Alex | 61 | Cal, Dami, Maxi

To Alexandre’s surprise, the media staff and the front office had responded to his antics of the day by ignoring him completely, deciding that he was better off being the superstar on the ice that they had obtained him to be, and offering no further opportunity for him to be heard out or even lectured by the staff about his decisions. This hurt more than Alex had thought it would, but he brushed it aside by allowing them to escort him back to the players’ facilities, feeling a bit uneasy without Damiano around. He wasn’t sure how he knew that he could trust him, but he did. More than the other staff, at least. Maybe it was the subconscious knowledge that if something happened to Alex, the team would be in jeopardy of having another subpar season, and the captain of all people would be the one to do the most to prevent that from occurring. Still, he wasn’t sure that logic applied now, or that it would when he found out what the forward had said about him.

Going about his day as normally as he could, Alex wasn’t surprised that he became the main recipient of attention when the team got off the ice from running drills, taking a break prior to the optional scrimmage that was being held toward the end of the day. Most of the team was amused by his behavior, having some level of awareness that the comical, goofy presentation he’d given on television was just part of what you got with Alexandre Avery. There were a few individuals who didn’t find any humor in the situation, however, guys who either weren’t sure if Alex was serious when he’d said what he’d said, or guys that didn’t appreciate the disrespect to their captain. Overall, Alex definitely cared how everyone felt about him, but he tried to brush it off as no big deal and smiled his way through the day, already feeling the tension in his chest and the eggshells he was walking on.

As the morning faded into the afternoon and Damiano was still nowhere to be found, Alex decided that he’d skip the optional scrimmage and hang up his skates for the day. He’d gotten plenty of ice time and already had almost complete confidence that he would be staying up and playing for the Hellcats, so he wasn’t concerned with proving himself. Based on the lines they ran in practice, he was getting top minutes in the scrimmage tomorrow, so it wasn’t a horrible idea to allow some of the prospects to get ice time with the coaches in his absence. He was also starting to feel the soreness creeping in, so he decided that his afternoon would be better spent doing wellness and recovery measures in the other areas of the building with the game on the horizon. Even though it didn’t really count for anything, everyone’s eyes would still be on him for his informal debut in New Rome, and the things he’d said to the press only increased the amount of attention he would be getting. He wasn’t sure he could get Cal to sleep in his room for another night and didn’t want to seem clingy, so he was already prepared to play the game on minimal sleep and didn’t want to add muscle strain into that equation.

Just as he was finishing getting his skates off and started removing his jersey, pants, and pads, he felt the mood in the room shift and the joking, jovial manner that the space had adopted for the majority of the day turned into something awkward and uncomfortable. Alex didn’t have to lift his head to see who’d walked in, he knew instinctively that Damiano had returned from the press nightmare Alexandre had left for him, but he wanted to. He wanted to see what kind of response he would get, and if there was any chance of the defenseman laughing this off and returning the favor in some way like Alex did when his rookies got him into difficult situations. When he saw the stern look on his face, the tension he carried in his shoulders, the rippling of his jaw which seemed to have been permanently clenched since the day he was born, Alex knew that wasn’t going to be a possibility.

“So fucking hot? Really?” Alex smiled smugly, amused at his own words which even he couldn’t believe he’d said.

“Yeah, baby, what’s wrong?” He didn’t think it was the right thing to say, especially if the continued amusement from the other guys was any indication. “You don’t wanna be seen with me?”

Sobering his expression and becoming serious for just a moment, Alex added, “come on, Cap, you know how it was in there. And you may not know this here, because this whole goddamn city doesn’t allow for outside communication or media from places outside of its control, but everyone knows me as the league funny guy. They expect me to say stuff like that. It’s not like it’s a big deal or anything, everyone will be onto the next thing in a day or two.”

Despite Alex’s best offer to let Damiano blow off steam by duking it out on the ice, the forward ended up showered, dressed in team sweats, and into the wellness wing for the majority of the evening. Cal finally came to check on him around seven or eight in the evening, close enough to curfew that Alex was considering staying in the bunkers for the night to avoid dealing with the empty apartment he was going back to, but he easily agreed to go back to his friend’s room to watch a movie and forget the drama of the day. Unfortunately for him, however, Cal didn’t fall asleep during the movie and kicked him out at the end, leaving him to his own devices while his older–and wiser–friend got restful sleep at a reasonable hour. Still unable to cure the uneasy feeling in his gut, Alex went back to his apartment and wondered which room Maxim was in, somewhere on the prospect floor sharing a double room with someone else undoubtedly. Blessedly, these thoughts of loneliness and isolation were eased by the obnoxiously loud sound of bass blasting through speakers somewhere below him, vibrating the floor and definitely causing everyone who was anywhere near it to be alerted of the sound.

Immediately, Alex rushed to his feet, still in his team sweats, hair damp from the cold tub and combed neatly with a middle part. He got in the elevator, amused to see Damiano looking groggy and unamused, as if he was having the worst day of his life. Something about the vision of him looking so unhappy and so disheveled reminded Alex of a wet cat. Not withholding his amusement at seeing him at all, and in that condition, the taller figure said, “something tells me you and I are going to the same place, but for very different reasons.”

Despite his best wishes, Alex allowed Damiano to shut down the rager that had formed in the room of one of the prospects, not wanting to anger him more by directly going against his authority and instead opting to stay quiet. Some of the young guys still attempted to drag Alex into the middle of the argument, surprised when he failed to take anyone’s side and instead remained shockingly quiet and pragmatic. Although, this was at least partially due to the fact that Maxim was drunk and particularly touchy with Alexandre, the latter occupied with keeping his favorite prospect vertical and conscious. When the party began to break off, Maxim started begging Alex to come back to his room to play cards with him to which he gladly agreed, watching Damiano smugly as the curly-haired boy swayed, arms in a death grip around the much larger forward’s waist.

“Deuces,” he stated simply, not bothering to wipe the look off his face for anyone’s benefit, and continued down the hallway, Maxi and a few of the other rookies in tow. Of course, he had no idea where he was going, and being the only sober one in the group, it took longer than they would admit to find the right room. Before long, Alex found himself passed out on the floor with several of the young guys who’d gotten too drunk and had simply passed out, playing another round of cards before tucking Maxim into his own bed, then finding his place on the floor behind the others willfully. He was the only one responsible enough or conscious enough to set an alarm, and he set ten of them, just in case anyone struggled to wake up.

The next morning, Alex was the third one up, the first one a light sleeper who’d spared no time in shoving everyone else awake in order to figure out whose alarm was going off and to attempt to stop it. When they finally accomplished this feat, everyone was standing and milling about, discussing what they had to do to prepare for picture and media day. For most of them, this was their first, and Alex was charmed by the way they all hurried about excitedly despite their hangovers and the constant bickering that seemed to become an ambient sound in the room. After making sure they all hydrated and had the itinerary straight in their heads, the eldest made his way back to the floor he was staying on, which he was learning primarily consisted of guys who’d been on the team for a year or two, or even longer. It was more permanent housing, which he wasn’t necessarily surprised by.

Showering and putting product in his hair so it remained shinier and curlier than usual, Alex looked in the mirror, big blue eyes studying his appearance. He looked pale and a little tired, but that could be touched up. His hair looked different than how he usually kept it, far curlier and messier in the way it flopped down on his face, but charming in its own right, and attention-grabbing for the photo. Having his hair so dark and close to his eyes made them seem brighter, too, so it seemed like an acceptable option for him.

Knowing he was only going to be throwing on his gear when he got down to the rink, Alex threw his sweats from the day prior back on, feeling like it was necessary to have team merch on for media day. He had probably missed those instructions when he was busy creating chaos and then being shunned for it the day prior, but this wasn’t his first rodeo, and he knew that it was customary to wear team clothing for photography and media. If he got invited to the league headquarters to do team media, he’d be required to wear a suit or some sort of non-athletic wear, but he was sure he’d ruined his chances of that if the front office had anything to do with it. The league usually requested him each year, but he knew the Hellcats’ employees had the power to deny that request, and that they probably would. Unless they sent him and Damiano and asked them to act indifferent toward each other or something, but that felt highly unlikely.

