Chapter 2

Luca

C lara standing over me as I passed out on the ice was a pain-induced hallucination. Unfortunately, my sister hovering over me, repeatedly making her opinion known as I lay in a hospital bed, was not. She had been nagging me for hours—actually, days. Weeks. At least it felt that way.

“I wasn’t sure you’d have a problem coming out. There were a handful of queer players in the NHL long before you got busted balls-deep in some random. Sorry, randoms.”

“This is all their fault. You do know that. Don’t you?”

“She knew you thought you loved her, yet she continued with her twisted little game.”

“If they hadn’t forced you, none of this would have happened.”

“Why is there so much butter on this sandwich?”

“Fucking Clara is a fucking ho.”

That went a bit far and earned my first response. “Hey, don’t talk about Clara like that. This is as much my fault as it is hers.”

The book Anabela had read for the last hour without turning a page dropped into her lap. “I know you’re still recovering from smashing your pretty head open, but you’re freaking kidding me, aren’t you? Luca, she Speak Now-ed you in front of the world. Screwed you up so bad you mauled your own teammate, got suspended for ten games, and ruined your chance to hold the Cup. How can you possibly defend her?”

I shifted in my bed, struggling to find a comfy spot with Ana’s truth bombs hogging the space. “Because stealing her life led her down that path. I was the reason she was lonely. I couldn’t be what she wanted.”

“But—”

“But nothing, Anabela, I’ve asked you so many times. Please, for the love of Ma’s lasagna, drop it.”

On a huff, Ana resumed reading her then upside-down book. “There was no need to bring the lasagna into it.”

“I did what I had to.”

A steady stream of huffs and puffs were expelled from my sister’s mouth, but I let them all wash over me, too consumed with longing for Clara.

And for hockey.

After I was stretchered off unconscious, the blood was cleaned from the ice, and sanity was restored, my team won the game. They then swept the remainder of the series 4-0, which meant while I rotted in a hospital bed, watching them strive for glory on a 20-inch screen, New York would be moving on to the next stage of the playoffs. Rory claimed they did it for me and wanted me to be part of the celebration should they win. But how could that be true after what I had done?

Nope. There would be no end-of-season partying for me. In truth, I would be lucky if there was to be another season… ever.

Even to a self-loathing fool, my punishment seemed harsh.

A knock at the door snapped me from my thoughts, but the voice that accompanied it brought little reprieve. “Can I come in?” Clara was leaning against the door, as angelic as ever, and dressed head to toe in our couple-endorsed athleticwear. Nothing sells compression garments and crop tops like a sexy actor/hockey duo.

My sister was up on her feet, her shoulders hunched around her ears. “No, you cannot.”

“Anabela,” I sighed.

“What?” She spun to face me, glared, and then snapped back to Clara.

“Maybe I should go and come back later,” Clara whispered, the tremble in her voice increasing with each word.

“Or maybe you should go and never come back. Or go jump off a cliff?”

Fighting laughter, I pinched the bridge of my nose. “Ana.”

“What?”

“Would you please give Clara and me a minute to talk? Please…” I flashed her the look I knew she couldn’t resist. The one where I fluttered my lashes and smiled in the way I knew made my dimples pop. It worked. Her constipated look eased, but her hazel eyes narrowed and quickly returned to her nemesis.

“Fine. But I warn you now, Clara. If I come back in here and my brother is any more pathetically depressed than he already is, I will come down on you so fucking hard your teeth will—”

“Anabela. Leave.” The sternness of my voice made Ana jump. It was rare for me to stand up to her attitude; judging by the scowl, she didn’t approve. I remained silent as she left, giving Clara the DeNiro “I’m watching you” glare so intensely she walked straight into the wall.

“She’d be scary if she weren’t such a klutz,” Clara sighed.

All I could manage was a weak humph. With a veritable cauldron of emotion bubbling below the surface, another glimpse of her round, rosy cheeks would bring me undone, causing me to do something embarrassing like declare my love and beg her to marry me.

‘Cause that worked so well last time.

“How’s the pain, Luca? Surgery on your Achilles. God, I can’t even imagine. It must feel like a—”

“A fucking nightmare?”

