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Boyhood comes to Luca Haas in the sharp glint of skates, darting across the frozen ice like minnows in the rush-tumble of mountain runoff in the spring. It settles into his shoulders with every check, with every jeer spat at his laces, every hot-blooded fist thrown at his face.
It emerges in the curve of his spine, the divots of the gaps in his ribs, the curl of his lips around his shy smile; it sits, and it stays, and it lingers.
Heavy. Present.
There is more than one way to be, his mother clucks in his ear, even as she sweeps his pencils haphazardly into a storage bin. She is careful with them, despite her swift motions, delicate enough to make sure the tips don't break. You are no more than a sapling, and I would not see you twisted into an oak than I would see you broken into boughs made for lashings.
Mama, he says, his fingers creased with gray, eraser shavings spilling across his lap. I'm not worried about growing up; I’m only worried that I will miss you and the rest.
That is growing up, chicklet, she says, cupping his tiny jaw and smoothing a warm thumb across his cheeks. She smells like vanilla and tart cherries, her hair bound up in one of his painted hair clips, which they gifted to her. His oldest sister had picked the wood that their eldest brother had carved it from, and their other two siblings had pressed flowers into thin cards, and all five of them had given the gifts to her in an explosion of happiness on her last birthday. He has yet to see her go a day without the clip appearing in some fashion, and is pleased that his swirling vines and delicately etched flowers have held up under constant use. That is all growing up will ever be: learning and moving, building a new nest. Saying goodbye and hello, and I love you in every twisting turn of life.
I want this, Luca says, and the words fit well into his mouth, a truth told with limited understanding but earnest passion. He is nothing more than a boy, sturdy with the weight of true talent and bewildered all the same by it. A hockey stick fits in his hand, his fingers curled tight, as easily as his pencils. I want to play hockey.
Then you will, she says, and chucks him under the chin. And we shall all cheer you on.
***
The worst part about Ottawa isn't the cold, or the almost perpetual losing streak, or the awkward fumbling way he has found himself lost three times now in the neighborhoods he lives in.
No, the worst part about Ottawa is that he is on the same team as Ilya Rozanov.
The Ilya Rozanov.
The man is blunted by impenetrable kindness and worn down by sorrow that leaks from his broad shoulders, and he is an absolute menace; chirping and laughing and earnestly, awfully present except for all the ways in which he is not.
Luca is careful, in those early days, to listen more than he speaks, to linger only when room is made. The problem, of course, is that Rozanov always makes room.
“Haasy,” he calls, golden-haired and beautiful, and Luca burns bright red and goes pale in equal turns, never able to figure out just how to approach him, even when he is called over by his name.
“You were on my wall,” he admits early on, and the team cheers as his cheeks turn orchid-pink, as if it is not the single most embarrassing thing he has ever said.
He is grateful, so grateful to be on this team. They are loving and wonderful, and they don't mind that his mother calls after nearly every game, or that his father sends what feels like bushels of chocolate and treats to the office, always addressed to Luca Haas and his friends, as if he is somehow a star and not just a rookie.
“Is it always like this?” he asks once, his tongue unstuck from his teeth, his eyes shining as he glances up at Roz, soaking in the celebratory mood after a hard-fought win.
“No,” Rozanov says, smiling at him. His stomach flips and churns, dazzled by the glittering weight of his attention. “This is special, Haasy. A team powered by love and good hockey.”
“I'm—I'm glad to be here,” he settles on, dropping his gaze.
Rozanov sets his hand down on his shoulder, his fingers broad and heavy, a different sort of weight than Luca has ever felt. “We are glad to have you,” he says, and it feels like everything and nothing, like springtime mud and winter snow and blistering joy all rolled into one.
***
He is not sure when he realizes, except that it is suddenly there: attraction, and all its gnarled, tangled roots.
He falters under the keen gazes of his peers, watches his few friends be bolstered and blustered in turns, and carefully turns his face to hockey, eager for the escape.