Just as he went to brush these thoughts out of his mind, he stepped onto the elevator, eyes locating the person who’d just been on his mind, as well as Cal and two others he recognized as returning players. Before he could think about the consequences, Alexandre stepped on and pressed a kiss to Damiano’s cheek in a goofy manner, unsurprised when he was quickly shoved away in one swift movement.

“Good morning,” he began cheerfully, “something came to me in a dream last night, and I’m not going to ask if you want to hear it because I’m going to tell you anyway. My goal for this season is to triple your points from last season even though that’s not your job on this team. Just for my amusement and whimsy, and maybe to feed the narrative to make more money for our team. And also because I’m such a good person and an amazing talent.”

“You know, Aves, when he socks you in the eye not one person is going to be surprised,” Cal replied, amused at the early morning antics.

“Be quiet,” the tall figure replied, stepping off the elevator and walking beside the blond. “Everyone knows he loves me, even if he tries to act like he doesn’t. It’s why he can’t keep his hands off me, isn’t that right, Cap?”

Damiano barely slept that night, and when he did, the sleep came in fits, brief stabs of unconsciousness interrupted by the gnawing churn in his gut. He tossed on his too-firm mattress at the team housing, back rigid, arms folded behind his head like a corpse laid out to rest, jaw clenched so tight it ached. Every few minutes, he’d shift, sigh, stare at the ceiling like it had answers he wasn’t brave enough to ask for. The kid’s party—the noise, the drunken laughter, the blaring bass—all of it was just a symptom. The disease was something else entirely.

He’d gone back to his room alone, his boots leaving mud tracks across the tile, his hoodie damp from the walk. It wasn’t raining, not really. Just that kind of slow, cold mist that clung to the skin like grief. He hadn’t turned the lights on when he came in. He just sat on the edge of the bed, stripping off his gear one piece at a time with a violence he didn’t have the energy to direct elsewhere. Pads, undershirt, socks—each one torn off and discarded. He didn’t shower. Didn’t eat. Didn’t even touch the protein bar sitting half-open on the windowsill from the morning before.

Instead, he sat.

Elbows on knees, head hanging low, hair damp with sweat and rain and effort. He sat there and stared at the glass jar around his neck, the tiny shark teeth inside catching the dim light from the hallway whenever someone passed. His fingers curled around it, squeezing it like it could anchor him to the present, to this body that felt far too heavy.

“So fucking hot.”

He muttered it under his breath once more, bitterness and disbelief twisting the words like they tasted foul. His lip curled, like he wanted to laugh at himself, or punch a wall, or both.

It had been years since someone called him that. Years since he’d allowed it to mean anything.

And before he could stop himself, she was there again. Not in the room—never that. But in the folds of memory he’d buried under rage and discipline and years of silence. Her laugh, sharp and cruel. Her nails, always painted red. The way she used to say his name like it was the last word of a prayer she never meant.

Damiano clenched his jaw harder. No. No, no, no. He would not think about her. He wouldn’t speak her name. Wouldn’t give her the goddamn oxygen. He refused.

He’d tried to shut everything out. Phone off. Lights dimmed. The cold tub hadn’t helped his back, and stretching had done nothing to relieve the pressure in his chest. He sat on the floor for a long time, just staring at the wall, legs out in front of him like a child in time-out, jaw locked. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw her again. Not as she’d been in the end—but before, when they still laughed together in places he couldn’t bear to visit now.

He didn’t say her name anymore. Not even in his head. It made the grief too real, too heavy. When he thought of her, it was a flicker, a shadow just behind the curtain. Something unspoken. Something sealed away. His body still remembered her absence, though—how to curl into that shape of loss, how to brace for a voice that never came back.

The worst part? He didn’t even hate Alex for saying it. Not really. He hated himself for feeling something when he heard it.

And he knew Alexandre hadn’t meant anything by it. Just playing up the role, same as always. League clown, media darling, bright blue eyes and that shiny hair that made everyone forget he was dangerous with the puck. Damiano knew the type. Hell, he’d hated the type his whole life. But the thing he hated more was how easily that one line had cut through all his walls like they weren’t even there.

So he avoided the thought of him. For hours. He threw himself into weight training in the private gym down the hall, locking the door behind him. Pulling more than he should, pushing harder than necessary, trying to drown out everything with the burn in his thighs and the pressure in his chest. Every rep felt like penance. Every set a confession.

When someone knocked on the door—maybe a concerned teammate, maybe even a staffer—he didn’t answer. Let them think he wasn’t in there. Let them think he’d gone rogue again. He didn’t care.

He needed quiet. Needed solitude. He needed not to be seen.

Because underneath all of it—the temper, the snarl, the sharp-shouldered pride—he was grieving. Not just her, though she was the sharpest thorn in the bouquet. He was grieving the idea of peace. Of safety. Of ever being understood without having to bleed for it.

So when morning came and he dragged himself to the elevator, hair damp and stuck to the sides of his face, hoodie clinging to sweat from the gym, he didn’t expect the elevator to stop. Didn’t expect to see him. Of all fucking people.

And then that kiss on the cheek like they were teammates, like they were friends, like Damiano wasn’t barely holding himself together by the frayed edge of a thread.

He shoved him, hard. Not hard enough to injure, but enough to say don’t touch me. His lip curled as he stared at the elevator doors. His arms crossed. His knuckles were bruised—when had that happened?

He didn’t respond. Not to the kiss. Not to the babbling about tripling his points. Not to the teasing, or Cal’s quip, or any of it. He stood there like a storm in a glass bottle, silent and simmering, willing himself not to react.

Because if he did, it’d be too much. Too loud. Too honest.

And he wasn’t about to give Alexandre Avery that kind of ammunition. Not this early in the day.

Not when he was already bleeding on the inside.

Damiano didn’t say anything as they walked into the rink. The place was buzzing like a kicked anthill—photographers, interns, media staff, and equipment managers all weaving through the locker room and hallways, hauling gear or wrangling rookies too hungover to understand simple instructions. Lights were set up in corners, backdrops with the Hellcats’ logo plastered across them in dramatic, aggressive reds and blacks, and someone had spilled what looked like pre-workout across the entry mat.

He was already regretting being vertical.

He didn’t shave. Didn’t fix his hair, didn’t care that it stuck up in places from sleeping sideways on a couch the night before. He pulled on his gear mechanically, tape wound too tight around one wrist, helmet straps still damp from the last practice. Someone handed him a stick and told him to wait for his turn, so he did. Silent. Standing with his mouth in a line, eyes half-lidded, staring at the floor. He could feel a headache blooming behind his temples from the lights, or maybe from the lack of sleep. Either way, it didn’t matter.

He didn’t care about the pictures. The league would get what they got. If the marketing team didn’t like that he looked like shit, maybe they should’ve gave someone else the goddamned letter.

Between takes, he sat on a bench in full gear, elbows on his knees. A photographer called his name twice before giving up and moving on to the next guy. Some intern offered him a comb and a water bottle, and he waved them both off with the same expressionless look. The only thing he drank was black coffee he stole from the staff table, bitter and lukewarm, but it cut through the fog enough to keep him from lying down on the cold floor and disappearing.

It wasn’t just the media circus, or the noise. It was her. Or the absence of her.

He hadn’t meant to start thinking about her again, not this week, not when everything else was already unraveling at the seams. He refused to give her a name in his thoughts anymore. Names were anchors, and if he said hers—even in silence—he was afraid he’d drown in it. It was easier to just call it her and leave it at that. The shadow in the background. The ghost in the seats that went empty two seasons ago.

Cal had tried, last night. Said some vague thing about “maybe talking” and “you look like hell, man.” Dami had shrugged it off like everything else. He always did. He didn’t talk about it. Couldn’t. The second the words started forming in his throat, something about his chest would tighten until breathing was just another punishment.

He was the captain. You don’t get to talk about shit like that when you wear the letter. You don’t get to look weak when the kids need someone to follow.

