Chapter Text
Coming out as gay had been supposed to be the easy part.
It wasn’t as if Luca had ever been afraid of how his team would react. With Tory, Harris, Hollander, and Rozanov around, the question of support had never really existed. They were loud, loyal, occasionally chaotic—but never cruel. Luca had always known that much about them. And honestly, he hadn’t been particularly worried about the press or his career either.
As harsh as it might have sounded, being the first openly gay hockey player would have made headlines. Being the ninth on a team that already housed the first married couple in hockey history? That barely warranted a footnote.
Not that Luca had any intention of publicly announcing his sexuality anytime soon. Still, sometimes it was oddly comforting to realize how little fear he actually felt about the truth of who he was. The reality itself wasn’t scary.
Living with everyone else’s curiosity about his nonexistent love life, however, was another matter entirely.
For two full years he had endured the comments, the jokes, the constant nudging questions about why he never dated. His teammates had treated it like a long-running mystery. At first it had been harmless teasing. Then it had turned into speculation. Eventually it had evolved into full-blown investigative journalism conducted in locker rooms, on buses, and during post-practice meals.
The breaking point came the day Bergy dragged him to a double date without telling him.
Luca had lasted exactly twenty minutes.
The girl had been nice enough. Sweet, actually. Which somehow made it worse. Because the entire time Bergy had been grinning at him across the table like a proud matchmaker watching his master plan unfold, while Luca sat there feeling like he had accidentally wandered into the wrong movie.
He bailed as soon as he could.
The confession happened the next day in the locker room after practice. Quick. Brutal. Efficient.
He cleared his throat once.
That was all it took for the entire room to go quiet. Every head turned toward him instantly. Hockey players had the survival instincts of wolves when it came to locker room drama.
“Okay, guys,” Luca said, rubbing the back of his neck. “This is mostly for the next person who decides to send me on a surprise date.”
A few confused looks. Someone snorted.
He exhaled.
“I’m gay. Okay? So—no more women. Thanks.”
For half a second there was silence.
Then the locker room exploded.
Cheers, whistles, someone banging a stick against the wall like they had just won a playoff game.
Bergy shot him an apologetic grin from across the room.
“Man, I feel like this is partly my fault.”
“It is,” Luca said dryly.
Ilya, who had been sitting two benches over, reached out and ruffled Luca’s hair with obvious pride like he’d just watched his little brother score his first goal. Shane trailed in behind him a moment later and, without even asking, immediately invited Luca over for dinner that night—which, in fairness, wasn’t remotely unusual. Luca ate at their place at least twice a week anyway.
All in all, it had gone… absurdly well.
And in theory, that moment should have put an end to the endless questions about his dating life.
In theory.
In reality, it made things so much worse.
Because if there was one thing the Centaurs were more invested in than the straight rookies’ love lives…
…it was the gay rookies’ love lives.
And Luca, unfortunately, was their newest long-term project.
“Come on, man, we gotta find you a boyfriend.”
“You can’t just come out and then stay single forever.”
“My cousin’s roommate is gay.”
“Do you want my barber’s number?”
“Is there, like, a gay Tinder we should know about?”
There was no escaping it.
The thing was—Luca didn’t actually mind the idea of dating.
He wanted to date. He really did.
Just… not people he knew.
Which sounded weird, even inside his own head.
But the truth was, Luca couldn’t remember ever looking at someone in his real life and feeling that spark people always talked about. That moment where attraction, which was already hard for him, shifted into something deeper. Something that made you want to lean closer instead of pulling away.
He had crushes. Plenty of them.
Just never on real people.
Actors. Musicians. Athletes he’d never met. The kind of distant, glittering figures that existed behind screens and magazine covers. Celebrities were safe. Easy. You could admire them from afar without ever having to deal with the complicated reality of who they actually were.
And even then, Luca had never really imagined any of them as a partner.
Not really.
Not in the way other people seemed to.
Real people were different.
Real people were complicated and immediate and present in a way his brain didn’t seem to know how to handle. Attraction simply… didn’t click into place the way it apparently did for everyone else. Not even the sexual attraction every teenage boy seemed to have.
Luca couldn’t explain it.
He also didn’t particularly want to.
It was just him. And his strange, stubborn brain.
And unfortunately for him, there was absolutely no way to escape either one.
