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The bathroom off the main ballroom at the Bellagio reeked of sharp bleach, heavy designer cologne, and the faint, acrid edge of fear-sweat. Marble tiles gleamed coldly under recessed lights that buzzed faintly, casting harsh shadows that made everyone look carved from stone. Distant applause from the awards ceremony throbbed like a dull heartbeat through the thick door, mixing with the low drip of a faucet somewhere. Luca gripped the edge of the sink so hard the porcelain bit into his palms, his reflection a hollowed-out stranger—eyes red-rimmed and too wide, cheeks sunken, bowtie hanging loose like a noose he’d half-tried to tighten.
Nine days. Nine fucking days of silence after everything.
The door swung open with a hydraulic hiss. Dress shoes—polished leather, one pair slightly scuffed—clicked across the floor.
Luca didn’t turn. He knew those steps. The confident stride of Ilya, the steadier but hesitant one of Shane.
“Luca—” Ilya started, voice low and edged with that familiar accent.
“Don’t.” The word scraped out raw. Luca spun too fast. The room tilted violently. A wave of dizziness crashed over him, the floor seeming to drop away as his vision tunneled, black spots blooming at the edges like ink in water. His chest seized—tight, crushing pressure like a vise around his ribs, heart slamming against them in a frantic, irregular gallop that made him gasp. “Don’t you fucking say my name.”
He couldn’t bare looking either of them in the eye his false bravo cracking under the pressure of the tension in the room.
Shane froze. Ilya’s bowtie was crooked, his usual swagger gone.
Luca’s breaths came shallow and rapid, each one catching in his throat like he was choking on invisible smoke. His lungs burned, refusing to fill no matter how hard he tried. A cold sweat prickled across his forehead and down his spine, soaking the starched dress shirt until it clung uncomfortably to his skin. His hands trembled violently; he jammed them into his pockets but the shaking spread to his arms, his legs, his whole frame vibrating with adrenaline that had nowhere to go.
Shane took a step forward, his hands half-raised in a gesture of peace that felt entirely inadequate. "Luca, please. Just let us explain—"
"Explain what?" Luca’s voice cracked, raw and scraping against his throat. He didn't turn around; he couldn't bear to look at the two men who wore matching expressions of sudden, crushing realization. " You ghosted me. You left no note. Shut your phones off made up some bullshit excuse and skipped out on practice.
Ilya flinched, a rare, visible fracture in his usual stoic composure. The word ghosted hit both older men like a physical blow, sending a sudden, violent rush of sensory flashbacks through Shane and Ilya’s minds.
June 2014. Vegas. The blistering desert heat outside, the oppressive silence of a hotel room, and the agonizing weight of Ilya completely shutting Shane out after their first time since he ghosted Shane after Sochi .The absolute terror of being ignored by the person who held your heart.
They were doing it again. Except this time, they were the ones holding the knife, and it was their young, brilliant teammate bleeding out in front of them.
"Luca, it wasn't like that," Shane pleaded, his voice thick with a guilt that felt ten years old. "We didn't mean to—we panicked. We got back to Ottawa, and the reality of... everything hit us."
The marble bathroom felt smaller with every shallow breath Luca dragged in. The bleach stung his nostrils, mixing with the heavy spice of Ilya’s cologne and Shane’s crisp scent—familiar, once comforting, now like salt in an open wound. His chest was a vice, heart jackhammering so hard he could feel it in his throat. Black spots danced at the edges of his vision. His hands wouldn’t stop shaking. Then the tears came—hot, humiliating tracks down his cheeks that he couldn’t wipe away fast enough.
“If you regretted it,” Luca choked out, voice breaking into a sob he tried and failed to swallow, “you could’ve just said that. Told me it was a mistake. Anything. But you left me. Both of you. Like I was nothing.”
Shane’s face crumpled. Ilya looked gutted, hazel eyes wide.
Luca’s words kept spilling, raw and unstoppable. “Do you know how long it took me to trust you? To let you in? I don’t do that. I never let people in. Not like that. And the one time—the first time we were all together, really together as a…. as whatever we are—you disappear the next fucking day. No note. No text. No call. Nothing.”
The memory of that night slammed into him: tangled sheets, shared breaths, the overwhelming warmth of both their bodies, the way he’d finally let go completely, vulnerable and open in a way that terrified him even now. Then the cold, empty morning after. The silence.
He couldn’t look at them. The pressure in his chest spiked again—crushing, suffocating. His throat swelled shut. Tingling numbness crawled up his arms. Nausea rolled through him in sick waves. He was going to pass out. Or explode. Or both.
“I can’t. I just… I can’t.” he cried
Shane stepped closer, reaching out. "Luca, breathe. You're having a panic attack, look at me—"
"Don't touch me!" Luca choked out, a sob tearing from his chest against his will. He hated the tears blurring his eyes, hated the vulnerability leaking out of him. He sidestepped the two of them with a clumsy, desperate motion, his shoulder clipping Ilya's as he blew past them toward the exit. For a second he considered going back in—smiling through it, pretending he was fine like always. But he felt hollowed out, scrubbed raw, every nerve exposed. The memories burned: him begging with his body and words, showing them, he could be good for them, enough for them. He felt like a fucking idiot. A cruel, sick joke. He couldn't go back to the arena floor. He couldn't sit at a table with the captain and assistant captain of his team, pretending everything was fine while the cameras panned across his burning, embarrassed face.