He got his photo taken eventually. They stuck him in front of the camera, told him to “look intimidating” and then “try something a little more relaxed.” He gave them dead eyes for the first shot and looked away before the flash on the second.

Back in the locker room, he sat with his jersey still half-on, fingers idly picking at a loose thread on his padded elbow. The noise had calmed a bit—less laughing, more footsteps echoing down the hallway. Picture day was winding down, and the weight of the coming preseason opener was settling in the way it always did: slow and suffocating.

Then the front office decided to stir the pot.

One of the equipment staff passed him a note while mumbling something about “last-minute decisions.” Dami unfolded it and read the typed line with a growing sense of cold disdain.

“You’ll be sharing a media slot with Avery for the team’s promotional package. Outfit changes will be provided.”

He crumpled the paper in his fist.

No request. No warning. No option.

They were going to play the narrative—two golden boys, one team, one shot at redemption or whatever the hell they were calling it. They’d drag his name into the marketing blender whether he liked it or not. And worse, they were going to stage it like some feel-good rivalry turned bromance, like all the shit that festered between them could be Photoshopped out with a grin and a fist bump.

Damiano sat there for a long time, back hunched, knuckles white against the balled-up note in his hand.

He didn’t go after anyone. Didn’t yell. Didn’t march to the media office and make demands.

Instead, he walked to the ice.

Helmet still on. Gloves gripped tight. He stepped past a rookie getting undressed, past a few trainers laughing at something on a phone, and shoved the heavy door open. The rink was empty now, except for the ghostly hum of the compressors and the faint squeal of a squeegee somewhere far off. He dropped a puck from his pocket, raised his stick, and started firing.

Every shot was vicious. No aim, no finesse. Just speed. Sound. Release.

He didn’t need anyone watching. Didn’t need anyone understanding. He just needed the silence to give him something back. Something other than the roar of the crowd, or the echo of her voice saying his name for the last time.

When the puck finally stopped bouncing, and his chest was heaving with exhaustion, Damiano skated to center ice and stood there, still as stone.

She would’ve hated who he was now.
And that was the only thing that kept him going.

The drama wasn’t in what he did next. It was in what he didn’t.
He didn’t tell anyone why his knuckles were bleeding when he came off the ice.
He didn’t say a word about the argument he overheard between the assistant GM and the head coach—something about “not being able to control him” and “this isn’t what we signed up for.”

He just showed up to the team dinner that night in the same wrinkled hoodie from two days ago, looked across the room at Alexandre laughing with a group of players—Maxim, fucking Maxim, he was going to crack his skull open—, and sat at the farthest end of the table, an empty seat on his one side, the end of the table on his other. Alone.

Just like before.

Just like always.

Alex | 61 | the usual suspects <3

Unlike Damiano, Alex was a goddamn delight for media day. He flashed that charming smile a hundred times over, willingly allowed himself to be mic’d up by an intern who clearly had not received the instructions as the rest of the media team to leave an earth-sized gap between a recording device and Alexandre Avery, and skated around with a camera that had disposable film in it to capture the team from his point of view for a media piece. He looked handsome as ever, having put enough effort into his appearance to be chirped for it on more than one occasion, and offered unsolicited fashion and hygiene advice and returned the chirps to the rest of the team about their respective appearances.

Having spent the majority of the morning forming a codependent relationship with several members of the media team who were, as with everyone, not immune to his charm, Alex had given up on trying to get a reaction out of Damiano after the first grumpy picture he took of him, hardly ready and giving the camera a look that demonstrated just how little the captain wanted to be bothered. In Alexandre’s opinion, he was no fun. His time in Crete demonstrated that wearing a letter didn’t automatically make you the enemy of all fun, and he only wished that was something the Italian could comprehend. Alas, trying to make someone comprehend something was a lot of work for Alexandre, and it was a thought quickly abandoned when Alex started giving Maxim a piggyback ride on the ice in full goalie equipment, swerving around the chairs as if he were on a slalom. Then it was Maxim and his friend, one of the stringy defenseman who definitely wasn’t making the team and barely spoke any languages Alex did, but whatever Maxi had said to him caused him to try to get Alex to lift him too, and soon he had two young prospects clinging from him as he did a leisurely skate around the ice, the cameras following the comical scene he was making.

By the time the media team was finished with him, they were so impressed by his good behavior that they’d started discussing the idea of having Alex and Damiano together to record the promotional footage that they had both already been summoned for separately. But, since Alex was being so good, why not try to reverse the insanity of the day prior–or at the very least, lean into it–and have them both come together? What could go wrong, right?

Having agreed to it without a second thought, but some questioning regarding whether the captain had been as easy-going as him regarding this request, Alex went about his day. He tagged along with Maxi and his friend as they went back to their room to get changed for the team dinner–which was more of a late lunch on Alex’s schedule, but whatever–then kept an easy conversation going about what the transition was like for them and how they were doing with camp as he changed into his own outfit, a bright lavender shirt that was formal enough for walk-ins, and a pair of dress pants with a minimalist floral pattern that matched the design on his top. His shoes were white with lavender accents, perfectly matching the rest of his outfit and giving the impression that he had a sense of style, even if it was too flashy for Maxim’s taste, if his scrunched up nose and blatant expression of disgust were any indication.

The trio took a cab to the address Cal had dropped in the team group chat, only accessible on the team phones which were provided for them that morning with the explicit instructions that they were for team communication only and not to be abused. Apparently the rumors were true that the general public had very controlled access to technology, and these phones were closely monitored by both the government and the team. They, like everyone else in the city, weren’t allowed to have personal phones. And although no one had replied to or even laughed at his joke about needing to invest in mail pigeons, it was clear that many of the new guys agreed with the sentiment behind this and weren’t particularly thrilled by this level of intervention in their personal lives.

The team dinner went off without a hitch, a place that was frequented by the team according to some of the veterans. Being attached at the hip to Maxim meant that he was now connected to all of the goalies by association, and had gotten suckered into sitting in the goalie corner of the fancy restaurant, every so often glancing across the room to see Damiano uncomfortably underdressed for the location, wallowing in something Alexandre couldn’t definitively put a name to. If he glanced in Alex’s direction, it was brief, and by the time the forward shifted his expression to acknowledge the other man, he only turned away again. Giving up on trying to help someone who clearly didn’t want his help–or anything to do with him, really–Alex got lost in the goalie culture, fascinated by Thierry’s stories about his past career as a figure skater before being deemed too tall and switching to goaltending, getting distracted every so often by Dominik’s massive wingspan.

Other than the amusement of some of the veterans coercing the rookies into trying to give toasts in Latin, which Alexandre learned was apparently team tradition, or had at least been sold that way to the prospects, nothing particularly eventful happened at the restaurant. It was a nice dinner. Alex got to know two goaltenders who he’d scored on in more rivalry games than he could count, and two who he’d been scoring on all week in practice. He even got to talk to some of the young forwards about their game, and had been able to give some advice and feel like a captain for a while, even if it wasn’t real. Soon it was time to prepare for the game and Alexandre quickly fell into silence, unable to be coerced into any sort of conversation as was tradition for him before a game. He needed to get himself in the right headspace, and it was difficult to do so if he was completely distracted by the guys around him. He listened to the captain give a speech, but it didn’t really seem like he meant it. It didn’t seem like many of the new guys were bought in, either. No one on this team seemed to believe in anything or anyone, like the season was already over before it had even begun. And no one would change their thinking if they didn’t have a leader to change for. It was a lot to take in for Alex, whose natural charisma had easily gained him the recognition and the captaincy in Crete. His guys would’ve died for him. Could Damiano say the same about this group?