There is nothing wrong with love, his father counsels, his hands steady in his workshop. He is carving a bird, a lapwing, Luca is guessing, by the tuft atop its carefully hewn head. You are not going to be held to some standard to live up to, Luca. Anna has found love with Sigrid now, but she may move back to men in the fall, though, I would hope not—Sigrid is a gem. Either way, it is the way of the world to be fluid in all aspects.
It’s less a desire, Luca says, fumbling and bright red, his eyes on his own sorry carving, the wing of a fat bumblebee half freed from a knot of wood. I am simply without, Papa. For now, at least.
That is fine too, his father murmurs, over the gentle susurrus of his knife. You have only the charge of being yourself, and you have done so wonderfully already. I have never been so proud to have such children, all gifted beyond imagining.
Luca's eyes burn even as his hands remain steady. He knows he cannot stay in this warm woodshop forever, the smells of pine and sweet sap, the tender scrape of a blade, his father's warmth across from him, but for a moment, he wishes he were nothing more than another heft of wood taking shape under his steady hands, able to be kept and loved and treasured forever.
***
“Hey,” Wyatt says, clapping a hand on his shoulder and startling him from his doodles. He's been curled up in the stands, alternating between watching Shane and Ilya run drills and sketching the shape of their movements, quicksilver ribbons of ice spraying up from their skates, ghostly dashes of emptiness, mere impressions of outlines of where they were to show how fast they move. “Sorry, sorry! I didn't mean to scare you.”
“It’s fine,” Luca says hastily, and only straightens a bit, fighting his nerves. He likes Wyatt, likes how steady he is, how calm and present he is. “Uh, did I—is something wrong? Does someone need me?”
Wyatt shakes his head and settles in next to him. “I just wanted to make sure you were okay,” he says. “I know you sometimes sketch when you get stressed, so I wanted to check in—Roz was going to if I didn't, but I said I could.”
Luca blinks at him, his mouth half open, before he realizes and snaps it shut. “I didn't mean to cause trouble,” he says, only to falter when Wyatt laughs, loud enough for the sound to echo across the ice.
“You're never trouble, kid,” he says cheerfully, waving when Shane and Ilya glance over. “Young and LP? They're trouble—I mean, did you see what they posted on their finsta's? Harris almost had a conniption before he realized it wasn't public.”
Luca smiles, fidgeting in his chair. “I, uh, held the camera,” he admits, and soaks in another rush of rumbling laughter from Wyatt. “They were insistent,” he says, his cheeks stained with a smear of russet, his chin tilted just as Ilya’s does right before he sinks an impossible goal into a corner pocket. “I told them that the sixth chaser of Kool-Aid was a bad idea after the tequila, but they both said they could handle it.”
“Of course they did,” Wyatt says, shaking his head. He’s still grinning when Luca glances over, his face full of unfiltered joy. “But you're okay, yeah? Or no? Do I need to get Chiron?”
Luca shakes his head, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “I'm good,” he says, and lets honesty fill his voice. “I am just—homesick, I think, a little. Missing the sounds of my family. I didn't want to go home to an empty apartment.”
“You're always welcome at mine,” Wyatt says easily, as if it's something simple, instead of something impossibly warm and soft, synonymous with the patter of feet across fresh snow and the crunch of a newly baked loaf of bread, still steaming from the soft inside. It's a gift, Luca knows, to be treated with such tenderhearted care; he is a man in as much as he wants to be, and yet still, he is folded over into the shelter of other people’s lives when on the outskirts of the rink with easy corralment.
It could break his heart, how careful they are not to overwhelm, if he thinks on it too hard.
“Thank you,” Luca offers when Wyatt says no more, his arm a line of warmth beside him. “I appreciate it.”
“Course,” Wyatt murmurs, and sits with him for the rest of the time, the two of them quiet as the echo of merciless slapshots bounce from the rafters.
***
The world grows too small the year his limbs grow too large, and suddenly he is offbeat with everything, his lines wavering as he skates across the pond tucked away behind the rise of a hill by the edge of the woods.