The emergency stairwell was cold, smelling of concrete and dust, leading up until he shoved through the heavy metal door out onto the roof. The rooftop terrace was cooler, wind whipping across the Vegas strip, city lights sprawling like indifferent stars below. The noise of the party faded to a distant hum up here. Luca gripped the railing, knuckles white, wind stinging the tears still leaking from his eyes. His breaths were still wrong—too fast, too shallow. The hollow ache in his chest throbbed with every heartbeat. He wanted his life back. The version before he let them crack him open.
Shane and Ilya burst through the door a second later, their footsteps heavy on the gravel, He didn’t care. He walked right to the edge of the security fencing, gripping the wire mesh just to keep his knees from buckling. He felt scrubbed raw, like his skin had been taken off with steel wool.
He still felt like a fucking idiot.
Like this whole thing was a cruel, sick joke played on him. He knew he shouldn't have gotten involved with a married couple, let alone the leaders of his own franchise. But they were Shane and Ilya. They had been his idols, his absolute crushes since he was fifteen years old. He thought he could trust them.
Behind him, Shane and Ilya stopped a respectful distance away. He could feel their presence, heavy with guilt.
“I just wanted the noise in my head to stop,” Luca whispered, barely audible over the wind. “Just five minutes where I didn’t have to be in control. Where I could trust someone—you—and not end up like this. Visibly burned. Embarrassed. Begging for scraps of you two like some pathetic kid with a fifteen-year-old crush.”
Don’t let it go too far luca. You’re young you can do this. People have causal sex all the time. Its Shane and Ilya they would never hurt me.
He didn’t mention the drop the next day. the emotional drop was so violent he genuinely felt like he could die or explode. Deep down, hidden beneath the layer of current fury, was a terrifying secret he wouldn't dare mention to them: the fact that the day after they disappeared, the drop had been so agonizingly dark, the sudden vacuum of their warmth so cold, that he had self-harmed just to shock his brain into feeling something outside of the emotional numbness to feel to something real, then patched himself up alone in silence. Handled it. Survived it. Like always.
His shoulders shook with another sob. The panic symptoms lingered in aftershocks: dizziness, the cold sweat under his tux, the terrifying sense that his body might betray him completely and send him over the edge—literally or otherwise.
Shane stepped closer first, voice rough. “Luca…”
Ilya followed, accent thick with emotion. “We fucked up worse than we knew Not with you—with how we leave. I am... I am so sorry, Luca. It was coward way out."
Luca didn’t turn. The wind tore at his loosened bowtie, at the tears on his face. He felt like he could die right here—heart giving out from the weight of it all. But underneath the hurt, the anger, the raw humiliation… he still wanted them. That was the worst part.
He didn't want to hear their apologies, and he didn't want to think about the fact that it might have been a mistake to let them close. More than anything, he just wanted the relentless, screaming noise in his head to quiet down. Just five minutes where he didn't have to be the strong one, where he didn't have to be the one in control. He craved it. That’s what hurts the most he finally got a taste of what it could be like to be in total silence. Not being overrun with anxiety, brand deals building his image, and running plays and mistakes in his head until exhaustion finally overtook him and he could sleep.
He stayed at the railing, hollowed out under the neon sky, the two men who’d broken him standing close enough to catch him if he fell.
It wasn’t forgiveness.
It was just breathing. For now
Luca let out a bitter laugh that cracked halfway through. The psychological wreckage was laid bare under the city lights, whether he wanted it to be or not. The psychological trauma of ghosting isn’t just about the absence of the person; it’s about the sudden, violent distortion of reality. For Luca, who had spent his entire life building meticulously fortified walls, letting Shane and Ilya in wasn't a casual choice—it was a profound psychological surrender. When they vanished without a word, his brain didn’t just process rejection; it processed a total shattering of safety. Now that trust lay in ruins. He felt as though certainty that he was unworthy, disposable, that any closeness would end in sudden, unexplained rejection. It amplified his anxiety into full-blown panic attacks, the kind that left him convinced his heart would stop or his lungs would collapse. The hollowed-out depression that followed—the emotional numbness, the self-harm just to feel something real—had been a private hell he’d clawed through alone. Nights replaying every moment, wondering what he’d done wrong, his nervous system stuck in fight-or-flight for days. It eroded his self-worth, made him question every instinct that had told him Shane and Ilya were safe. That they were his.
To Shane and Ilya, watching him now was like looking at a ghost of the vibrant, fiercely confident young player they had shared a bed with. They could see exactly what their silence had done. It had frozen him out, effectively locking him back inside the high-walled fortress of his own mind, but with the added trauma of knowing that his worst fear—that he was inherently unlovable and easily discarded—had been validated.
Shane and Ilya didn't just see his anger; they saw the exhausting, invisible labor he had been performing all night down on the arena floor.
Before the confrontation in the bathroom, they had watched him from across the ballroom. When the other Ottawa Centaurs joked around the table, clapping Luca on the back, Luca had pulled off a flawless imitation of life. He had smiled, but it was a structural performance—a mechanical lifting of the corners of his mouth that never reached his eyes. His gaze had remained completely flat, deadened, and hyper-focused on anything that wasn't them.
When his teammates asked if he was okay, noticing the slight tension in his posture, Luca had just shrugged it off with a hollow, practiced ease.
"I'm fine. Nothing, guys. I'm good," he’d muttered, the words slipping out like a well-rehearsed mantra. It was his ultimate defense mechanism: shrinking his emotional footprint to zero so no one could take another swing at him.
But Shane and Ilya had seen right through it. They had watched him deliberately tracking their movements in the room, his eyes darting toward them and then violently snapping away the second he risked making direct contact. The sheer energy it took for Luca to avoid their gaze while feeling the heavy, suffocating weight of their eyes on him had been palpable even from across the room.