The Colosseum Rink appeared bigger and more fear-inducing than it ever had as a visitor, all eyes, cameras, and lights on him along with cheers and jeers from a sold-out crowd. This only got worse when the Halifax Reapers opened scoring, an even-strength goal that Maxim should’ve seen coming roughly seven minutes in. He’d been nervous about getting the start that night, saying something to Alex about being the worst goaltender there. Maybe it was true, but he still showed promise, and the Hellcats organization wanted to see what they’d gotten in the trade that sent their other alternate captain away. So both Alex and Maxim had to suit up, and both were expected to perform above expectations if at all possible. After the first goal, Maxim seemed to be standing on his head despite the fact that the other team were playing a mix of prospects and veterans, and Alex tied the game with a jaw-dropping snipe from the top of the circle that the other goaltender never saw until it was too late. Five minutes after the tying goal, the team went into the locker room for the first intermission after another huge save from Maxi at the buzzer, something so good Alex skated over to him as they started coming in off the ice, saying, “you’re so sexy right now,” so loudly some of the guys heard it from the bench, spirits high and chirping continuing regarding the media from the day prior. Some of the guys started chirping the captain and telling him he had competition, but he shut it down quickly.

The second period started with a defensive lapse a few minutes in, giving away a short-handed goal but getting a power-play goal ten minutes later, every shift feeling more important than the last. The guy who got the goal was Rafael Ortega, a two-way forward with an ironman streak. Alex got the bench going, telling everyone what an underrated player the third-liner was, and although he didn’t seem thrilled with the attention, Ortega led the rest of the period in blocks and hits as if it were nothing. Miraculously, they went into the locker room still tied, Maxi happy he was keeping up with a veteran goaltender across the ice, and Alexandre miraculously unscathed despite his unspoken insistence on being the leader the team needed. The more he pushed, the harder they played, and although Damiano was doing his job, Alex just felt like he was off, like he had so much going on in his brain that it was difficult for him to do the emotional side of his duties. He just wanted to go out and hit bodies and block shots like it was a punishment, like it was mindless, like it was an escape. And that was fine, so long as he allowed Alexandre to pick up the slack.

In the third, the first seventeen minutes went without action. It was a heavy, physical game, and at the beginning of the period one of the rookies, Lucien, dropped the gloves with one of the veterans on the other team who was much bigger and stronger. Somehow, Lucien won the fight and they managed to kill off the 4-on-4 that ensued. Despite winning the crowd, neither team generated any offense from the fight, and the coach began changing up the lines with five minutes left, putting the top d-pair out with the top line for the first time that night despite the gaps that left in the rest of the roster. Alex was out with Damiano and Cal for the first time that night, and it wasn’t long before Cal got the puck on Alex’s stick. Alex easily created a cross-ice dish to Damiano, freezing the entire Halifax defense, and Damiano roofed it short-side like he’d read Alex’s mind. It felt like seconds and Alex was in Damiano’s arms, lifting him up with pure adrenaline and shaking him, big blue eyes staring into his. “I’m so in love with you right now,” he blurted out, not thinking about the consequences. Cal’s face shifted to an amused expression, but he didn’t say anything as he joined the celly, more used to Alex’s antics than the flushed captain, who seemed affected by the words or the goal or the impact of the game on his body. They went back to the bench as the lower line went out, taking a deep breath before they got out for the final stretch.

“You know, I forgot about the part of your childhood where you were adopted by prostitutes who taught you which words to say when expressing positive emotions,” Cal teased, shoving Alex with a gloved hand as he stretched across Damiano, who was wedged between them. Alex seemed to flush at this statement, not because he was embarrassed about what he’d said but because Damiano had come pretty close to revealing that he was adopted to the team, which was something he kept pretty close to the chest. Even though it was a joke, it was too close for comfort, too close to becoming a team secret instead of one shared between him and those who knew him when it happened. Which, to be fair, was pretty much just Cal and their two families. Any comeback he might’ve found to that statement was taken away when the lower lines let up a goal about a minute after theirs, and soon they were back on the ice, looking for a game winning goal that never came.

Two minutes into overtime, Alex scored the goal they’d been looking for all night, sent out for the three-on-three with two of the veterans he barely knew the names of, let alone playing styles. To make things even better, Maxim had gotten an assist on the goal, making him the third star of the night with Alex as the first. Damiano had been the second star, and as they passed in the aisle, Alex beamed at him, eyes blue and made brighter by the red and orange lights of the stadium. “Good game, Cap,” he smiled brightly, patting him on the shoulder as they passed.

The next few hours were a blur, all showers and clothes off and clothes on and empty threats of what would happen if they didn’t improve their game to the point where they could win in regulation. It was an approach Alex hardly agreed with, but he was too busy basking in the glow of the win, a freshly-showered Maxim Volkov leaning halfway across his chest like a cat despite the cramped nature of the lockers, all warm and soft and something easy and comfortable to distract him from the message on the table that the buzzkill leadership were giving. Damiano, Cal, and all the coaches seemed to have the same personality. Straight-laced, responsible, aware of the consequences of underperforming. It didn’t seem to have much of an effect on anyone other than the veterans, and Alex thought that might be half the reason they lacked depth scoring. But, being surprisingly good–or surprisingly distracted by the curly-haired goalie he’d become so fond of–he held his tongue, simply taking it all in. He would blow his chance at influencing anything if he failed to gain everyone’s respect first, and he wasn’t even halfway there yet. He wasn’t sure he’d get there, but he could sure as hell try.

It wasn’t long before he’d gotten a text from one of the veterans about a location to go out celebrating the win. He’d been laying on his bed nowhere near close to sleeping, waiting for this text, which he’d known was coming. In fact, he’d already dressed himself in a neon orange linen shirt that was mostly buttoned and a pair of baggy jeans. He had a chain his sister had given him hanging from his neck, the bracelets they’d made when they were kids still on his wrists, the signature of an Alexandre Avery game day. His hair was back to its normal state, clean, polished, parted in the middle. He’d waited a bit before making his way to the bar, not wanting to be the first one there and certainly wanting the players he deemed boring to have a few drinks in them before he arrived. To his surprise, the bar they’d chosen wasn’t boring at all, and it wasn’t as straight-laced as he was expecting. It was a moody underground bar hidden in the aqueduct ruins with polished obsidian doors, glowing red underlights, and the ceiling a patchwork of LED constellations. The entire thing seemed to be a shrine dedicated to the Hellcats, banners of the different logos that had existed for the team hanging on the walls, and as it was explained to him when his star was added, the ceiling had one light for every player who had ever scored a goal for the team.

It wasn’t long before he was comfortably drunk, chatting with the bar owner about the city and about the scar on her neck. She’d gotten a skate to the neck a while back that caused her to retire early and had damaged her voicebox, giving her a gravelly, deep voice that intrigued Alexandre immensely. He wasn’t drinking to get drunk, had hardly touched his second drink, perfectly happy to drown in contentment and conversation instead. Somewhere across the room Killian was monopolizing the retro jukebox, attempting to get it to play something from his very distinct, esoteric music taste and going off dramatically on anyone who picked a popular song. He began helping her with her mission before long, getting all of the rookies wrangled together who were visiting the space for the first time. Apparently it was a Hellcats tradition to go to Ravena D’Oro’s bar on the night of the first game, and she kept polaroid photos of each of the rookies respective first visits in a back hallway somewhere. He hadn’t seen Damiano or Cal yet, he figured they were talking over the game with the coaches or had otherwise been caught up with leadership duties, but he was okay. For the first time in a long time, and the first time ever in New Rome, he was okay. Things felt like they just might be okay for Alexandre Avery as a New Rome Hellcat, and that felt so wrong to say.

Damiano’s eyes lingered on Alexandre as he talked, effortlessly slipping from one conversation to the next with that goddamn smile, his charisma like a magnet that pulled everyone in. Damiano hated it. Hated the way Alex could slip so easily into the fabric of the team, while he was stuck in the corner, wearing the same wrinkled hoodie from two days ago like he hadn’t even bothered to care.

He didn’t care. At least, that’s what he told himself.

He could barely eat, the food tasteless in his mouth. Instead, he focused on the way the laughter seemed to bounce off the walls, how Alex’s laugh cut through the noise like a melody that everyone else seemed to be following. Damiano knew he should’ve joined in, should’ve found a way to laugh, to make himself part of it. But every time he looked up, he saw that easy camaraderie and couldn’t bring himself to take part. There was too much distance between them, too many things unsaid. Too many old wounds.

