.”

He lifts his brows. “I’ll be sure and keep my fingers a safe distance from your mouth.”

“See that you do. I’m craving protein.”

He laughs, looking boyish and content. My chest tightens as I hold his dark gaze. I don’t know how I was lucky enough to capture this man’s heart, but I’ll be forever grateful.

Life is tumultuous at the moment, and so many things are up in the air. But today, out here on the endless blue, with the man I love, I’ll allow myself this moment of peace.

****

The Stanley Cup Final. It still doesn’t feel real, even as I lace up my skates, the familiar ritual doing little to calm the storm in my chest. San Francisco is not a team to be taken lightly. I go over every game in my mind as I prepare for this final clash.

San Francisco came at us like something unleashed in Game 1, their speed leaving us flat-footed and searching for answers. We lost 5-2, and the doubt crept in. Maybe we don’t belong here. Maybe our playoff run was just a fluke, a cosmic joke about to reach its punchline.

Game 2 was desperation hockey. Mills took a puck to the face in the first period, came back with twelve stitches and a full face shield, then scored the game-winner in overtime. His blood was still on the ice when we celebrated. 3-2 Ice Hawks. Series tied.

In Game 3, they adjusted, cutting off our breakout passes, stifling our forecheck. 4-1 Titans. Their building sounded like a jet engine for sixty straight minutes.

Game 4 should have broken us. Down 3–1 in the third period, Torres kept skating on an ankle that should’ve had him in a boot, not on the ice. We didn’t know how bad it was until later. But Rodriguez found another gear, dangling through their defense for two highlight-reel goals. Then Deck, of all people, fired a seeing-eye shot from the point with forty seconds left. 4–3 Ice Hawks. Series tied again.

They dominated us in Game 5. Noah made forty-seven saves and we still lost 5-2. Their captain, Westfield, was unstoppable, like he could see plays developing before they happened. We limped home down 3-2 in the series, one loss away from watching them lift the Cup on our ice.

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