Now, out in the open air, the mask was completely gone, leaving only the raw, agonizing reality of his coping mechanisms. Luca’s hands dropped from the security fence, but they wouldn't stay still.
Shane watched, his heart breaking into a thousand pieces, as Luca’s right thumb began to desperately, rhythmically dig into the palm of his left hand, pressing hard enough to turn the skin white. It was a classic grounding technique—inflicting a controlled, dull ache to override the terrifying, floating vertigo of the panic attack. He was trying to anchor himself inside his own body, his chest still heaving as he fought a silent, losing battle against his own nervous system.
Luca’s mind was a chaotic, furious debate. Just walk away, the instinctual, protective part of his brain screamed. Go down the stairs, get a cab, and never look at them again. But the sheer physical exhaustion of fighting the drop—the hollow, freezing vacuum left in the wake of their brief, beautiful closeness—was pulling him toward them like a gravity well. He wanted to give in. He wanted to let them fix it, to let them wrap him up and make the world quiet.
But the stakes were too high now.
Luca shifted slightly, his trembling fingers catching the edge of his tailored suit jacket, pulling it a fraction of an inch tighter around his wrists. A cold dread pooled in his stomach as he debated the sheer vulnerability of surrender.
If he went with them tonight, the clothes would eventually have to come off.
He could already vividly imagine their reactions. He could see the exact moment the air would leave the room when they saw the faint, healing pink lines scoring the pale skin of his thighs or hips—the physical receipt of the agony their silence had caused. Disgusted. Guilty. Or worse—pitying. He could picture Shane’s face crumbling into horrified, weeping guilt, and Ilya’s eyes going entirely dark and murderous with self-loathing. His accent thickening with regret. “Solnishko, why didn’t you call us?” As if they hadn’t vanished. The imagined reactions made his stomach twist again.
They would look at him like he was something broken. Something ruined.
"Luca," Shane whispered, taking one tiny, agonizingly slow step forward on the gravel, his hands open and trembling. "Please. You don't have to carry all of this by yourself tonight. Just let us help you breathe."
Luca let out a short, ragged laugh that sounded more like a sob, his fingers tightening on his jacket sleeve as he stared down at the glowing neon grid of the city below.
Another wave of dizziness. He switched to pinching the skin between his thumb and forefinger—sharp, grounding pressure—while forcing a slow exhale that still came out shaky.
The psychological scars of the ghosting ran deeper than the pink lines. It had reinforced every fear he carried: that vulnerability was a mistake, that love (or whatever this was) always ended in abandonment, that he was too much and never enough. Self-harm had been his emergency brake—proof of control when everything else spiraled. Now, standing here, he debated surrendering that control again. They broke me once. What if they do it again? But fuck… I still want them. The way they made the noise stop that night.
He rubbed his wrist harder, nails digging in just enough to sting without breaking skin. A tiny, private anchor.
The urge to just step off the edge was a terrifyingly quiet whisper amidst the screaming chaos in his head. Anything to make it stop. Anything to plug the gaping holes in his heart where their warmth used to be, and to permanently kill the feelings he knew he shouldn't still have for them. He hated himself for loving them. He hated that even now, broken and bleeding out in front of them, his soul was still reaching toward theirs like a plant looking for the sun.
Luca’s grip on the security fence loosened. His shoulders dropped, the fight draining out of him all at once, leaving behind a profound, bone-deep lethargy. He couldn't keep running. He didn't have the energy to find a cab, to face the hotel lobby alone, or to spend another night staring at the ceiling waiting for his heart to burst.
He opened his eyes, gaze finally meeting theirs. Exhausted. Raw. Still debating.
“I’m coming with you,” he said, voice barely above a whisper. But that’s it. I’m not… I can’t do more tonight.”
Shane nodded immediately, relief and pain warring on his face. “Whatever you need. No pressure.”
Ilya’s shoulders dropped, but his eyes stayed soft. “We follow your lead, solnishko.”
The ride down in the private elevator and the short walk through the Bellagio’s glittering chaos were silent. Luca kept a deliberate arm’s length between them—shoulders tight, hands shoved deep in his pockets so he wouldn’t accidentally brush against either of them. Every time one of them shifted closer, he sidestepped, the marble floor cold under his dress shoes. His body still hummed with leftover panic: heart rate elevated, a low-grade dizziness that made the chandeliers blur, skin prickling with hyper-awareness. He rubbed his wrist through the fabric of his jacket, counting breaths. In for four, hold, out for six.
As they walked back down = into the parking garage, the boundary lines were drawn in steel.
When they reached the private SUV, Luca didn't wait for anyone to open a door. He bypassed the front passenger seat entirely and climbed into the very back row, pressing himself flush against the window.
He pulled his knees up slightly, wrapping his arms tightly around his torso, a human fortress. He didn't want their hands on him. He couldn't risk the comfort of their touch because he knew it would break what little composure he had left.
Shane tried to catch his eye in the rearview mirror, his expression pleading, but Luca simply stared out at the passing neon blur of the Strip, his reflection pale and hollowed out against the glass.
They drove in a suffocating, heavy silence. Ilya’s jaw was clamped so tight the muscle ticked continuously, his hands gripping the steering wheel until his knuckles mirrored Luca’s from earlier. They had him back in their orbit, but the distance between them felt wider than the ocean.
When they entered the sprawling hotel suite, the tension didn't dissipate; it localized. The massive king-sized bed sat in the center of the room like a battlefield.