The seat next to Alexandre was empty. Damiano couldn’t remember when it had been offered, but it was always there—waiting for someone else. Anyone but him. His mouth twisted in a bitter smile as he pushed his food around on his plate, ignoring the way the others tried to engage him in idle conversation. Nothing felt right. He wasn’t the same Damiano anymore.

When the dinner finally came to an end, the team shifted to the bar, where the atmosphere changed. The music was louder, the lights dimmer, the air thick with the scent of alcohol and the stench of lingering tension. Damiano followed them, but it wasn’t about the drink. He didn’t care about the drinks or the music. It was easier to stay quiet in a crowd like this. Easier to drown out the thoughts that kept gnawing at him. Easier to disappear when no one was looking.

The team split up into their usual groups. Damiano found a spot at the far end of the bar, far enough from anyone to ensure he wouldn’t be dragged into some conversation. He wasn’t ready for it. Not when every word felt like it would either come out too sharp or too broken. Not when every glance at Alexandre only reminded him of how far apart they were.

Alexandre, in his usual form, was in the thick of things. His laughter filled the space, and Damiano could almost feel the warmth radiating from the group around him. No one ever seemed to have trouble with Alexandre. No one ever had trouble talking to him. But Damiano… he didn’t belong there anymore. Not in that light. Not with them.

Damiano took another swig of his drink, the bitterness of it matching the one in his chest. The more he tried to ignore it, the more it consumed him. That girl. The memory of her was an ever-present shadow in the back of his mind, a constant reminder of everything he couldn’t escape. And the more Alexandre seemed to pull people into his orbit, the more Damiano felt himself slipping further into a dark corner of his own making.

He didn’t have a place in this world. Not anymore.

And as the laughter of his teammates blurred into a dull roar, Damiano couldn’t help but wonder if he ever had.

♤

The Colosseum Rink loomed larger than ever as Damiano stepped onto the ice, a familiar weight pressing down on him. The bright lights, the flash of cameras, the energy of the crowd—all of it intensified by the fact that he shouldn’t have been intimidated by it, but yet it blinded him all the same. But his nerves didn’t show, at least not on the surface. He slid his gloves into place, adjusted his helmet, and took a deep breath, forcing himself to focus. The rink felt like a battlefield, one where every play, every movement, would be scrutinized.

From the opening faceoff, Damiano’s body was already in motion, sliding effortlessly along the boards to cover his defensive zone. The game started fast, a flurry of hits and quick passes, but Damiano knew his role well. He was there to protect, to create space, to stop the other team from getting anything past him. He wasn’t the fastest or the flashiest player on the ice, but his job was simple: shut down plays, get the puck out of the zone, and make sure the Hellcats were always in control.

The first few minutes were tense, the sound of skates cutting across the ice echoing through the rink. Halifax’s Reapers were aggressive, pushing the Hellcats’ defense hard. Damiano’s first shift was uneventful, just a solid block on a slap shot that sailed wide. His eyes never left the puck, his focus razor-sharp. He communicated quietly with his linemates, his body language calm even when the pressure mounted. The crowd was already starting to get loud, and the tension in the air was thick enough to cut with a knife. But Damiano had been through this a thousand times before, and he wasn’t about to let it rattle him.

Then, seven minutes into the period, disaster struck. A shot from the Reapers slipped through Maxim’s defense, finding the back of the net with an eerie precision. Damiano felt the sting of it immediately—the first goal. His gut clenched, but there was no time for frustration. His head snapped back to the play, already moving to position himself for the next shift. He caught Alex’s eyes for a second, the briefest flicker of acknowledgment between them before the focus shifted back to the game. It was a goal Maxim shouldn’t have let in. Damiano knew it, and Maxim knew it, too. But there was no room for doubt now. They had to regroup, and quickly.

The Hellcats were down by one, but the game wasn’t over yet. Damiano didn’t let his frustration show—he couldn’t. He kept skating, kept his body moving, staying active on the ice. He was in the right position when the puck cycled around the boards, ready to clear it out of the zone. His body was tight with concentration, watching for the next opening, the next mistake. The crowd was louder now, the energy from the Reapers’ goal making the rink feel like a furnace. But Damiano wasn’t going to let it burn him.

It took five more minutes, but Alex answered with a vengeance. He was a blur of motion as he took a pass from the corner, deked around one defender, and fired a wicked shot from the top of the circle. The goalie never saw it coming, and the puck found the back of the net with a satisfying thud. Damiano couldn’t help but feel a rush of adrenaline as the crowd erupted, the roar shaking the walls. Alex skated past him with a cocky grin, but Damiano just nodded. They were back in it.

As the first period came to an end, Damiano’s mind was already working through the next steps. Maxim had made an insane save at the buzzer, his glove snatching the puck out of the air like it was nothing, and for a moment, Damiano couldn’t help but be impressed. He shot Maxim a quick look, a silent acknowledgment, but he didn’t have time to linger. The intermission was short, and there was no room for complacency.

Back on the ice for the second period, the Hellcats were more aggressive, their skating faster, their passes crisper. Damiano worked with his defensive partner, sliding across the blue line, anticipating every move the Reapers made. But it wasn’t enough. A breakdown in coverage left the Reapers with a golden opportunity, and they took it—scoring another goal, this time short-handed. The puck hit the back of the net like a punch to Damiano’s gut, and he cursed under his breath. It wasn’t his fault; it wasn’t anyone’s fault, really. But it stung just the same.

Damiano’s reaction was immediate. His fists clenched, and his shoulders squared. He didn’t have time for anger. There was only one thing to do—get back to work. As the game continued, the Hellcats found their rhythm again. Ortega, the underappreciated third-liner, scored a much-needed power-play goal, his wrist shot finding its way through traffic and past the Reapers’ goalie. Damiano let out a sharp breath, nodding in approval. Ortega might not have been the star, but tonight, he was stepping up. Damiano made sure to clap his gloves against the boards when Ortega came off the ice, his approval quiet but sincere. It was all part of the job—supporting his teammates.

The second period came to a close, and for a moment, Damiano allowed himself to relax. They were tied, and it was anyone’s game now. The locker room was a mix of chatter, some players still hyped, others quiet, contemplating their next moves. Damiano stayed on the periphery, his mind always a step ahead, wondering where the next threat might come from. He wasn’t thrilled with the game so far, but it was still anyone’s game.

Then, in the third period, everything changed.

Lucien, one of the rookies, dropped the gloves with a veteran from the Reapers, much bigger and stronger. It was an unexpected move, one that threw the crowd into a frenzy. Damiano’s eyes didn’t leave the fight. He watched as Lucien, against all odds, won the scrap, sending the crowd into a roar of approval. For a moment, Damiano was caught up in the excitement, but he quickly forced his focus back onto the game. There was still work to do.

With five minutes left, the lines shifted, and Damiano found himself on the ice with Alex and Cal for the first time that night. He knew what that meant—this was the moment to prove himself. He needed to create space, make smart plays, keep the puck in the zone. When Cal passed the puck to Alex, Damiano was already in motion, anticipating the play. Alex made a perfect cross-ice pass, and without thinking, Damiano was there, firing the puck over the goalie’s shoulder and into the net.

The crowd erupted as the goal went in, and Damiano felt the adrenaline rush through him like a tidal wave. But then, Alex was there, arms around him, lifting him off the ice in a moment of pure, unfiltered joy. Damiano’s heart raced, his mind briefly lost in the feeling of being part of something bigger than himself. But it wasn’t enough. Not yet. There was more to do.

The bench was a whirlwind of activity as they settled back into place. Cal’s teasing about Damiano’s “childhood” didn’t faze him—it was just noise, another moment of levity in an otherwise tense game. But when the lower lines let up a goal minutes later, Damiano’s frustration flared. They were right back to square one, and it was up to him to keep the team focused, keep them in the game.

Then came overtime.

Alex’s goal, the game-winner, came with a flash of brilliance. Damiano wasn’t on the ice for that play, but he felt it, the release of all that tension, the feeling of something finally breaking through. When the buzzer sounded, signaling the end of the game, Damiano’s heart still pounded in his chest. He didn’t let himself fully relax, though. There was too much at stake.