You are like a newborn foal, Anna heckles him, staying close beside him like she did when he was nothing more than a toddler, their hands carefully clasped together. Little baby Luca, new on the ice, she coos, her hand darting out to tug at his scarf, knitted by Gregor, their oldest brother.
Her cheeks are dusted with sunset pink, her mouth curled into a wide, chapped smile. Her hands are uncovered, despite the chill, and her newfound engagement ring flashes, somehow dazzling despite the snow glittering all around them. Above them, the robin's egg blue of the sky stretches until it kisses the edges of the mountains, the sun low and fat against the soft cradle of the earth, its golden haze setting the world aglow.
Go bother Sigrid, Luca says, batting at her hands. He tries to sound stern despite the way his mouth curves into a smile. I'm trying to practice.
Sigrid is boring, Anna says cheerfully, her voice lovesick. She raises it carefully, lilting and expectant as she calls into the woods, she is off the ice, looking for trouble.
Is she boring or trouble? Luca asks, arching a brow. His feet scrape over the worn ice without a tremble, his legs sturdy. You can't possibly have it both ways.
Anna scoffs. You have not been paying attention, chicklet, she says, and neatly slides out of the way as Luca lunges for her, his cheeks scored with a bright holly berry red at that wretched nickname. She is the most boring trouble of all.
When I discover the yeti of the woods, you'll be the most jealous of all, Anna, Sigrid hollers from the thicket of trees, her voice fond. She steps out into view, her skates tied and slung over her shoulders, her boots half-unlaced, their ends dragging in the snow. You should have more whimsy.
Whimsy? Anna screeches, her voice hitting a decibel Luca has not heard since she was sixteen, and rushes across the ice, tackling her into a soft plume of snow.
Luca skates out to the middle of the pond, laughter ringing around him, and spins until he is dizzy with it, the world a blur of colors, a bright smile on his face.
***
“I have never been to one,” Luca confesses in an undertone to Bergie as they stand on Bood's steps and wait to be let in. He's carrying a tray full of spitzbuben biscuits, carefully picked up from a bakery on the way. “Is there a correct way to barbecue?”
Bergie laughs, his whole face crinkling up. “No way, man,” he says, patting Luca on his shoulder. “You just show up, eat good food, have a couple of drinks, and chill out.”
Luca nods and tries not to let his nerves show on his face as Cassie opens up the door and welcomes them in, a bright smile on her face.
“You didn't have to bring anything,” she says, once she catches sight of Luca's full arms. Bergie laughs under his breath, though not unkindly, and claps him on the shoulder again, before heading further in with an ease Luca is jealous of. “But thank you for doing so, and if it's not a surprise, can I ask what it is?”
“It is, uh, cookies,” he says, peeling back the tinfoil, letting Cassie look at the sugar-dusted tops, the gleam of raspberry jam between the golden cookies, peeping through the cut-out in the center. “Fruit ones. They are like the ones I would make with my grandparents back home. I know this is—maybe not the best place for them, but I wanted to say thank you for having me. For hosting.”
“You're the sweetest thing,” Cassie says, and sweeps an arm around him, guiding him down the hall and out into the backyard, gesturing him towards a table laden with food, before someone calls her away.
Summer is fading, the green of the grass tipping into sunburnt yellow streaks, but the august heat isn't oppressive, as Luca sets down his tray and carefully pulls off the top.
Bood's backyard is beautiful, a picturesque white picket fence lining the edges, wide, sturdy trunks of trees dotting across the back of it. There's a hammock strung between two, a mess of people spilling out around it, and chairs staggered everywhere, laughter and birdsong filling the wind.
“You okay?” Boyle asks, startling Luca from his perusal. “I know it can be a little much, sometimes, to join in on this stuff. But I promise we won't bite.”
Dykstra laughs as he settles in on Luca's other side. “Speak for yourself,” he says, tipping his head towards a jumble of kids tumbling over each other and shouting under the watchful eyes of their parents. “Emily, his daughter, nearly took a chunk out of my hand last time when I tried to get her to stop eating a tennis ball.”