Shane turned around, stripping off his suit jacket with trembling hands. "Luca, please. Take the bed. We can sleep on the pull-out, or—"
"I’m sleeping on the couch," Luca interrupted, his voice flat, devoid of any anger now. It was just a statement of fact. He began unbuttoning his own jacket, his movements stiff and robotic. "I’m not sleeping with you."
"Luca, you don't have to punish yourself—" Ilya started, his deep voice thick with a desperate, uncharacteristic ache.
"I'm not punishing myself, Ilya. I'm protecting myself," Luca said, finally meeting the older man's gaze. The raw honesty in his eyes was devastating. "You think I'm going to lay between the two of you tonight? Let you hold me, let myself feel safe, just so I can wake up tomorrow morning and wonder if you're going to change your minds again? “I can’t handle the aftermath alone. The panic. The noise in my head that wouldn’t stop. The…” He swallowed hard. “I’m not ready to be touched. Or held. Or anything else. I need to know I can walk away if I have to. I can't survive another drop like that. I won't."
He carefully slipped his suit jacket off, making sure the cuffs of his white dress shirt remained securely buttoned around his wrists, hiding the faint pink lines from their sight. He grabbed a spare pillow and a heavy blanket from the closet, deliberately keeping his back to them as he set up his makeshift bed on the long leather sofa across the room.
Shane and Ilya stood frozen in the center of the suite, watching the boy they loved completely isolate himself within their own space. They were in the same room, but Luca had built a wall between them that no amount of apologies could easily tear down.
The leather of the sofa was cold beneath him, even through the heavy cotton blanket. Luca lay on his side, his face pressed into the generic hotel pillow, staring at the dark outline of the TV screen on the wall. Part of him ached to crawl into their arms anyway—the same arms that had once made the world quiet. But the bigger part, the scarred and terrified part, needed the distance like armor.
Across the expansive suite, the soft rustle of sheets and the low, muffled murmurs of Shane and Ilya eventually quieted down into a heavy, suffocating silence.
Neither side slept. Every time Shane shifted in the king-sized bed, the mattress groaned, a sharp reminder of the physical distance Luca had demanded.
Hours bled away into the gray, liminal space of dawn. The neon glow outside the floor-to-ceiling windows began to fade, replaced by the pale, weak light of morning creeping over the desert.
Luca didn't move until he heard the soft click of the bathroom door opening. Ilya emerged, dressed in a plain black t-shirt and grey sweatpants, his hair damp and dark. He didn't look at the couch immediately, stepping with an agonizing, deliberate quietness so as not to wake the younger man.
Shane was already sitting up in bed, his elbows resting on his knees, his face buried in his hands. He looked ten years older, the skin under his eyes bruised with exhaustion.
Luca pulled the blanket tighter around his chin, his gaze locked on the ceiling. "I'm awake," he muttered, his voice gravelly and dry. "You don't have to tiptoe."
Shane’s head snapped up. He slid out of bed immediately, but stopped himself three feet away from the couch, respecting the invisible boundary line Luca had drawn the night before. "Do you want some water, Luca? Or coffee? We can order room service. Whatever you want."
"Just water," Luca said, his body aching from the rigid posture he had maintained all night.
Ilya walked over to the wet bar, his movements slow and predictable. He poured a glass of ice water, walked back, and instead of handing it to Luca—which would force Luca to reach out or risk touching his fingers—he carefully placed it on the low marble coffee table right within Luca's reach.
"Here," Ilya said softly, stepping back to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with Shane.
It was a tiny, wordless concession. They weren't crowding him. They weren't begging or demanding forgiveness. They were just there, waiting. Luca eye-tracked the glass, then slowly sat up, pushing the heavy blanket down to his waist.
The movement was careless, born from the clumsy lethargy of a sleepless night.
As Luca swung his legs over the edge of the sofa and reached forward for the water glass, his oversized white dress shirt—now unbuttoned at the collar and untucked from his trousers—shifted. The fabric caught against the textured leather of the cushions, pulling taut across his torso. faint pink lines, thin and silvery in the low lamplight, healed but still visible. Fresh enough that they hadn’t fully faded. Deliberate, parallel marks from that brutal drop—the day after the ghosting, when the emptiness had swallowed him and pain was the only proof he existed.
Shane’s breath hitched—a sharp, violent intake of air that cut through the quiet room like a knife.
Ilya went completely rigid, his eyes locking instantly on the exposed skin a quiet Russian curse slipping out under his breath.
Luca yanked the shirt down immediately, face burning with humiliation. His heart rate spiked again—shallow breaths returning, black spots threatening at the edges of his vision. He curled tighter into himself, thumb digging hard into his wrist until it hurt.
“Don’t,” he snapped before either could speak, voice cracking. “Don’t look at me like that. I handled it. Alone. Like I always do. You don’t get to feel guilty about this too—not when you caused it and then left me to it.”
"Luca," Shane whispered. The word didn't even have sound behind it; it was just a breath of pure, unadulterated horror.
Shane’s eyes were wet, devastated but not pitying—more like shared pain. Ilya looked wrecked, fists clenched on his thighs like he was physically restraining himself from reaching out.
Shane took a blind step forward, his hands trembling as they hovered in the air between them. His eyes were wide, welling with a sudden rush of tears that spilled over his lashes. "Luca... oh God, Luca, please tell me that’s not... did you do that because of us?"
Luca wouldn't look at him. He pulled his knees toward his chest, burying his face in his arms, trying to shrink into the smallest target possible. "Don't," he choked out, his voice shaking violently. "Just leave it alone…. Please just…please just don't look at me." He whispered.