——
Luca was sprawled across the couch in the Hollanov house, Anya stretched comfortably across his lap like she owned the place—which, to be fair, she kind of did. His fingers moved absentmindedly through the soft fur behind her ears while he watched Tatort (the Saarbrücken one) on the television.
It was the only German-language show he truly, honestly missed.
Technically Luca was Swiss, but his grandmother had been German, and when he was younger he used to spend entire summers with her. Every Sunday evening, like clockwork, they would sit down together at exactly eight o’clock in front of the television to watch the newest episode.
It had been one of those quiet, ordinary traditions that somehow became sacred without anyone ever saying so out loud.
Now, thousands of miles away, the familiar opening music and the cadence of German dialogue made something in his chest loosen. It was comforting in a way that was difficult to explain—like a thread tying him back to people and places that felt very far away.
A small piece of home.
Outside, through the glass doors leading to the backyard, Ilya could be seen stomping around the garden with intense determination. Every so often he crouched, darted forward, or abruptly changed direction like a man hunting something very small and very fast.
Luca was willing to bet money it was the rabbit.
The rabbit had appeared a few weeks ago and had since become the unofficial newest member of the Hollanov household. It had stubbornly refused to move out of their yard despite Ilya’s repeated attempts to convince it otherwise.
At this point the rabbit was basically a tenant.
Shane had gone downstairs a few minutes earlier to grab laundry from the basement, leaving Luca alone in the living room with the dog, the TV, and the quiet hum of the house.
And Luca loved this moment.
The soft domestic stillness of it all.
For a little while, he almost forgot that he’d been sad earlier.
Five weeks ago his apartment had flooded after a pipe burst in the building. Water damage everywhere. Floors ruined. Walls ripped open. It had been a whole disaster.
Shane and Ilya had immediately told him to stay with them until it was fixed.
A week later the repairs were finished.
Luca, however, had not been ready to move back.
Thankfully, neither had Shane or Ilya.
So Luca had simply… stayed.
Somehow it had turned into a permanent temporary arrangement. He fully intended to remain there until they physically threw him out. Even if that meant occasionally enduring the sounds drifting from their bedroom down the hall.
His noise-canceling headphones were supposed to arrive tomorrow.
The sliding garden door suddenly rattled open and a sweaty Ilya stepped inside, breathing a little hard like he had just finished a minor athletic event.
“I must borrow Anya,” he announced.
At the sound of her name, Anya lazily lifted her head but made no real effort to move.
Luca tipped his own head back to look at him.
“What for?”
“So she can catch stupid rabbit.”
Luca slowly turned his gaze down toward the dog in his lap.
Anya blinked sleepily.
He looked back up at Ilya.
“She can’t even retrieve her toy if you accidentally throw it more than twenty meters,” Luca said skeptically. “I’m not entirely sure how she’s supposed to help you catch a live rabbit.”
Ilya gasped in dramatic offense.
“This is Anya slander,” he declared, placing a hand against his chest. “I will not accept this.”
He reached forward and poked Luca squarely in the forehead with his index finger.
Luca grinned.
“You better watch what you say,” Ilya warned, wagging the finger. “Or you will be doing dishes until you get married.”
He paused.
Then snorted at his own threat.
“Come, Anya,” he said, patting his thigh. “We go outside.”
Anya lifted her head again.
She looked at Ilya.
Then she turned her big apologetic eyes toward him…
…and gently placed her head back down on Luca’s stomach.
Luca burst out laughing.
“NO. ANYA. YOU TRAITOR!” Ilya cried.
He jabbed a finger into Luca’s side in retaliation, which only made Luca laugh harder, squirming on the couch.
“You steal my dog,” Ilya accused dramatically. “You evil boy.”
Luca just grinned.
Ilya tried to maintain his offended expression but the corners of his mouth betrayed him almost immediately. With a soft huff he leaned down, resting against the back of the couch near Luca’s head.
“Fine,” he sighed. “No rabbit hunt today.”
His eyes drifted toward the television screen where rapid German dialogue was unfolding.
“…Can we watch something in English?” he asked hopefully. “Or at least put subtitles, please?”
Luca sighed, grabbing the remote.
Watching German television with Ilya was a very specific experience. Every time Ilya thought he had learned a new word, he repeated it nonstop for the next ten minutes like a delighted parrot.
Still, Luca switched the subtitles on.
Behind him, Ilya settled onto the couch, one leg stretched out so that Luca’s head naturally ended up resting on his thigh like a pillow.