Boyle rolls his eyes. “You're gonna scare the kid off,” he mutters, before he shakes his head and meets Luca's wide-eyed gaze. “Just, maybe, let her eat the ball if you see her chewing on it later. She thinks she's a dog for some reason these days.”
“My brother thought he was a bird when I was seven,” Luca offers shyly, dropping his eyes to the table when they both look at him. He still doesn't know how to talk to them, he fears, as he fumbles for more, trying to keep from embarrassing himself. “He kept trying to jump off the hayloft of our neighbor’s barn, even though he was twelve.”
Dykstra laughs brightly again, bumping their shoulders together. “See,” he says, as Boyle groans about the possibility of Emily wanting to be a dog for years, “You're already fitting right in.”
***
Magnus is ten when he decides he is going to be an ornithologist, and Luca, who is only five, and Sonja, his closest sibling in age, who is seven, think he is the smartest person in the whole wide world.
They spend the muddy spring days splashing through puddles and collecting feathers as they can. Their father carves a bird caller, and Magnus devotes the next month of his life to learning as many facts about birds as he can.
He doesn't mind that they cannot keep up, will bound ahead but always double back, a new treasure clutched in his palms, a rock, a smooth piece of wood. The day that he finds a tiny metal shoe is a day full of dizzying joy, their shouts of guesses of how it could have come to be in their woods echoing off the trees to the sky.
We are explorers! Magnus shrieks, one damp afternoon. Mama is somewhere nearby, close enough to send up a cheer of support, but far enough away that Luca doesn't see her in their neck of the woods. We will discover a bird no one has ever seen before, and we will name it The Haas Hawk, and everyone will be jealous.
Jealous! Luca echoes, and four steps behind them, Sonja nods eagerly, a half-smushed winter aconite tucked behind her ear. The bright buttery yellow stands out, even amongst her flaxen strands, an ode to the true spring they can smell coming on the wind.
Magnus doles out kisses like their father does, bright, smacking, percussive love dropped onto their foreheads, before he turns back to the trees and marches onwards.
We shall win the day! Magnus shouts, and even though Luca doesn't know what that means, he yells as loudly as he can, happy just to be included.
***
When the video appears, Luca is next to LaPointe on the couch in his apartment, his cheek smushed against the worn fabric. He's exhausted and close to napping, his legs kicked out across LaPointe's lap, the two of them quiet.
“Holy shit,” LaPointe wheezes, his hand landing hard on his shin, his fingers curling in. “Dude.”
Luca follows when he reaches over, and he tugs him up, well aware that LaPointe will simply make him move if he does not, and slouches into him, his eyelids heavy as he sets his chin against his shoulder.
“What?” he says, but before LaPointe can show him, his phone is ringing, a terrible up the nose shot of Young's face filling the screen.
“Roz is fucking dating Shane Hollander?” Young says as soon as the call connects, and wow, Luca has never been so awake in his entire life. He blinks down at the phone, twisting to stare at LaPointe, who nods eagerly, his eyes equally as wide. “Dude, boys, we gotta show him some support. This is like huge news.” Young pauses, Luca's heart racing in the silence, before he adds, “I didn't know it was legal to fuck your rival.”
“What kind of support are you thinking of?” LaPointe asks, neatly stepping over the legality question. “Like, do we also get rivals and make out with them? I think Harris would kill us if we did that.”
“More to the point, we don't have fucking rivals,” Young says. He sounds sort of sad about it, Luca notes hysterically, and then realizes he's been quiet too long as LaPointe turns to him with a half-frown.
“It's okay, Haasy,” LaPointe says, patting his arm. He looks pleased as he chirps, “I'm sorry you won't ever be Mr. Rozanov, but if you have to lose, at least you're losing to the best.”
“Oh fuck you,” Luca shoots back, his mouth curling into a smile as Young barks a laugh, the sound loud even through the phone. “Just for that, I’ll kiss Young and release the tape in support of Roz.”
“Yes,” Young cheers. “Yes, Luca. Suck it, LP, you snooze, you lose.”