He thought about bolting out of the room, but he knew that they would have him pinned at the door before he could even let the thought cross his mind.
Ilya didn't speak, but the silence coming from him was terrifying. Luca risked a glance through the gap in his arms and saw the older man gripping the edge of the marble bar behind him so hard his knuckles were a sickly, bloodless white. Ilya’s jaw was locked, his chest heaving as a terrifying wave of self-loathing washed over his features. A single, heavy tear tracked down the harsh line of his cheek, but his expression remained trapped in a mask of absolute fury—directed entirely at himself.
"We did that," Ilya said, his voice dropping into a register so low and broken it barely sounded human. He looked at Shane, then back to the crumpled shape of the boy on the couch. "Shane... we did that to him."
"I'm fine," Luca lied desperately, his voice cracking into a sob as the familiar, suffocating weight began to press on his chest again. He clutched his own shirt sleeves, squeezing his eyes shut. "I told you, I'm good. It's nothing. Just... don't look at it."
Shane sank to his knees right onto the carpet, a foot away from the couch. He didn't reach out to touch the pink lines, but he placed his hands flat on the floor, bowing his head as if the weight of his own guilt was physically crushing him.
"We are so sorry," Shane wept, the sound raw and ugly in the quiet suite. "Luca, we are so, so sorry. We'll do anything. We'll stay right here. We won't touch you, we won't move, but please... please let us earn it back. Let us earn your trust back.
The sound of Shane’s muffled weeping on the floor was the only noise in the room, cutting through the hum of the air conditioning. Luca kept his forehead pressed against his knees, his eyes squeezed tight. He wanted to disappear into the leather cushions. The secret was out, stripped bare under the harsh Vegas morning light, and the pity in the room was suffocating.
But it wasn’t pity.
Ilya moved next. His boots made no sound on the heavy carpet as he crossed the distance between the bar and the sofa. He didn’t drop to his knees like Shane, and he didn’t reach out to grab Luca. Instead, he sat down heavily on the floor right beside his husband, his long legs stretching out toward the coffee table. He placed his back against the base of the couch, offering his spine as a solid, unmoving anchor against Luca's trembling frame, without forcing face-to-face contact.
"Luca," Ilya said, his voice entirely stripped of its usual commanding edge. It was just rough, quiet, and steady. "Look at me. Or don't. But listen."
Luca didn't move, but his breathing slowed a fraction, listening to the deep vibration of Ilya's voice through the frame of the sofa.
"When I was twenty," Ilya began, his eyes fixed on the empty glass of water on the table, "I leave Russia. I have nothing. No English, no family, only hockey. First year in AHL, I get hurt. Bad knee. I think my life is over. I sit in dark apartment for three weeks, and I..." He paused, his jaw tightening as he glanced at Shane, then back to the glass. "I make marks, too. On my arms. Because the noise in head is too loud, and pain outside is easier than pain inside."
Luca’s head lifted just a fraction, one blue eye peering out from over the crook of his elbow.
"I never tell anyone this," Ilya whispered, his large hand coming down to rest on Shane’s trembling shoulder, squeezing tightly. "Not even Shane, until many years later. I tell you now because I want you to know... I understand the dark room you were in when we leave you. And I know we put you there."
Shane raised his head, his face streaked with tears, his eyes red but intensely focused on Luca. He reached out, hesitating for a fraction of a second before placing his palm flat on the cushion of the couch, a few inches away from Luca’s knee. A silent invitation.
Shane raised his head, his face streaked with tears, his eyes red but intensely focused on Luca. He reached out, hesitating for a fraction of a second before placing his palm flat on the cushion of the couch, a few inches away from Luca’s knee. A silent invitation.
"We're not going to leave this room until you tell us to," Shane promised, his voice cracking. "And if you want us to leave after that, we will. But right now, we’re just going to sit here. We’re going to help you carry it."
Luca stared at Shane's hand on the cushion. The instinct to pull away, to bite back with a sarcastic comment or a defensive lie, was right there at the back of his throat. But the physical exhaustion was too heavy. And Ilya’s confession hung in the space between them, a massive, vulnerable offering from a man who never showed weakness to anyone.
Slowly, deliberately, Luca uncurled his legs. He let his feet touch the floor again, his oversized shirt settling back over his hips. He didn't let them touch him yet—the boundary was still there—but he sat on the edge of the sofa, looking down at the two older men sitting on the floor at his feet.
"It hurt," Luca whispered, the words small and fragile. It was the first honest thing he had said all night. "When you didn't call. It felt like... like I was just a game you played."
"Never," Shane said instantly, a fresh tear slipping down his cheek. "Luca, you are the furthest thing from a game. We panicked because it felt too real. It terrified us how easily you fit between us."
Ilya didn't look up, but he reached backward, his large hand coming to rest flat on the leather cushion right next to Luca’s thigh, mirroring Shane's position. They were flanking him, creating a protective barrier between him and the rest of the world, waiting entirely on his command.
Luca looked from Shane's hand to Ilya's. For the first time since the awards show started, the frantic hammer of his pulse began to settle into a normal rhythm. The holes in his heart weren't filled—not even close—but as he sat there with them in the quiet room, the freezing vacuum didn't feel quite as cold.
Luca’s voice didn't rise, but the words cut through the room with the devastating weight of a physical blow. The raw, unfiltered ugly truth of what his brain had been telling him for days finally spilled over.
"I felt like I was just a hole you used," he whispered, his gaze dropping to the floor between them, his hands shaking so violently he had to tuck them under his thighs to make them stop. "Like I could have been anybody. Like I was bad and not good enough, and that's why you left."