A small, wounded peep escaped, before she cleared her throat. “I was going to say a bad dream, so yeah. Same, same.”

Slightly raising my head, I twitched into a weak smile we both knew was forced. Still, it was encouragement enough for her to edge away from the door. “Have they got any idea how long the recovery will be? Dallas said it could be months.”

Don’t speak his name around me. Pouting, I crossed my arms over my chest. “Dallas is an expert on partial Achilles severing and reconstruction, is he?”

Another peep. Another step closer. “It was an accident, Luca. Surely you know that.”

“I don’t know anything of the sort. I mean, think about it, Clara. The guy has been front and center for the last three crises of my life. I was photographed getting sucked and fucked at his party. You may recall his involvement the day my fiancée ditched me at the altar, and then there’s what could be my last game of pro hockey. That’s a lot of accidents.”

Cheeks ablaze, with her index finger tapping against her chest, Clara closed the remaining space between. “I know for a fact he had nothing to do with those paparazzi shots. He cares about you.”

“Oh, yeah,” I scoffed. “He cares so much that he decided to wait till the freaking priest did the whole, speak now or forever hold your fucking mouth shut, before declaring his undying love for you.”

“The timing was unfortunate, yes, but he panicked. Seeing me up there, throwing my life away for a man I didn’t love–who didn’t love me–made him see the light.”

Like I did when you ran the wrong way down the altar and burst through the doors?

Mortally wounded, I fixed my gaze on pink Nikes and rainbow laces. “I do love you, Clara,” I uttered, my voice, pitiful. Weak.

“You might, but not in the way I deserve. Not the way he loves me.”

Ouch.

Swollen and bruised, injury prevented me from leaping from the bed, so I wriggled as close to the edge as I could and reached out to beg for her hand. It was pathetic; I knew it. But I also didn’t care because her floral scent, which had felt like home for the last year and a half, was washing over me, and I’d missed it as much as I had her. “We might have come together in less-than-perfect circumstances, Clara, but I tried —.”

“I know you did,” she interrupted, tugging her hand away. “‘And you’re one of my favorite people. But you can’t force that connection, and you… we… were kidding ourselves to think we could. A relationship built around a lie can never live outside of it.”

Double ouch.

I pulled the metaphorical dagger from my heart, my soul crumbling in its wake. “Wow. That is beautifully, painfully accurate.”

Clara’s fingers tickled the ragged hem of my bed sheet, an unconvincing smile playing on her lips. “As painful as having a skate blade slice seventy percent of the largest tendon on your body?” The poor attempt at humor did nothing but bring the full burden of my na?veté crashing down. She was everything to me but to her, I was just a fucking joke to her. “Sorry,” she winced, a beat or twenty too late. “I’m just nervous to say what comes next, even though it’s the logical step.”

“Really?” Tears blurred my vision as I huffed, “Honestly, Clara, how much worse can it get?”

She paused, worrying her lip between her teeth before slipping from the bed. “When you come home from the hospital, I’ll be gone. I’m moving out.”

“There’s no point, Clara. Not straight away, at least.”

“Luca, it’s your house. I can’t—.”

“I know it is, and you can. I have weeks of rehab to go through and to be honest, the thought of rattling around in that concrete box alone is depressing.” Little did she know, I would never be returning. Not without her.

“What are you going to do then? Where will you stay?”

“Someplace equally depressing … I’m going to stay with Ma.”

“Holy shit.”

“I know. Trust me. If I had another choice, I would take it so fast my ass would catch fire. But I can’t bear any weight for at least four weeks, and the thought of ma constantly nagging, calling to check if I’m being a good boy and eating meat every five minutes is worse. If I’m there, she can keep an eye on me. Feed me. It also gives you time to sort out what you want to do.”

“Luca—–. ”

“No. I meant it, Clara. Don’t rush into making any decisions. Take the time and use it wisely. Consider it my un-wedding gift.”

Clara leaned in and place a sweet kiss on my dry, cracked lips. One, despite everything, I desperately wanted to deepen. “You’ve always been too good to me, Luca.”

Anabela’s massive head popped back through the partially open door. “Ha. That’s what I told him. Now fuck off.”