“If I wanted to kiss Luca, I could,” LaPointe argues, and their voices fade to the background as Luca inhales, slow and steady.
His entire world has shifted, darting out to madness before reeling back in, the whole of his understanding resettling into a worn track that he rapidly follows to the summit of all he knows.
Of course, they're in love, he thinks, and doesn't even try to shove LaPointe off when he smacks a kiss against his cheek, Young hollering insults about his technique over the call.
***
The air is tinged with the soft sweetgrass scent of freshly shorn hay, the wood of the ladder firm beneath his hands as he clambers up into the hayloft, peering over the edges to find Mikael staring up at him.
I do not like heights, Luca, his closest friend murmurs, even as he follows him up into the loft, golden bits of straw already clinging to his dark brown hair and his loose linen shirt.
In the dim shadows of the barn, his edges are softened, muted by history and shared love, the glimmer of his tawny eyes clear above the slope of his nose and his strawberry-stained mouth.
For a moment, Mikael turns, his whole body twisting, the curve of his fawn-tanned shoulder appearing in the gentle gray, and Luca aches to draw him, to rend him down to paper, to tuck him away and spirit him to Ottawa.
He misses him, his Mikael, when he is not there, with his dreadful sense of humor and his earnest exploration of the world. They are childhood best friends who have grown, and learned, and played together for as long as Luca can remember.
Summer is not properly summer without him.
You are beautiful, Luca says, unashamed to be caught staring as Mikael glances at him, despite his burning cheeks. Have you brought me here to corrupt me?
Mikael snorts. You are the seducer, Lulu, he says, grinning widely. Who is always leaning in first?
You! Luca shoots back, beaming back. He feels unspooled with relaxation, settling in against the scratchy hay, inhaling the scent that has always brought safety and happiness. You are the one who kisses first.
And in Ottawa? Mikael asks, sly and fox-like, his face turning into something devilish that Luca often sees before they truly get into some sort of trouble. Are you leaning in first there?
Luca shakes his head, his cheeks flushing deeper. You know I do not do well with people, he says. I have not found anyone who fits as well as you do.
Mikael nods, his face softening into understanding, before he winks. Not everyone can be as talented as I, he proclaims. Who else can kiss their friends as I do?
You’re too much, Luca says, but his voice betrays him, full of rich laughter and the syrupy slow pool of arousal. He expects they will have an afternoon of kissing, will go to dinner with mussed hair and swollen lips, and will accept the teasing from both their families as is their due.
He knows, too, that this is enough for them; that they do not need more in this warm, fond thing they have built.
Mikael grins down at him as if he can hear the direction his mind has wandered before he curls in next to him, his head settling on Luca's sternum.
I would have you happy, before anything, Mikael murmurs, and Luca closes his eyes and lets himself breathe.
***
Hollander—Shane, as he so often corrects—is so utterly distracting on the ice with Roz that Luca finds himself arriving early and staying late just to catch glimpses of the few moments they let go and fly.
“You know you can sit closer,” Hollander says, one day as he lingers on the bench in the locker room, his backpack at his feet. “I don't mind, and I know Ilya doesn't either.”
Luca flushes, a heavy, thick curtain of red dripping across his cheeks. “I didn't mean any harm,” he starts, and Hollander grins, bright and boyish enough that Luca's jaw clicks as he slams his mouth shut to keep from gaping. Oh, but it is a good thing he only had Ilya's posters on his wall. He has no idea how he would have survived them both.
“You aren't doing any harm,” Hollander—Shane, Luca thinks furiously, because this is not the same man who dominates the ice every game, ruthless control from the arch of his feet to the curl of his pinkies—says easily.
“It’s not—we didn't get time to skate together when we were young,” Shane murmurs, a distant look in his eyes, and oh, how Luca aches with that admission. It's hard, sometimes, to put the pieces together of their long courtship, if only because it leaves Luca feeling utterly marooned in sorrow at the thought of all the careful distance they had to carve. “It's nice to have the time now.”
