Chapter 1

Luca

I read one of my sister’s romance books once. Tucked in bed beside my neighbor and best friend, Asher, I ignored how my heart raced whenever his thigh brushed against mine and the tenting crotches of our sweats. The flames of teenage lust were fueled by the story’s content—fairy porn. Until that chilly winter afternoon, I had no idea it was a thing, and it was a revelation.

In this hedonistic realm, be you fae, demon, male-female, or non-binary, love was love. Sex was sex. There was no gay, no bi, no demi or pan. If you were into it, a body part was big enough, hard enough, and lubricated enough, it was thrust inside a consenting hole in positions my innocent mind could never have dreamed of ... but later Googled.

It was the best and worst book I could have picked from Anabela’s overflowing shelf. Not only because the boner situation made it awkward as fuck, but because in my mortal bi-erasure-prone realm of a scared, NHL-bound queer kid, that kind of acceptance just didn’t exist.

That innocent boy with his life ahead of him seemed an eternity away as I closed my heavy eyes. Not because they were threatening to leak like a hungover goalie.

No. It was the light.

I was shielding them from the light.

After all, there was no reason to cry. I was standing at the altar of an ivy-clad church that had taken weeks of extensive research to find. This was a happy place. A happy day.

Clara, the bride, sure looked thrilled as fuck. Radiating glee, she tossed her bouquet of blood-red roses into the air, laced her fingers into her man’s, and dragged him through doors and into their future. It was a beautiful sight. One I would most likely have celebrated had rib-crushing pain not been slicing through my chest.

The man—the one holding Clara’s hand—was not the intended groom, you see. I was.

“Now may not be the time to say this—”

“Like that’s ever stopped you,” I murmured, hoping Ana, resplendent in gold chiffon, would not hear.

“But it amazes me that you can spot a tiny black disc hurtling towards you at a hundred miles per hour, yet you failed to see this coming.” She nestled her head between my shoulder blades, the stiff bouffant of her hairstyle gently grazing the nape of my neck, offering a welcome distraction. “Did I, or did I not tell you she would pull this shit?”

“You did tell me,” I choked out. “Of course, you did because you are a wise and brilliant defense lawyer, while I am a dumb puck-chasing jock.”

Slipping her arms around my waist, Ana trapped me in a cuddle I sorely needed and definitely leaned into. “I’m a prosecutor, not a defender, and you are not dumb.”

“I dunno. You’ve told me the defender thing a million times, but I still get it wrong.”

“You are not dumb,” she reiterated. “And you deserve so much more than this, Luca. You’re kind-hearted and trusting and think you’re in love.”

Think? Frustrated, I closed my eyes, and silently wished for the strength not to scream, before blinking them open. “I don’t think I’m in love, Ana. I know I am. Clara’s perfect for me. The only problem is she doesn’t think I’m perfect for her.”

Ana didn’t either. She’d never seen Clara as a humble, intelligent, and beautiful Midwest girl who agreed to dig me out of the shit hole my attention-seeking-dick had dug. Anabela’s jaded mind saw Clara Nightwing—gold-digging, up-and-coming actor/environmentalist profiteering of my potential misfortune.

HOCKEY DAILY

Caught D’Cruzing. The second highest-paid rookie in NYC hockey history, Luca D’Cruz, captured pants down in wild bi-orgy.

Had those articles been posted online I would have been a laughingstock. A pariah. An unmitigated, unmarketable disaster.

Direct quote from my agent.

His solution? Give in. Pay off the sleazy editor with a chunk of hush money and exclusive coverage of my up-and-coming engagement and marriage. My fake marriage.

To a woman, naturally.

It was supposed to be easy. Meet my future wife. Move in together. Pop the question. Live happily ever after … under the paparazzi’s watchful lens. But could losing my reputation—my career—have felt worse than standing at the altar watching the woman I’d stupidly fallen for run into the arms of another man? In time, hindsight may have changed my response, but with my sister’s warm breath and hot take burning my ears, it wasn’t even close.