Three hours later, I’d napped, sulked, and napped some more. My mood, sour and grumpy after days of pain and idleness, was made worse by the almost constant chirping of my phone. The boys–my team–had been trying to contact me for days. Apart from one call with Rory, I’d ignored them each time. Condemnation, pity or further judgment was not required. My broken brain could so that all by itself. Instead, I patted the post-nap- boner tenting my sheets.

At least that still works.

“Oh, my.” Purred a female voice, thick with appreciation. “I wasn’t expecting that.”

Opening one eye at a time, I found a veritable who’s who of people I didn’t want to see. My agent, Chris, and PR queen, Doreen, sat beside me while coach Brown was leaning against the wall, hands in his pockets, one foot crossed behind the other, his face unreadable. “What the hell?” I clutched at my sheet, tucking it beneath my chin in hopes of covering my shame, and dislodging a stack of newspapers someone had left on my bed.

Before anyone could comment, one of my doctors entered the room, fidgeting with the stethoscope hanging loosely around his neck as he walked. “He’s clean,” he said, dripping with a smug confidence he lacked when begging for my autograph an hour after surgery. “We reran the tests, and there was no trace of any drugs … other than what we’ve given, of course. ”

Drugs?

Doreen, a crisis expert in her thirties who never left home without mittens pinned to her sweater, slumped forward and wiped her forehead free of non-existent sweat. “Thank heavens to Betsy. A mental health episode is so much easier to clean up than addiction.”

“Addiction?” My eyes shot to coach, stagnant against the wall, as perplexed as me. “What the fuck is happening?”

“Read. Find out,” Chris replied for him, nodding towards the crumpled papers. Dropping the sheet, I snatched the closest, a copy of that morning’s NY Post.

Out loud, not proud. Disgraced D-Man plugs two holes with one stick, and we have the photos.

The throbbing pain dogging me for days became an afterthought. A knot of doom swelling inside me. “Fuck. She … the editor published the photos? But we had an agreement.”

Chris pressed his hands into his thighs and stood. “One that became null and void the second you failed to seal the deal with the little missus.” Another paper was tossed my way, photos of me taking almost the entire first page. “The suck and fuck shots, the doomed wedding photos, a ten-match suspension for beating the shit out of your teammate on national television. Luca, you’ve singlehandedly funded a two-bit hockey gossip columnists Floridian retirement.”

“But don’t fear Luca,” Doreen added, her tone sprightly as she tapped a document resting on her knees. “We’re here for you every step of the way.” Unfortunately for Doreen, her bullshit overpowered her lavender perfume, and my 20/20 vision could spot her posturing.

“Oh? Why do you have my management termination papers with you then?”

“Because she’s a smart businesswoman protecting her brand,” Chris said, apparently speaking for everyone. He snatched the contracts from her hand and rolled them between his fingers.

“Her brand?” I snapped. “Her job, and yours, for that matter, is to protect mine.”

“It is, but in our game, we have to know when to cut our losses. You, my friend,” he said with an accusatory point, “are skating on thin ice. Pardon the pun.” Waltzing over to Coach Brown, he shook his hand, then buttoned his Armani jacket. “This is the last time we’ll clean up your messes, Luca. You’re damn lucky Coach and the team has such faith in you. Most would have you shucking corn in Kansas and playing on their farm team… if you were lucky.” He motioned to Doreen, who gave me a sympathetic wince before jumping to Chris’s side. “Drugs or no drugs, you’re going to rehab and getting your shit together. By the time that foot is healed, I want you as pure as a nun’s cun—” He paused, seeming to reconsider his words. “Healthy. I want you healthy.”

“Yes, sir.” My Boy Scout salute switched to a middle finger the second his back was turned. The gesture was not appreciated by Coach Brown, who used his giant, calloused hand to slap the back of my head.

“Real mature, dickwad.”

“What?” I whined, proving his point.

“The GM isn’t happy, Luca, and Chris is right. I’ve covered you as much as I can. This is it. One more screw-up, and you’re done.”

Panic had my stomach lurching. I’d wanted to play for New York since I first picked up a skate. The prospect of a trade was sickening. “Look, I get that I’ve fucked up. But guys have done worse and had it swept under the rug for generations. Why am I getting raked over the coals?”