“You only say this because you think you will beat me in goals this year,” Ilya says, swooping down next to him to press in tight against his husband, ignoring the way Shane shoves at him, swearing under his breath. “If you didn't, you would be endlessly running drills, moaning about how sad you are to lose to your sexy, speedy husband.”
Shane rolls his eyes and turns to Luca, his cheeks pale pink. “You're welcome to come close enough to hear us fight,” he says, a grin kicking up in the corner of his mouth at the mournful sound Ilya makes. “Because apparently I have to teach this asshole a lesson.”
“Those who cannot do, teach,” Ilya says loftily, and rises, ruffling Luca's hair as he goes. Both of them kindly ignore the squeak he lets out, his face burning.
Shane stares after him, before turning back to Luca. “You wanna come see me put him in his place?” he asks, and Luca is nodding before he can even think it through, his whole heart on fire at the thought.
Who knew that he could have all this one day? It's a miracle he's even producing anything that makes sense right now.
“C'mon,” Shane says, pushing himself up, and Luca follows, a shy smile curling across his face.
***
There is a story told about Gregor and Luca in the days after Luca was born. The shape of it wavers, and changes, the setting of it flickers from hospitals to waiting rooms to living rooms and back, but the brunt of it is this:
Luca is born, and Gregor, upon seeing him tucked away, snug in his bassinet, says but we already have enough siblings, and gestures to Sonja as he continues, and I don't even want this one.
Every time the story is told, Gregor meets his eyes and mouths sorry, before doing the same to Sonja as if the words of an eight-year-old can be taken seriously.
Luca doesn't know why he's sorry about the sentiment either; he is the last of the Haas’, and even sometimes he can think, oh, there are too many of us.
It is even funnier to him that it is Gregor who said it.
Gregor, who fusses as if he is their second mother, and tucks knitted mittens into their bags the second any threatens to unravel. Gregor, who would walk them to school, their hands carefully clasped in his, despite the standing offer of his friend's car every morning.
Gregor, who loves so deeply and vastly that Luca has never once doubted that if he needed him, he would be there.
It's Gregor whom Luca turns to when his eyes finally linger on men, instead of in the spaces between bodies as they have for years.
I'm scared, he whispers, soft and uncertain, his elbows tucked in tight against his torso, his head ducked. He shrinks into himself, a lesson learned in all the spaces his family does not occupy. I know it will mean nothing—
It doesn’t mean nothing, Gregor says immediately. Luca can hear him take a sip of his tea, the clink of china. He is tucked in against Gregor's couch in his apartment in Zurich, the smell of summer drifting in through cracked windows. Who you love will always mean something. It doesn't mean that it is good or bad; it just means it will always matter.
Luca breathes. I don't know if that makes me feel better, he admits, and smiles to himself when Gregor laughs.
You do not even have to come out, Gregor says when they've been quiet for a moment. Not in a way of hiding, but more so that you love who you love and do not need to explain. He pauses, and then adds, his mouth curling into a teasing smirk, and we have all seen the results of your experiments with Mikael, chicklet, so don't worry.
Luca groans, burying his face in his hands. You're impossible, he says, but he still looks up and smiles when Gregor grins at him.
Neither of them cared when I said I wanted neither, Gregor says, his head tipped to the side. And both adore Sigrid, and all know of Mikael.
But what if they had hoped, Luca starts, and then falters, because all that he can think to say are unkind things, untruthful things that his parents would never utter.
All they hope for is that you are loved, Gregor says. And that, well, you cannot deny. You are very loved, chicklet.
So are you, Luca says, ignoring the nickname, and listens to Gregor laugh, the warm, rich sound muddying in with the noise of the city, until all Luca can hear is the sounds of home.
***
It's not that Harris scares Luca; it's just that he is very present in a way that he feels ill-equipped to deal with. He's brilliant and happy with Troy, and Luca is so pleased for them, but it does nothing to stop the swell of dread that settles in his stomach when both stop at his stall, at the end of the practice.