Still in Ana’s clutches, I twisted until we were face to face, expecting a harsh expression of judgment to match her tone but finding a forced smile of sympathy that sharpened the dagger lodged in my heart. “Luca, I think–.”

Before further pearls of wisdom traveled from her brain to her giant mouth, Father Nagote appeared by our side, placing an affectionate pat on my clenched fist.

“Would you like to make use of my private chamber? I’m sure your sister wouldn’t mind addressing family and friends on your behalf. Everyone would understand.”

“Yes, yes, you should do that,” Ana implored, “Go and let me deal with this. We both know how much I love an audience.” Ana’s grip tightened—grounding me, even as my feet itched with the temptation to run.

“I’d hate to deprive you of your spotlight, Sis, but this is … was my wedding, and this is my responsibility.”

You’re a hockey boy. Hockey boys do not cry. With the cruel words of my late father serving as a reminder, I swallowed the last shreds of pride, manhood, and self-worth and turned to face the masses.

“Well, since you all witnessed … that … I may as well cut to the chase. There will be no wedding today. Not for me, but who knows what Dallas and Clara will get up to.”

The smattering of nervous giggles that broke out somehow reduced the load of embarrassment riding on my back. “Just in case, take your gifts home with you. Clara always said, ‘Regifting is an environmentally conscious choice as well as a tight-ass one.’” Taking the increasing laughter as a sign to get the hell out, I did. Wearied beyond my age, I managed a limp-wristed wave and pitiful bow of my head. “Sorry to let you all down.”

When Clara and I became engaged, my New York City team was floundering, losing eight games in succession. Making it past the regular season seemed like a pipedream, and in my mind, there was no better way to turn around a dumpster fire of a year-round than to marry the girl I loved. It would be the ultimate pick-me-up. A fresh start with my new bride and the off-season to convince her how good we could be together.

Our fortunes turned, though. The team booked a playoff spot. And my plans were screwed. Hence, me being in Toronto for game one of the postseason only three days after the wedding fiasco.

Despite the less-than-ideal lead-up, there was nowhere I would rather have been. Competing for that giant silver chalice was what I’d worked towards my whole life. Would I have preferred Dallas Brookes floating at the bottom of the Hudson, not standing behind me as Justin Bieber belted out Oh, Canada with surprising emotion?

Sure.

But as recent events proved, you can’t always get what you want.

With the anthems done, Beibs dropped the mic, and the fans picked it up.

“D’Cruz! Are you going to let us score like you let your buddy score with your girl?”

“Hey, Brookes. Is that a puck in your pocket or D’Cruz’s dick, pride, and will to live?” And it wasn’t just assholes with big mouths. There were glittering signs, too. Some clever:

Brookes in D’Cruzing for a D’Bruising.

Some not.

Hey D’Cruz! Brookes was fucking your wife.

“Not my wife,” I muttered after spotting that one, my face red from embarrassment more than exertion.

The humiliation was bone-crushing and showed in my game. From the first puck drop, I was as slow as a snail in molasses, screwing up set plays I could normally pull off in my sleep, misreading my teammates, then giving away cheap penalties, and the worst thing? My shit play was contagious. At the end of the first period, we were 3-0 down.

“This is a goddamn final, and you’re playing like it’s your beer leagues open bar night. And you, D’Cruz,” Our coach, Malcolm Brown, turned to me, his eyes burning holes in my pads as his still-muscular legs paced the length of the locker room. “Pull your head out of your ass.”

I’d idolized him as a kid. Side by side, he and his younger brother Jason won four Stanley Cups. Playing how I was in his presence was almost as mortifying as being left at the altar.

Shame scorched my insides, and it must have been clear. Mid-tangent, Brown’s eyes, those dark pools of knowledge that had made and witnessed hockey history, caught mine and softened. Pausing, he took a knee beside me.