“Simple. You beat up your own teammate, and then there’s that pretty dimpled face of yours. Girls—” He paused, wincing slightly, “oh, and guys, since you’re into that—wanna fuck you, and hockey moms and dads want their little Johnny or Jenny to grow up and play like you. Because of that, sponsors want you and your pretty face to sell their crappy sweats. You might get paid millions, but you have a price to pay, too.”

Someone was making a little too much sense. “You sound like that Dr. Phil A-hole.”

“Yeah. Well, you sound like my twelve-year-old daughter.” The man I respected more than my father—which wasn’t hard—then turned and headed to the door. “We have no issue with your sexuality, Luca. But still, take Chris’s advice. Go to rehab, hell, take a damn vacation. Either way, get your ass out of the city and your head out of your ass.” He then gave me his trademark, I don’t wanna see your face anymore, hit the road whistle through his teeth, and stomped away, pausing when I called after him.

“Coach. Why have you gone to bat for me so much? I know I can play a bit, but–”

“I’d say you can play more than a bit, Luca. But your talent has nothing to do with it. You remind me of me, kid. And I think I’m fucking fantastic.”

“It was so good to see you again, and like I said, Coach, call me if you need anything. Anything at all.” Ana’s saccharine tone switched the second he was out of earshot. “Well,” she said, slamming the door, “you’re not bleeding, and no one called the police. That’s a good thing.” Anabela wrapped her arms around my shoulders. I melted into her embrace. No one could ground me like she did. Not even Clara.

“They want me to go to rehab, Ana.” Tensing, she pulled away and paced between the bed and the small wardrobe filled with crap she and Ma had brought in for me.

“Well, they can go fuck themselves because they are the ones who got you into this in the first place.”

“They,” I mocked, “are just trying to look after me. I’ve damaged their reputation as much as my own.”

“Boo-frickin-hoo. Please spare me the sob story. Let me get out my tiny violin.” Despite the misery I felt, a laugh burst from my throat. “Apart from Coach, they wouldn’t know a good idea if it jumped up and bit them on their ass. If I thought you needed rehab, you’d be there. And let’s not forget, they were the ones who had the stupid hide-the-bi idea and brought Clara, the soul destroyer, into your life. Are you sure it’s wise to trust their opinion?”

That was the problem. I did.

Putting Clara, and the sponsorships I could give a shit about aside, losing the camaraderie of my team was my biggest fear. I loved hockey. It was my life, even though light-hearted homophobic slurs were tossed around the locker room like candy. Dick sucker was the go-to insult. Whether I was into girls as much as guys, the latter would be what I was known for, and the thought of guys shunning me, thinking I was checking them out in the showers, made me sick.

They promised the whole circus would prevent that from happening. But here I was, giant clown shoes and all.

Ana’s eyes softened as she placed one of her always chilly hands over mine, forcing me to cease the absentminded tapping of my thigh. “Please don’t worry, Luca. I’m sure everything will be fine. I’m just so pissed off. It’s all good for them to protect their reputation and threaten you with corn shucking for the farm team, but we both know they’ll be more than happy to take their cut when you’re back kicking ass... and that is what’s going to happen. You will be back. You will play again, and the boys will still love you. Rory will make sure of it.”

Doubt was rife, but I clung to the glimmer of hope Ana’s faith inspired and scratched at the itchy scab forming over the stitches behind my ear. “Any other insights you’d like to share?”

“Yes,” she nodded, a cheeky grin spreading as she jutted her chin. “Doreen is a weirdo, Chris is an ass, and coach Malcolm McHotty should be sleeping with me.”

I tossed my head back and laughed, then winced when pain shot from my fresh wound down the back of my neck. “Hey, quit it with the funny stuff. I’m supposed to be pathetically depressed, remember? Also, what about Danny?”

“Who?”

“Ahh, Danny, your boyfriend?”

The same blush that so often graced my cheeks colored Ana’s as she bit the tip of her index finger. “Oops. Uhh… we had different needs, so I broke it off.”

“Did that need involve you sleeping with other people?”

“Yes. People like your coach. And his brother was pretty cute from memory, too. Now, let’s stop talking about me and my need for multiple orgasms and start planning. Rehab is out. You’re going on a VAY–HAB, baby.”