“Luca,” Harris says cheerfully, tapping away at his phone swifter than Luca knew someone could, before he slides it into his pocket and meets his eyes. “I wanted to host a team dinner next weekend—would you be available?”
“I—yes,” Luca says, and smiles back hesitantly when Harris’ smile somehow grows even brighter.
“Good,” he says, setting a hand on Troy's arm. “I'm glad—we'd miss you if you weren't there.”
“You would?” Luca says, furrowing his brows, and only realizes how sad that sounds when both of them pause and look at him. “Oh, no, I mean—I just—”
“Did someone make you not feel welcome?” Troy asks, crossing his arms, a scowl appearing on his face. “Because Roz is going to lose his shit if he finds out. To say nothing of Hazy.”
“What,” Luca says flatly, his mind blanking. He feels a little dizzy at the mere thought. Surely, he must’ve misheard Troy; neither would have any reason to lose their minds if anyone were mean to him.
“You're their favorite,” Harris supplies, his mouth tugging up. “We did a whole TikTok trend with the vets, and they got to answer this question and—it's not important. Roz just said you're better than he was when he was your age—”
“What,” Luca says again. He thinks he might faint. He doesn't want to have to fight against the legions of fans that will kill him in Roz's honor, no matter what the man himself has said. “That's not true. Statistically.”
“He meant it in more of a headspace way,” Harris says airily, as if he cannot see the media shitstorm on the horizon. “And Wyatt said that you were a good kid, that he likes to host you for dinner.”
“That is—” Luca nods, pressing his lips together. He feels overwhelmed, blindsided by the fact that he has simply been trying his best and somehow that has been enough. “Oh. That's very kind of them.”
Troy shrugs. “You're a good kid,” he says gruffly. “It's the truth.” His eyes narrow. “Which is why I want to know if someone made you feel unwelcome.”
“Oh, it's not—it's not that,” Luca rushes to say. “It’s more like, uhm, I did not know that I would be missed. Which sounds bad too, I know, but it's more of a, I’m not a rowdy person. I didn't think that—I wasn't aware that there would be a space for me to be missed in.”
“Luca,” Harris says, reaching out to gently touch his shoulder as Luca glances at him, his cheeks a dull rose. “We all miss you when you're not there,” he says, smiling. “Isn't that what a team is? Noticing when there’s a gap?” Luca nods, hesitant, and Harris pats his arm before glancing at Troy.
“We've always noticed,” Troy says, blunt and to the point. “You're on the team, aren't you? Course we're going to.”
Luca's eyes burn, and he ducks his head. “I—thank you,” he murmurs. “I'm excited for dinner.”
“We're excited to have you,” Harris says, squeezing his arm once more before he drops his hand. He smiles again, bright and sweet, and again, Luca aches at the kindness this team has given him, this family he's found so far from home. “You're always welcome.”
***
It is a difficult thing to be the baby of the family.
He is lucky, though. He has Sonja.
Sonja, who is the quietest of them all, even more so than Luca. Sonja, who has flowers pressed between books, who has the first shaky drawings of daffodils Luca ever drew; still stuck up on her bedroom wall.
She is a whisper of a person, which is strange, if only because Luca is constantly haunting her, following after her footsteps that patter across mud, across snow, across ice.
Her eyes are wide, all-seeing, and when Luca is ten, he thinks that she can peer into the future when she stands at the top of the hill and stares at the distant snow-topped mountains.
You're going to do it, she says, and doesn't elaborate. The wind kicks up dead, colorful leaves, sending them swirling around her. I know it, Lu. You're going to see the whole world one day, and we're all gonna cheer you on.
I hope so, Luca murmurs. His dreams, tucked away deep in the soft part of his heart, twinge. You can do anything you want to, too, you know.
She laughs, bright and loud, so vibrantly delighted that Luca smiles involuntarily.
That was never a question, she says, assured of her place. When I'm an astronaut, or an author, or a brilliant chef, I'll come and visit your hockey games, and everyone will say, who knew how smart the Haas family is? And you can do press and say I've always known, because my sister Sonja is the smartest person in the whole world.