Shane let out a broken, strangled sound, a sob catching hard in his throat, but Luca couldn't stop now. The dam had burst.
"I felt used. Disgusting. Like I was just a conquest the two of you set out to conquer, and then when you finally had me, you got what you wanted and you were done. On to the next." A ragged, breathless laugh escaped him, completely devoid of mirth. "Like I'm completely disposable."
The silence that followed was suffocating.
Shane bowed his head until his forehead literally touched the carpet, his shoulders shaking violently with deep, silent sobs. The realization of how deeply their cowardice had warped Luca’s self-worth was a crushing weight. He wanted to reach out, to grab Luca and scream no, never, you're everything, but he stayed exactly where he was, forcing himself to take the hit because he knew Luca needed to throw it.
Beside him, Ilya didn't move a single muscle, but his entire body had gone rigid as stone. The deep, heavy rhythm of his breathing hitched. He stared straight ahead at the blank wall, his jaw clenched so tightly the bone looked sharp enough to cut through skin. A dark, vicious storm of self-loathing turned his eyes almost entirely black.
"Luca," Ilya said. His voice wasn't just rough anymore; it was completely broken, a low, grating rasp that sounded like it tore his throat on the way out. "Look at me."
Luca didn't want to. Every instinct told him to pull his walls back up, to pretend he hadn't just admitted to feeling so small and pathetic. But something in the sheer, uncharacteristic desperation of Ilya's tone made his chin lift.
Ilya turned his head, looking up from the floor. There was no captain's mask left. No stoic, unbothered Russian armor. His face was pale, his eyes swimming with a raw, agonizing remorse that made him look completely unraveled.
"You are not disposable," Ilya said, each word heavy, deliberate, and fiercely intense. "You think we get what we want and leave? Luca... we leave because we get what we never think we can have. We leave because we look at you, and we see everything we are missing. I look at you, and I feel things I have no right to feel for someone so young, so perfect. I am coward. Shane is coward. We see how much power you have over us after one night, and we run like children."
Shane slowly lifted his head, his face red and wet with tears. He reached out, his hand hovering just an inch above Luca's socked foot on the floor, begging with his eyes for permission to touch.
"You're not a conquest, Luca," Shane wept softly, his voice trembling. "God, if you could see inside our heads... we haven't slept. We haven't been able to look at each other without thinking about you. We didn't leave because you weren't good enough. We left because we knew we weren't good enough for you. We’re the ones who are disgusting. We hurt the best thing we ever touched."
Luca stared at them, his chest heaving as the toxic, suffocating lies his brain had spun over the last few days began to clash violently with the absolute, agonizing truth laying on the floor right in front of him.
The words hung in the space between them, thick and heavy, refracting the morning light. For a long, agonizing minute, the only sound was the jagged, uneven rhythm of their breathing. Luca sat completely still, his hands still tucked under his thighs, staring at the space on the carpet between Shane and Ilya.
The toxic certainty that had fueled his anger—the absolute conviction that he was just an object, a checkmark on a bucket list—was suddenly fracturing. It was easier to be furious than to face the terrifying vulnerability of being wanted this intensely.
Slowly, almost imperceptibly, Luca pulled his hands out from beneath his legs. He didn't pull away when Shane’s fingers, still hovering an inch above his foot, trembling with the effort of holding back, remained waiting.
"You're the captain," Luca whispered, his voice cracking as he looked directly at Shane. "And you're the assistant captain," he added, his eyes shifting to Ilya, who still sat like an anchor against the couch. "You guys are supposed to know what the fuck you're doing. You're supposed to be the ones who lead. How am I supposed to trust anything you say when your first instinct is to run away and let me drown?"
Ilya didn't flinch at the accusation. He let out a slow, rough breath, his head leaning back against the couch cushions right next to Luca’s thigh.
"You shouldn't trust us," Ilya said bluntly, his accent thick and heavy with exhaustion. "Not today. Not tomorrow. We don't get to ask for trust. We have to build it back, piece by piece, if you let us. If you tell us to go to separate hotel rooms right now, we go. If you tell us to only speak to you on the ice, we do that. But we do not run again."
Shane nodded miserably, his hand finally dropping to rest lightly, tentatively, on the fabric of Luca’s sock. He didn't squeeze. He just let his palm lay there, offering warmth, offering a physical presence that wasn't going to vanish.
"He's right," Shane murmured, looking up through red, swollen eyes. "We don't deserve an easy out, Luca. We made you feel like you were nothing, when the truth is... you're everything to us.
I keep thinking about that night; Not just the good parts. How safe you made it feel for us too. How much we wanted it—want it. We let fear win the next morning. Old habits from hiding for so long. It was shitty and unfair to you.” “We talked about it while you slept. Not about fixing it fast. About what earning trust looks like. For you, that means we show up even when it’s uncomfortable. We’re going to spend every single day proving that to you, at whatever pace you need."
Luca looked down at Shane’s hand on his foot. The touch didn't make his skin crawl this time. Instead, a strange, exhausting wave of relief began to crash over him, replacing the sharp edges of the panic attack with a profound, bone-deep tiredness. His walls weren't down—the pink lines hidden beneath his sleeve were proof of that—but the gate was open, just a fraction.
Luca let out a long, shuddering breath, his shoulders dropping an inch. He didn't pull his foot away from Shane's touch, but he didn't lean into it either. He was establishing a new equilibrium.
"I'm not moving to the bed," Luca said, his voice quiet but firm, setting the boundary clearly. "And I'm not talking about... any of this anymore today. I'm too tired."