A large hand drifted into Luca’s hair, fingers absentmindedly combing through the dark strands.
After a moment, Ilya spoke again—softer this time.
“You okay, kiddo?” he asked gently. “You look… little bit sad today.”
Luca tilted his head slightly against his leg.
“Just…” He hesitated. “…homesick.”
Ilya hummed quietly.
Of all the people, he was the one who understood that feeling best. Even if it was just not the same.
By the time Shane came back upstairs from the basement with a basket of laundry balanced on one hip, the episode of Tatort had ended and Luca had somehow not moved from the couch.
Anya was still draped across him like a very warm, slightly snoring blanket.
Ilya had migrated into the kitchen at some point and was now opening and closing cabinets with the focused determination of a man about to cook something without a plan.
Shane paused in the doorway between the living room and the kitchen and watched the scene for a moment.
“Why does it sound like someone is dismantling my kitchen?” he asked calmly.
From the kitchen came Ilya’s voice.
“I am not dismantling. I am looking.”
“That’s what you said the last time,” Shane replied, setting the laundry basket down. “And then we had to buy a new spice rack.”
Luca lifted one hand lazily in greeting without actually moving the rest of his body.
“Hi.”
Shane looked down at him.
“…Have you been here the whole time?”
“Maybe.”
“You were supposed to start dinner.”
“I was emotionally supporting Anya.”
Anya wagged her tail once without opening her eyes.
Shane rubbed a hand over his face.
“Right. Of course.”
From the kitchen there was a sudden loud clatter.
Both of them looked over.
“Everything okay in there?” Shane called.
“Yes!” Ilya said immediately.
There was a pause.
“…What was that noise then?”
“…Pot.”
Shane sighed the sigh of a man who had long ago accepted that chaos was simply part of his household now.
“Okay,” he said, rolling up his sleeves. “We’re cooking before Ilya accidentally sets something on fire.”
“I have never set fire to anything!” Ilya protested from the kitchen.
“You set the toaster on fire.”
“That was one time.”
“You tried to toast dumplings.”
“They were frozen! I thought it works same!”
Luca was laughing so hard he nearly dislodged Anya.
Eventually the three of them ended up in the kitchen together.
Luca chopped vegetables at the counter while Shane handled the stove like the responsible adult of the group. Ilya hovered nearby, stealing ingredients every few minutes like a large, impatient raccoon.
“Stop eating the peppers,” Shane said without looking.
“I am taste testing.”
“You ate half of them.”
“How else I know if they are good?”
Luca snorted quietly as he slid the chopped vegetables into a bowl.
“Scientific method.”
“Exactly,” Ilya said proudly.
Cooking together had become something of an accidental tradition over the last few weeks. After late practices they would come back tired and starving, and somehow the three of them would end up in the kitchen making something simple.
Pasta. Stir fry. Soup. Whatever required the least thinking.
It was comfortable.
Easy.
The kind of routine Luca hadn’t realized he’d been missing.
Eventually they carried their plates into the dining room and sat down around the table.
Anya immediately appeared under Luca’s chair like a furry land shark waiting for casualties.
“You are encouraging bad behavior,” Shane said.
“She’s emotionally supporting me,” Luca replied.
Ilya pointed his fork at him.
“That excuse only works one time.”
“It worked earlier.”
“That was different.”
They ate for a few minutes in comfortable silence, the kind that only existed between people who didn’t feel the need to fill every quiet moment.
Finally Ilya leaned back slightly in his chair, studying Luca across the table.
“You look less sad now,” he said.
Luca shrugged, twirling pasta around his fork.
“Food helps.”
“Food always helps,” Ilya agreed sagely.
Shane glanced between them before taking another bite.
“You know,” he said casually, “most people who crash at someone’s house for five weeks eventually start paying rent.”
Luca froze mid-bite.
“…I make dinner sometimes.”
“You chopped one onion.”
“It was a big onion.”
Ilya waved a dismissive hand.
“Is fine,” he said. “You are emotional support roommate.”
Luca grinned.
“See? I have a job.”
Shane sighed again.
But he was smiling.
——
The game had been incredible.
Seven to three against the Flames.
The kind of win that left the whole locker room buzzing long after the final buzzer. Luca had scored a hat trick—three clean, beautiful goals—and picked up a fourth point with an assist on one of Ilya’s rockets from the blue line.