Hm, I don’t know about that, Luca says, but he's grinning as he says it, and lurches into a run at the sight of her faux-annoyed face.
Get back here! She shrieks, boisterous as she only lets herself be with him and their siblings, her longer legs giving her the advantage despite his head start. Luca Haas, say I'm the smartest. Say it!
I'm the smartest, Luca calls back, and laughs at her new screech of rage, his stomach aching from laughter as they dash down the streets. Hey, I'm just doing what you said.
Get back here, she howls, her fingers just barely missing his shoulder as he dances to the side, breathless and happy. You're such a brat, Lu!
Nu-uh, Luca says, but he's too caught up in taunting to realize the danger as her hand lands on his arm and drags him to a stop. She nearly tackles him as they crash into one another, elbows disappearing into soft places, their heads narrowly missing as they slam together.
Say it, she demands, shaking his shoulders when they've straightened out enough. Say I'm the smartest.
You're the smartest, Luca says, in between his wheezes, trying to catch his breath.
Yeah, well, I knew that already, she says smugly, and Luca is back to laughing, joy burbling up through his throat as sweet as spring water.
***
Luca is sweating, his mouth agape, his stick and gloves tossed to the ice.
His eyes, as they have been for the past ten seconds, are fixed on the score.
3 - 1, Ottawa. Game five of the finals.
They've won.
Around him, bodies and faces of his team ebb and flow, surging and writhing with sheer ecstasy at winning the Stanley Cup. Shane and Ilya are locked together, Shane bent backwards, the shouting of the fans rising as he yanks Ilya in closer.
Luca’s crying, he thinks, but he can hardly make sense of anything other than the rush of heady joy thrumming through his veins.
“I love you,” someone screams, and nearly the whole team roars back an agreement, the sound so deafening it somehow blots out the fans for a moment.
Luca finally tears his gaze away from the scoreboard, only to freeze again as he finds a familiar face staring back at him across the ice.
“Mama?” he says, but there she is, hair cinched tightly in the clip he painted for her all those years ago, her expression warm and open, her eyes glistening with tears.
It's nearly too much to handle, seeing her face here, amongst the family he has built away from home, in the rush of love and joy, in the runoff of sheer delight that's swirling through the air with an almost visceral weight.
“I love you,” she murmurs in his ear, as he scoops her up and spins, careful enough only to make sure they will not hit anyone. “Oh, chicklet, I love you so much.”
“You're here?” he says, gently setting her down on the ice. “But how—when? Why did you not tell me?”
“Surprise,” she says, her mouth twitching, as it always does when she thinks she is funny. “Your captain reached out and offered to fly us in,” she says, and all of Luca goes still.
“Us?” he croaks, his head lifting, and there, like the parting of the sea through the crowd, the rest of his family stands, their faces bright with love, signs clenched tightly in their hands.
We love you, Luca!, one clenched in Mikael's hands reads. HAAS’ FOR HAASY, another that Anna and Sigrid hold says.
Sonja holds one that simply says, in spindly black font on a white posterboard, I TOLD YOU SO.
He chokes on a laugh, wiping at his eyes.
“Is this a dream?” he asks, bewildered and delighted in equal turns. It doesn't feel real—any of this. He's thought about both of his family's meetings for good, for real, for as long as he's loved his team, and yet he cannot believe that this is happening.
He can't believe they're here.
“I told you, all those years ago, that we'd be cheering your name,” his mama says, as if she's been seeing this vision for all these past years of hard work. “And, as you know, I am never wrong.”
Luca laughs, strangled and overcome, and starts to cry, loud and hard, as his family surrounds him, too many limbs hugging him to count.
“Group hug, circle up,” Roz yells in the distance, and then suddenly everyone is around him, laughing and crying, smushed together.
I love them, Luca thinks, as he's buried beneath the swell of bodies, the heft of love. He doesn't even try to parse who exactly he's talking about.
It can't possibly matter, he knows; not when it’s all the same in the end.