"Okay," Shane said instantly, a small, incredibly fragile look of hope flickering in his eyes as he gently squeezed Luca's foot before pulling his hand back to give him space. "Whatever you need, Luca. We can just stay right here."
Ilya didn't move from his spot on the floor, his solid weight remaining a constant, grounding presence against the side of the sofa. "We stay," he confirmed softly.
Luca nodded but stayed seated, knees drawn up he knew he needed to eat something, but he just couldn’t and there was no point in making oatmeal when he could barely drink a sip of water.
So, still guarded, body language closed off. But he didn’t ask them to leave. When he retreated to the bathroom to shower (alone, door locked), they didn’t hover. When he came out in borrowed sweats and a loose t-shirt that hid everything, they were watching a quiet hockey replay on low volume, leaving the middle of the couch open but not expecting him to take it.
The room fell into a heavy, suspended stillness. So, Luca decided to take a seat on the barstool near the kitchen. He was staring blankly at the dark space between the couch and the wall.
He had said he was too tired. He had told them he was done talking. But the silence wasn't bringing him any peace; it was just a breeding ground for the one massive, terrifying question that had been rotting inside his chest for days.
His stomach twisted into a tight, anxious knot. He was terrified of the answer. If he asked, they might say something that confirmed his worst fears all over again. They might give a reason that made him feel even smaller. But the agony of not knowing, of letting his brain fill in the blanks with its own cruel logic, was worse.
Luca swallowed hard, his throat dry. Without turning around to face them, his voice cut through the quiet room—fragile, thin, and stripped of all defenses.
"Why?"
The word was so quiet it was almost lost to the air conditioning, but on the floor, both Shane and Ilya went completely rigid.
Luca’s fingers tightened into the fabric of the blanket, pulling it higher around his chin, his back still resolutely turned to them. "Just... why did you do it? If it felt as perfect as you say it did... why was your first reaction to just ignore me the second we got back to Ottawa?"
Shane let out a ragged, trembling breath. He shifted on the floor, the fabric of his trousers rustling against the carpet as he looked at the back of Luca's head. "Luca... it wasn't because of anything you did. I swear to you."
"Then why?" Luca snapped, a sudden, sharp spike of raw panic and frustration breaking through his exhaustion. He finally spun over onto his back, staring up at the ceiling, his chest heaving as he fought back a fresh wave of tears. "People don't just run away from things that are perfect, Shane. That’s a lie. You run away from things that are broken, or scary, or... or mistakes. Which one was I?
Shane looked up, his eyes bloodshot, his hands gripping his own knees so tightly his knuckles were white. "You were the scary one," he whispered honestly.
Luca’s gaze snapped down to him, his brow furrowing in confusion and hurt.
"Not because of who you are," Shane clarified quickly, his voice cracking with emotion. "Because of what you represented to us. Ilya and I... we’ve been together for twelve years. We built a life, a routine, a marriage. It was safe. And then you came along, and in a single night, you completely upended everything we thought we knew about ourselves."
Shane took a shaky breath, looking over at Ilya, who was staring fixedly at his own hands.
"We got back to Ottawa, and suddenly we were back in our house, looking at each other, and all we could talk about was you," Shane continued, a fresh tear tracking down his cheek. "We realized we didn't just want a one-night thing. We realized we were falling for you. And it absolutely terrified us. We panicked because the NHL doesn't have a blueprint for a married captain and assistant captain being in love with their twenty-one-year-old superstar teammate. We thought about the media, the front office, the locker room... and instead of talking to you like adults, we let our fear take over. We thought if we just cut it off immediately, we could force ourselves to go back to normal."
"But there is no normal anymore," Ilya intersected, his deep voice slicing through the room, rough and unyielding.
Ilya slowly turned his head to look at Luca. The stoic, unreadable mask was completely gone, replaced by a raw, heavy solemnity.
"Shane tries to make it sound nice, but it is ugly truth," Ilya said, his accent thick and heavy. "We were selfish, Luca. We saw the storm coming if people found out, and instead of standing in front of you to protect you, we use our power as older men, as leaders, to hide behind. We think about our own safety, our own comfort, and we do not think about what the silence would do to a boy who just give us his trust."
Ilya reached out, his large hand resting flat on the edge of the couch cushion, right next to Luca's hip, though he didn't dare close the physical distance without permission.
"You ask if you were a mistake," Ilya whispered, his dark eyes locking onto Luca's with an intensity that made the breath catch in Luca's throat. "The only mistake was our cowardice. You are the best thing that ever happen to this team, and you are the best thing that ever happen to us. We run because we are weak, Luca. Not because you are not enough."
Luca stared at them, the heavy, suffocating silence returning to the room. The answer hadn't been easy to hear, and it didn't magically erase the pink lines hidden beneath his sleeve or the gaping ache in his chest. But as he looked at the two older men—stripped entirely of their authority, sitting in the wreckage of their own choices—he realized they weren't gods playing a game with him. They were just flawed, terrified men who had broken something precious out of fear.
And for the first time in days, the toxic voice in Luca's head telling him he was disgusting finally started to quiet down.
And so the three carried on and the second night passed in much the same careful rhythm. Luca claimed the couch again, back turned, blanket pulled high. Shane took the guest bedroom. Ilya stayed on the armchair for a while before moving to the other end of the sectional—still several feet away, no crossing the invisible line. They left the bathroom light on low at Luca’s quiet request when the dark felt too heavy. Small accommodations. No questions.
By morning, the air in the suite had shifted from brittle tension to something heavier but steadier. Luca woke to the sound of the shower running and the low murmur of Ilya on the phone in the kitchen, speaking softly in Russian before switching to English to confirm a practice reschedule. Not hiding anything. Not disappearing.