“Kid, look. I know you’ve had your heart ripped out through your dick, but you’ve got to pick yourself up and dust yourself off. The less I say about Brookes, the better, but you? You’re a goddamn champion. Go out there and play like one. Show that girl she bet on the wrong horse.”

I felt more chump than champ, but the man had pushed for my drafting as an agentless seventeen-year-old. I had to believe in me like he did. There was no other choice.

Don’t let him down, too.

“Yes, sir.”

A dozen burly, grunting giants converged, all but one of my brothers echoing the sentiment amidst a flurry of ass slaps and fist pumps.

Back on the ice, my calloused hands clenched my shaft, my mind coach’s faith. Every ounce of it was needed. The Canadian’s brand of hockey was fast and dirty. To them, I was wounded prey—a lame springbok in the sight of a lion pack. Cross-checks and chirping were plentiful. Roughing was rife, but nothing could touch me. Everywhere the puck was, I was, clearing our defensive zone time and time again, then following up in offense with three assists in as many minutes, the last drawing us level at 3-3 and earning a “Fuck, yes. Keep it coming, kid,” from Coach.

A tiny sliver of who I once was … who I could again be, began to shine through. But confidence is a feeble thing. Easy come, painfully gone.

“Hey, DickCruzer,” Wingman for the Canadians, Grayson Macon chirped, his rank breath fogging my shield as we huddled for a face-off in our defensive zone. “Isn’t that your girl in Brookes’ jersey?” There was every chance he was baiting me; I knew that. Regardless, my eyes followed the direction of his nod. The world around me stilled, all but one face fading into insignificance.

There she was, Clara. Fucking gorgeous with hair pulled up into a messy bun secured in ribbons the color of her man’s team. My team. Stray ringlets caressed her perennially rosy cheeks, and yes, as Macon pointed out, Dallas’s number 32 was stretched across her ample rack. I couldn’t take my eyes off her.

“Wake the fuck up, D’Cruz. Your pathetic ass will cost us the game.” With a stinging snap, everything came back into focus. Shania Twain blared overhead. The stadium was erupting. My buddy, Macon, had scored, and Dallas, red with rage and breathing fire, was in my face, making sure I knew all about it.

The last nerve I’d been riding finally snapped, the overwhelming pull of rejection too strong. I dealt a vicious cross-check to his chest. “Yeah? Well, you cost me everything.” Before I could stop myself, I was tossing my gloves and stick, clutching his jersey, and smashing my fists into his face.

“What the fuck are you doing?” he grunted, blood spurting from his lips onto my visor, “You don’t love her, idiot. You never even fucked her.”

Pointing that out did nothing to quell my rage; if anything, it fueled the flame. “That’s not the fucking point, Brookes, and you know it.”

Rory, our team captain, joined the refs and dived onto my back to pull me from the brink of insanity. “He’s not worth it, Luca. You’re better than this.”

But it was too late, all hell had broken loose — within me and the barn.

Though he played in New York for several seasons, Brookes’s first NHL team was Toronto. This was home turf, and my move on a favorite son was considered a move on them all. Spectators were baying for blood as both benches spilled onto the ice. Hatchets were unburied. Men I’d never seen take a swing were suddenly Conor McGregor, but my focus remained on the wife-stealer. Toe to toe, we exchanged blows, tugged hair, and spat profanity. But when a searing right hook dislodged his helmet, Dallas called quits on being my punching bag. With his face warped in fury, he made a dirty, ninja-style sweep with his leg, taking it and my ankle guard out from underneath me. I hit the ice with a sickening crunch that repeated seconds later when the full weight of his body crashed onto my chest.

Whistles screeched around me as my disgraced ass lay frozen, incapable of movement, with indescribable pain shooting through my body. The tear-stained face of a hysterical Clara was the final thing I saw before my world faded to black. “I’m so sorry, Luca. So, so sorry.”