As they made their way to the locker room, Damiano’s mind was already calculating the next move. Maxim had been great, saving their asses more than once. Alex had been his usual self, playing with intensity. But for Damiano, it wasn’t about individual performances—it was about the team. They’d won, but it didn’t feel like a victory to him. Not yet. There was still too much to prove.

♤

The locker room was loud and chaotic, a whirlwind of sweaty bodies and laughter, the aftermath of the Hellcats’ first preseason game. Damiano stripped off his gear, the pads heavy with sweat, the sting of victory still fresh but somehow distant. His head buzzed with the rush of adrenaline, but the tension from the game hadn’t fully melted away. As he peeled off his gloves and tossed them onto the bench, he could hear the familiar noise of players talking, joking, and moving around. It was a familiar sound, one that he usually embraced, but tonight, it grated on him.

He could feel the sweat still dripping down his back, the heat of the rink’s intensity still trapped in his body. As he made his way to the showers, he passed Maxim, leaning into Alexandre, the two of them talking low and easy, too comfortable for his taste.

Damiano’s steps faltered for a brief second. He watched the way Maxim leaned into Alex’s space, their heads almost touching, like some quiet, private moment between them. A knot twisted in Damiano’s stomach, but he couldn’t place why. There was something about it—the way Alex seemed to smile a little too easily, the way Maxim’s proximity was more casual than it should be—that set something off in him, but it didn’t make sense. Why should it bother him? Maxim was just being Maxim, and Alex was just… well, Alex. Damiano had seen it before, the easy camaraderie that existed between them. But tonight, it stung.

He tried to shake it off, his mind reminding him that it was none of his business. Still, as he walked into the shower area, his eyes stayed trained on them for a moment too long, his chest tight for reasons he couldn’t fully understand. Maybe it was the way they fit together so effortlessly, the way their bond felt unbreakable. Damiano had his own connections on the team, but none of them were quite like that.

Damiano stripped under the harsh florescent lights and stepped into the steamy warmth of the shower, letting the hot water course over his skin. His mind raced, the energy of the game fading but the discomfort gnawing at him. He closed his eyes, the spray hitting his face like a heavy weight, and focused on the sensation. The simple pleasure of the water was enough to cool his thoughts, if only for a moment. But it didn’t last.

As the steam rose around him, Damiano felt like the game was already slipping away, like he’d been so caught up in everything else that the moment of victory had become diluted by his own emotions. Was he angry at Maxim for being so close to Alex? Or was it something else, something deeper? He scrubbed his face harder, trying to wash the thoughts away.

Eventually, Damiano stepped out of the shower, towel wrapped low around his waist. He took a quick glance back at the locker room, where Maxim was still leaning into Alex, and the knot in his stomach tightened again. With a grunt, he grabbed his clothes and made his way out, heading straight for the coaches’ office to review the game.

The meeting was long. The coaches dissected every play, analyzing the highs and lows, breaking down the mistakes that were made. Damiano barely spoke as they went over the footage, his mind drifting back to the locker room, to Maxim and Alexandre, to whatever the hell was bothering him. He didn’t contribute much, focusing more on keeping his frustration contained. His role wasn’t to speak up in these meetings anyway—not unless he had something worth saying.

But his mind was elsewhere, his thoughts tangled in knots he couldn’t untie. By the time the meeting was over, the buzz of the game had faded to exhaustion, his body worn out from the mental strain as much as the physical. He barely registered the other players leaving the meeting room, too preoccupied with his own thoughts.

When he finally got to his room, Damiano slumped against the door, closing it behind him with a soft click. He stood there for a moment, letting the silence settle around him, the weight of the day finally crashing down.

His body was aching, and his mind was even worse. He needed a break, something to pull him out of this mental fog. He looked at himself in the mirror, eyes scanning his reflection—tired, disheveled, and worn out. The wet, stringy hair, the drawn expression. He didn’t look like the captain he wanted to be. He didn’t look like the leader he was trying to convince everyone he was.

It was time to stop looking like a wet dog, he decided.

With a long sigh, Damiano moved toward his bag and pulled out a black ring, slipping it onto his left middle finger. His right hand went to the drawer where he kept a white band, a simple piece of fabric that he tied around his right wrist. The small details mattered—he needed to feel in control, like something was keeping him grounded amidst all the chaos.

He stripped down from the nasty clothes he’d thrown on after his shower, throwing on a tightly fitted black team vest that hugged his torso just right. His last name, De Angelis, was emblazoned across the back, with his number, 19, just below it. The vest felt like armor, and Damiano adjusted it with a practiced ease, his fingers brushing over the fabric like it was something sacred. He pulled on black pants that were a little too long, the fabric falling over his boots in a way that made him look taller, more imposing. The boots themselves were black with a slight heel, adding a few extra inches to his height and the necessary edge to his presence.

When he was dressed, he grabbed a comb, running it through his damp black hair. It took a few strokes, but soon it was back, smoothed into a neat, small bun at the nape of his neck. It wasn’t perfect, but it was enough. He wasn’t trying to be perfect. He just needed to not look like he’d spent the day running through a storm.

Damiano stood in front of the mirror for a long time, his eyes scanning his reflection. He tilted his head slightly, noting the way his vest clung to his shoulders and the clean lines of his silhouette. He fussed over his appearance, adjusting the collar of the vest just slightly, pulling it down a little to show more of his neck. It wasn’t about vanity; it was about control. He needed to feel something, anything, that made him feel like he had power over his own life. Over the chaos that seemed to be closing in around him.

The longer he stared at himself, the more the weight of the day seemed to crush down on him. The game, the players, Maxim, Alexandre—it was all so much, too much. But here, in the solitude of his room, he could breathe. For a moment, he let himself exist without the weight of expectations or the pressure of leadership.

But just for a moment.

He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and let it out slowly.

♤

The night was colder than expected, the wind sharp as it bit through Damiano's jacket as he made his way down the street. The neon glow of the bar across the corner beckoned like a welcome escape. He wasn’t in the mood for company, not really. Not for anyone who might try to talk about the game or the pressures of the season. But there was something about the familiar hum of the bar that felt like a breath of fresh air after a suffocating day.

He stepped inside, the warmth hitting him immediately, the sound of low conversation and clinking glasses filling the air. The place wasn’t too crowded, the kind of spot where the Hellcats had made a habit of unwinding after games, but it wasn’t a haven either. There was always that undercurrent of competition between players, subtle but always present, especially when a win or loss still hung over their heads.

Damiano walked through the space with his usual air of distance, ignoring the glances that followed him. He was used to it, the subtle nods of recognition from the other players, the half-formed words of congratulations or commiseration from teammates. He made his way toward the bar, knowing exactly where he’d find the one person he was (maybe?) willing to tolerate tonight.

Alexandre was seated at the far end, near the corner where the light was a little dimmer. Damiano could already tell by the way he was leaning back in his seat, his posture relaxed, that Alex was still riding high from the win. The thought should have annoyed him—there was something irritating about how effortlessly Alex could bounce back from anything, as if nothing ever stuck to him. Damiano couldn't help but envy that ease, even if he wouldn't admit it aloud.

With a steadying breath, Damiano slid into the seat next to him, the worn wood of the bar stool creaking under his weight. He didn’t say anything immediately, keeping his movements slow and deliberate as he ordered his drink. It wasn’t that he was intentionally trying to be standoffish; he just didn’t feel like making small talk. Not tonight.

His eyes lingered on Alex for a moment, observing the way he seemed so comfortable in the space, the way the low light caught the angles of his face. For a moment, Damiano wondered what it would feel like to have that same comfort, that ability to settle into a situation without all the noise in his head.

He pushed the thought aside.

“Mind if I join you?” Damiano finally asked, voice rougher than he intended. It wasn’t exactly an invitation, but the words hung there anyway, too late to take back.

He didn’t wait for a response before leaning back slightly, keeping his gaze focused ahead, sipping his drink as the quiet hum of the bar swirled around him. It was easier like this. No pressure. No expectations. Just the quiet rhythm of the night as it bled into the kind of exhaustion he could finally embrace.