Luca sat up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, and immediately checked his wrist—thumb finding the familiar spot even though the worst of the panic had ebbed. The pink lines on his ribs pulled as he stretched, a private sting. He tugged the oversized t-shirt down firmly.
Shane emerged from the bedroom, hair damp, wearing sweats and a soft expression. “Hey. There’s oatmeal if you want it. Or we can order whatever. No pressure.”
Luca nodded but stayed seated, knees drawn up. “Oatmeal’s fine.” His voice was still rough, guarded. He watched them move around the kitchen from his spot on the couch—never crowding him, always announcing small things. “I’m grabbing spoons.” “Coffee’s ready if you want a refill.” Consistent. Predictable. Safe in its caution.
They ate at opposite ends of the dining table. Luca kept his eyes mostly on his bowl, but he listened as they talked—about nothing heavy at first. A funny story from practice last week. A stupid meme one of the rookies sent in the group chat. Normal things. Then watched some more highlights from the previous season.
Later that afternoon, Luca had a smaller wave—nothing full-blown, but the hollow feeling surged while they were watching highlights on low volume. His breathing shallowed. He pressed his back harder into the couch, pinching the skin between his thumb and finger, rocking almost imperceptibly.
Shane noticed immediately but didn’t move closer. “You’re safe,” he said calmly. “We’re right here. Not leaving.”
Ilya added, soft, “Breathe with me if you want. Or don’t. Your call.”
Luca did neither at first. But after a minute, he matched Ilya’s slower breaths anyway. The wave passed faster than the night before.
Ilya sat completely still, a stoic monument of self-loathing, his large hand resting flat on the cushion just inches from Luca's hip, never bridging the gap on his own.
For weeks, Luca had felt so incredibly small. But looking at them now, stripped of their jerseys, their titles, and their authority, he realized the terrifying amount of power he held over them. He had the power to ruin them, to walk out, to make them feel this exact brand of agonizing emptiness forever.
He didn't want to use it. He was just so damn tired of being strong.
"Ilya," Luca whispered, his voice cracking on the vowels.
Ilya’s head snapped toward him instantly, his dark eyes hyper-focused, waiting.
Luca didn't say anything else. Instead, he slowly slid his hand out from under the blanket. His fingers trembled slightly, a residual effect of the night's exhaustion, as he moved his hand across the leather. Slowly, deliberately, he laid his palm over the back of Ilya’s large, scarred hand.
It wasn't forgiveness. It was a lifeline.
Ilya let out a ragged, trembling breath, his shoulders dropping two inches as if a physical weight had been lifted off his chest. He didn't immediately grip Luca’s hand back; he just let the younger man dictate the pressure, turning his palm up so their fingers could lightly intertwine. His skin was burning hot against Luca’s cold fingers.
Seeing the movement, Shane slowly lifted his head. His eyes were completely bloodshot, his face mapped with tear tracks. He looked at their joined hands, then up at Luca’s face, a fragile, desperate hope flickering in his expression.
"Can I..." Shane choked on the words, clearing his throat roughly. "Can I sit up here? Just... on the edge? I won't touch you, Luca. I just want to be closer."
Luca stared at him for a long moment, watching the captain of his hockey team literally beg for a spot on a cheap hotel couch. The absurdity of it briefly flared, followed by a profound, grounding sense of reality.
"Yeah," Luca murmured. "Just... don't crowd me."
Shane moved like Luca was made of spun glass. He slid off the floor and sat on the very edge of the cushions near Luca’s feet, keeping his legs tucked in tightly to give Luca as much space as possible. He didn't reach out to grab him, but he leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees, his eyes locked on Luca with an intensity that felt like a vow.
"We’re going to fix this," Shane whispered fiercely, his voice thick with emotion. "I don't care how long it takes, or what we have to do. We're going to figure out how to navigate the team, the media, all of it. Together. If you still want us, Luca. We are entirely yours."
Afternoon brought a quieter moment. Luca sat on the couch—his end—while a muted hockey game played. His shirt rode up slightly again as he shifted to grab the remote, exposing the faint pink lines along his ribs for a second time. This time he didn’t yank it down immediately. He froze, then slowly lowered the hem, but the damage was done.
Shane’s voice was thick. “We hate that those exist because of us.”
Ilya stayed in his chair. “You don’t have to explain them. But if you ever want to… we’re listening. And we’re staying.”
Luca exhaled shakily, pinching the skin between his thumb and finger. “I dropped hard the day after. Couldn’t feel anything. So, I made myself feel something. Handled it. Cleaned it up. Went to practice the next day like nothing happened—while you two were conveniently on leave and Boodram ran everything.” His laugh was bitter. The hollow feeling was still there, but the sharp edges had dulled.
We’re sorry. Truly. And we’re going to keep proving it when we get back to Ottawa. Showing up for you on the ice, in the locker room, after practice. No more excuses.” Daily check-ins. Sitting near you in the dressing room if you’ll allow it. Earning it in public and private.”
Luca just nodded suddenly at a loss for words he didn’t realize how much power he gave them. How much this entire situation weighed down on his psyche. He felt paralyzed.
Luca realized he wasn't alone in the dark anymore. The two men who had pushed him into the vacuum were currently pulling him out, willing to tear themselves apart just to hold the door open for him.
"Don't make me regret this," Luca whispered into the quiet room, his eyes still closed.
"With our lives, Luca," Ilya growled softly, his fingers tightening around Luca's, solid and unyielding. "With our lives."