Damiano’s eyes flicked toward Alex again, but this time, he didn’t look away quickly. He let his gaze linger for a moment longer, studying the other man’s relaxed demeanor, the way he seemed so at home in the place. Damiano’s fingers tapped lightly against the bar top, a slow, rhythmic pattern that was more for his own benefit than anything else.

He still didn’t understand what had bothered him earlier, the tension he’d felt in the locker room, watching Maxim and Alex share that quiet moment. But here, in this space, it didn’t matter.

Damiano's hand wrapped around his glass, the weight of it grounding him in the moment. He didn't need to look at Alex to feel the quiet tension that had settled between them, but he didn't care enough to try and ease it. The night was slipping into a haze, each drink another layer to dull the sharp edges of the game, of the pressure, of everything that made his mind feel like it was spinning out of control.

The first beer went down easily, the second even more so. It was the kind of light distraction he knew would keep him from thinking too much. But when the bartender asked if he wanted something stronger, he didn’t hesitate. A whiskey shot, neat, slid his way. Damiano downed it quickly, the burn setting fire to his throat, and then ordered another. The clarity that the alcohol took from him was a welcome numbness, the kind that he could almost breathe in.

A few drinks later, he was working on a third whiskey, his words starting to slur together, but it was fine. It didn’t matter anymore. The buzz was a comfort—every sharp edge that had been fraying in his chest was dulling, and the world outside of this bar felt like something distant and unimportant.

But the vodka, that was a different animal. He didn’t even remember when it happened—how he went from one shot of whiskey to a glass of clear liquid, the burn sharper now, sharper with every sip. He didn’t stop drinking, even though the fog was thickening around his brain. The whole room seemed like a blur of colors and voices, faces swimming in and out of focus, until all that mattered was the heaviness of the glass in his hand.

By the time the words started spilling from his mouth, Damiano wasn’t really aware of it. He didn’t even notice the way his sentences came out jumbled, half-formed thoughts that had no real place in the world. His mind kept jumping from one thing to another, but there was one thing it kept coming back to. His brother. And her.

The woman.

Even in his drunken state, her name was something he couldn’t bring himself to say. His jaw clenched when he thought about it, but the words kept spilling out, anyway.

"I just... I just don’t know why he had to leave. Not like that," he muttered, his head heavy, voice low and distant. "I—he always left things behind, y’know? And she... she didn’t get it. She couldn’t get it."

His words tumbled out of him in fits and starts, each one slurred more than the last, like a puzzle he couldn’t quite piece together. He didn’t even notice when his elbow knocked the empty glass off the bar, the noise barely registering in his fuzzed-out mind.

"She should’ve... should’ve known better, right?" Damiano murmured again, but it sounded like he was asking more to himself than to anyone. "I mean, I tried, I tried so damn hard, but nothing ever sticks. Nothing ever stays with her."

The words kept coming, the weight of them more than he could carry on his own, but still, the alcohol kept slipping down his throat. Every drink he took just made everything feel more blurry, more distant.

He didn’t realize he was pressing his forehead against the bar until the bartender placed a hand on his shoulder, a gentle tap that didn’t seem to faze him. Damiano’s head lifted for a moment, his vision a blur of light and color, and he let out a groan.

"Hey, no more, man," the bartender said, voice laced with concern. "You’ve had enough tonight."

Damiano didn’t even have the energy to protest. Instead, he just groaned again, his head heavy, his chest tight, like everything inside of him was pulling him down into the warmth of the bar. He leaned more heavily into Alex’s shoulder, not caring how he looked or who was watching. He couldn’t think, couldn’t focus, couldn’t make sense of anything. He was barely holding himself upright now, and the words that came out were thick, like his tongue had doubled in size.

“I’m not drunk,” he mumbled, his voice muffled by the fabric of Alex’s shirt. "Just tired. So tired."

The bartender’s gaze flicked over to Alex, a silent question in her eyes, but Damiano was already slipping into a haze of exhaustion. He didn’t care. He didn’t care about anything anymore, except the weight of Alex’s shoulder against his. And even that, in his drunk state, felt like something so distant, so far away, even though he knew it was right there.

Alexandre | 61 | Cal, Dami, Lucien, Maxi

Alex was surprised when Damiano emerged beside him, but allowed him to sit nonetheless. He gestured to the seat, murmuring a casual, “it’s all yours,” as he allowed the easy tension to manifest in the space between them. He had expected Damiano to do more talking than simply gaining permission to sit, he’d expected him to want to talk puck or to give him marching orders for the following day. But, to his surprise, a silence came over the pair of them that made him uneasy, something that even the noises of the rookies getting too rowdy and the heavy bass of the bar couldn’t drown out.

Before he knew it, Damiano had downed a second drink, and then a third, and then a fourth with the kind of practiced ease that indicated to Alex that he did it often. Alex wasn’t the type to judge, typically wasn’t even the type to observe, but it seemed like the bartender came by with such frequency that even he couldn’t be blind to the other man’s actions. Before he knew it, he’d gone from wishing Damiano would speak to wishing he wouldn’t, his words falling out of his mouth like he couldn’t stop them, like he’d held them in so long he’d managed to lose all control.

"I just... I just don’t know why he had to leave. Not like that. I—he always left things behind, y’know? And she... she didn’t get it. She couldn’t get it."

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, man.” It was true, he didn’t have the slightest clue, but it didn’t seem to matter anyway. “If you want me to listen, I will, but I can’t say that my advice will be any good if I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

"She should’ve... should’ve known better, right? I mean, I tried, I tried so damn hard, but nothing ever sticks. Nothing ever stays with her."

Alex didn’t respond to this, but began to look around, oddly protective of the captain of his new team. It wasn’t particularly that he wanted to protect Damiano’s image. Obviously, that was important, but not as much to Alex as protecting the rookies from seeing their captain like this. To them he was an unbreakable leader, someone worth looking up to. And all he looked to Alexandre in that moment was broken, falling apart more and more under the glow of the neon lights until he was little more than rambling words and the alcohol he’d consumed. Luckily, no one else was nearby to witness any of it, but Alex knew that wouldn’t last forever.

As if he’d read the tall man’s mind, the bartender refused to serve Damiano any more alcohol not long after the forward had begun to consider taking his captain home. He knew Damiano could be aggressive and bitter, and part of him feared that the bartender's words would bring something out in him that Alex didn’t particularly want to deal with. He wasn’t drunk, he was hardly feeling the effects of the alcohol at all, but he was beyond tired after the game they’d played and perfectly content to sit in a chair, not cleaning up anyone else’s problems or creating his own. He heaved a sigh of relief when all Damiano did was groan and rest his head on Alex’s shoulder, his body warm and uncharacteristically gentle as it leaned against his.

“I’m not drunk,” he mumbled into Alex’s shirt, “just tired, so tired.”

“I know,” he replied gently, squeezing the other man’s arm gently. “I’ve got you.”

Considering that Alex had lived all of his life without his own mother and most of it without the influence of a stand-in either, it was rather curious how easily he slipped into these caretaker roles like a second skin. This wasn’t the first time he’d found himself in this position, nor would it be the last by any stretch of the imagination. No one had ever been this for him, and somehow that had made him eager to become what he had never received, and become so good at it that others seemed to naturally seek him out when they found themselves alone and in crisis. This was something Cal knew well from his time growing up with Alex, and from being on the receiving end of it more than once. This was also why he sought his friend out when he saw the state Damiano was in, his face demonstrating a seriousness and a concern that matched what the bartender hadn’t said and what Alex already knew.

“I’ve got him,” Alex said to the blond easily, one arm wrapped steadily around him to keep him from sliding too far and falling through the gap between their two chairs. Cal nodded and offered a thumbs up, an unusually nonchalant response from someone who was typically hypervigilant when it came to every aspect of his life.

“Sure?” One of the veterans asked, someone that had been around enough to realize the antics between the pair, despite how cozy they appeared now. Alex nodded.

“Yeah, I’ve got this covered.”

Before he could add anything else, Damiano began speaking again, mumbling words into his shirt that were loud enough for Alex and those closest to him to hear, but not comprehensible for anyone outside of their corner of the bar. “I don’t - I don’t know what the fuck I’m even doin’ anymore. I show up, I put on the fuckin’ armor, the pads, the face, like some knight in a goddamn hell arena, and I fight, and I hit, and I smile for the fuckin’ cameras and sign kids’ jerseys like I didn’t watch a man get shot in the alley behind the arena last week. And I pretend it’s all fine, it’s all normal, like I don’t want to break my fuckin’ hands every time someone says her name - no. No, I don’t say her name. I can’t. My brain won't let me. It's like sayin’ it'll bring her back in pieces. Just teeth and hair and the sound of her scream when I found her - fuck. Fuck.”

Concerned at the implications of this confession and the reactions of those around him, Alex gave the limp body a gentle squeeze and murmured into his hair, “it’s time to get you home now. Yeah, let’s get you home, alright?”

Saying those words was one thing, but actually managing this task was a whole different beast. Getting him outside was more difficult than it needed to be, complicated by the additional task of trying–and failing–to get out in one piece without being spotted by the rookies. Lucien had more questions than Alexandre had answers for, but Cal was there to pull Lucien away, distracting him with something menial to allow the pair to escape unscathed. They got outside to discover it was raining then, a heavy downpour that drenched them both as they waited to hail a cab, the street too far from the nearest dry area for them to take cover. Damiano was shivering from the mix of the cold and the dampness that now seeped through both of their bones, and although he seemed more alert than he had been when sitting with Alex at the bar, he still hadn’t regained much control of his senses, and Alex wasn’t entirely convinced that he would’ve pulled away from his body heat to stand on his own if he had anyway.

They continued this trend in the cab, Alexandre sitting on one side with Damiano pressed up against him, his head on Alex’s shoulder. He’d continued rambling but none of it made much sense, and the more he spoke, the more uneasy the dark-haired man became about what he was hearing.

“My brother.. he was the good one, right? The golden boy. I'm just the leftover. The angry one. The one that punches first and never asks questions. He left and he's still whole. Me? I stayed. I stayed and I watched the light go out of her eyes. I stayed and I kept breathin’. That's the real punishment. That's the joke. The big fuckin’ cosmic joke. She died, and I just kept breathin’ like I deserved to.”

“Shh,” Alex whispered gently, making eye contact with the recording devices in the car that were implemented for security. He stroked Damiano’s wet hair, looking around vigilantly with the knowledge that the last thing that the two of them needed was any of this being leaked as a new segment of the drama that had already been transpiring in the media about them. “Hey, you can tell me when we get back, okay? Whatever you want. I’m not going anywhere, I promise. Just wait until we get home.”

Miraculously, some semblance of consciousness must’ve struck Damiano in that moment, for he seemed clearly able to track the underlying message in Alexandre’s statement and what it all meant. The drive was only about ten minutes from the bar to the team housing, and Damiano stayed so quiet and still for the remaining eight that Alex might’ve been worried if not for the feeling of his chest rising and falling against Alex’s body. He assumed he might’ve fallen asleep, but both times he glanced down to check, he found that the captain’s eyes were wide open, grief-stricken in a way he couldn’t replicate. He was grateful when the ride came to an end and he was able to take that heavy feeling in his chest and push it away with the motions of getting Damiano in and settled, complicated by the fact that he was the same height as Alex or taller in the shoes he’d chosen to wear. This made his unsteady movements even more difficult to counteract, and increased the challenge that was already posed by performing these movements in the pouring rain and the pitch black of night.

Fumbling with his access card, Alex had to press it several times and attempt to dry it with the wet fabric of his shirt before it finally unlocked. He got Damiano to the elevator with minimal hassle, both of them shivering under the cold air that was blasting inside despite the fact that the temperature already seemed more than frigid. That seemed to wake them both up to an extent that surprised Alexandre, who’d not been inebriated to any extreme degree but had been exhausted and now felt as though he could complete a bag skate with minimal problems. Damiano stood up straighter in the elevator than he had the whole time, although he clung to Alex’s arm as if his life depended on it when the elevator started. As he regained his balance and reached for the elevator railing, he began speaking again.

“Every day I lace up, I hope it's the last time. That maybe tonight, I won't come back. That someone will take the shot, or I'll go down wrong, and I won't get up. I think about that a lot. Not in, like, a poetic way. Not like, 'oh he was sad, tragic'. No. Just tired. Tired like my bones forgot how to hold me up.”

“You’d give up your ‘C’ to me that easily?” Alex’s attempt at humor didn’t go far, and soon they were in a silence that Alex desperately wanted to break. He didn’t, though, and the silence continued as they exited the elevator, walking down the hallway toward his room, which Alex would’ve forgotten the number of if it hadn’t been for Cal texting him to remind him, and giving him the access code in case Damiano couldn’t open his own door. Thank God for Cal.

“Let’s get you out of these wet clothes, yeah?” Alex left Damiano beside his bed with the instructions to undress, leaving to search the bathroom for a towel and some clothes that he eventually threw across the room to the captain, remaining in the bathroom himself to track down a clean towel to dry himself off, even if he didn’t have the opportunity to change out of his own clothes yet. He primarily focused on drying his hair which had reverted back to dripping wet, messy curls, falling back into their natural style with the excess water that the rain had provided. When he got back out to the bedroom with his hair even messier but somehow more dry than they had previously been, he found Damiano sitting on the bed, changed into the dry clothes but still sitting on the edge as if he was nowhere near close to allowing sleep to take him.

“And I keep seein’ you, and you’re there, and you’re happy sometimes, and I get so fucking mad I could peel my skin off, because you weren’t there. You weren't there for her. You weren't there when she begged me to save her and I didn’t know how. You weren't there when the blood wouldn’t stop.”

He took in the next confession in a night full of them, sitting beside Damiano but turning his body to face him, studying his expression through the dim light of the corner lamp that he must’ve left on for himself when he’d exited the apartment earlier in the day. Hesitating to speak his mind and then failing to prevent himself from doing so, he replied, “you’re right, I wasn’t. But don’t you think I have my own demons, too?”

‘And it’s like - I drink and I drink and I fuckin’ drink, and it doesn’t go away. It just loudens, like screaming under my ribs. I'm so full of ghosts I don't even remember which parts are mine anymore. I don't know what I am, just that I ain't him. I ain't who she loved. I'm what's left. I'm the fuckin' wreckage.”

This was a feeling that Alexandre knew well, something that resonated with him so deeply he felt instantaneously dragged back into the moment that Damiano seemed stuck in, something he’d felt removed from since they’d exited the cab earlier that evening. It was something that he both felt completely suffocated by in his chest yet had no words for, so he acted on the first impulse that came to him, something he hadn’t imagined himself doing in a million years, let alone in this moment.

“You’re perfectly whole,” he said softly, bright blue eyes earnest. And, before he could talk himself into something more appropriate for the moment, he wrapped his hand around the side of Damiano’s neck, pulling him closer and pressing a gentle kiss to his lips, then another. There wasn’t much involved in it to Alexandre, simply an expression of empathy or perhaps devotion, a way to connect himself to the other man without using the words he didn’t have. But then Damiano was there, grabbing at his collar, pulling him back in, hungry, and while the taller figure initially obliged, it didn’t take him long to come to the realization of what was happening between them and what kinds of consequences it would have for them in the morning, and he withdrew with more force than necessary, pulling away and getting to his feet in the same swift movement and peering down at the other figure with an unreadable expression.

“I’m going to go,” he replied, swallowing and offering a small smile that didn’t reach his eyes as he exited the room, pace rapid enough that he wouldn’t manage to catch whatever reply came off of Damiano’s lips, if any. Then he made his way back down to his room, changed his clothes, and texted Maxim, looking for any excuse to return to the team’s night out and escape his thoughts and feelings for a while. He was relieved when he received a text back not long after, giving the address of the club that they’d ended up at and requesting that he join them before the city’s curfew was enacted for the evening. Alexandre agreed, exiting the building not long after with little more than a fresh pair of clothes, the ghost of another’s lips on his own, and a pit of anxiety welling up in his stomach that he desperately wanted to get rid of.