By the time they made it to the team’s usual bar, the place was already loud with celebration.
Music thumped through the speakers. Glasses clinked. Jerseys were half-unzipped and ties had disappeared somewhere along the way. Half the team was crowded around a pool table while the rest shouted over each other about the best play of the night.
Luca had been celebrating with them too.
For a while.
Then his phone rang.
The name on the screen made his stomach twist.
Anna.
He slipped away quietly, weaving through the crowded bar until he reached the hallway that led to the restrooms. The noise faded behind him as he pushed the door open and stepped inside.
The fluorescent lights were too bright.
He answered on the second ring.
“Anna?”
He tried to keep the worry out of his voice as the small, familiar sound of his little sister’s voice came through the phone.
“Luci?”
Her voice sounded soft. Fragile.
“Ich habe dein Spiel gesehen,” she said quickly. “Herzlichen Glückwunsch … Entschuldige das ich anrufe, du willst wahrscheinlich lieber gerade mit deinem Team feiern, Ich bin nur—sorry, ich—”
Luca glanced at the time.
Zurich.
Four in the morning.
And suddenly he could hear it clearly—the wet edge in her voice, the tiny hitch in her breathing.
He cleared his throat, forcing his mind to shift gears, switching languages the way someone might change radio stations.
“Hey, Anna,” he said gently in German. “Mach dir keine Sorgen deswegen. Geht es dir gut? Was ist los?”
There was a long silence on the other end.
So long that Luca briefly wondered if the call had dropped.
Then Anna spoke again.
“Ich kann nicht schlafen.”
Her voice was barely louder than a whisper.
So small. So breakable.
Luca had to swallow hard against the sudden tightness in his chest.
He nodded once to himself, like he was bracing for something.
“Okay,” he said softly. “Hey. Es ist okay. Was kann ich tun?”
Another pause.
He could practically hear her thinking.
Finally she whispered, “Erzähl mir eine Geschichte.”
A beat.
“Aber eine schöne. Bitte.”
A story.
Yeah.
That he could do.
“Okay,” Luca said quietly.
He leaned back against the cold tile wall and began to speak.
He told her the story of the girl and the silver coins that fell from the stars—the old fairy tale their grandmother used to read to them when they were children.
It had always been Anna’s favorite.
His voice stayed low and steady as he told it, filling in details, stretching moments out so the story would last longer. About the lonely girl. About kindness. About the sky opening and the stars turning into little pieces of silver that landed softly in her hands.
He kept talking.
And talking.
Until eventually the quiet sounds of Anna’s breathing changed.
Slow.
Even.
Asleep.
Only then did Luca finally end the call.
For a moment he just stood there, staring at the dark phone screen in his hand.
Then he realized his face was wet.
He scrubbed at his eyes with the heel of his hand, trying to pull himself together before anyone noticed.
The bathroom door creaked open behind him.
“Young, what—”
Luca looked up.
Young was standing by the sink, studying him carefully through the mirror.
“Everything okay, Luc?” he asked. “Who were you talking to?”
For a brief second, panic flashed through Luca’s chest. Had he heard the conversation?
Then he remembered.
He’d been speaking German.
Young wouldn’t have understood a word.
Relief flickered through him, but it didn’t last long.
Luca moved past him to the sink, turning on the cold water and splashing some on his face. He stared down at his reflection, trying to will the redness out of his eyes.
“Just my sister,” he said.
Young nodded slowly.
A few seconds passed.
“Is she okay?” he asked.
Luca looked up sharply.
“Yes,” he said quickly. “Why wouldn’t she be?”
Young lifted a shoulder.
“It’s the middle of the night in Europe,” he said carefully. “So I just figured—”
He stopped mid-sentence when he caught Luca’s expression in the mirror.
The glare was sharp enough to cut glass.
Normally Luca wasn’t like that.
But he couldn’t help it.
He didn’t want to talk about his family.
Especially not with Elijah Young.
Young had made his opinions about family pretty clear during the very first conversation they’d ever had—some rant about how much he hated his parents and how great it was to live far enough away that they couldn’t bother him anymore.
That same conversation had also included a long, enthusiastic explanation about how easy it was to pick up women in every city they played in.
Both topics had somehow been covered within ten minutes.
Luca wouldn’t say he disliked him.
But out of all the younger guys on the team…
Young was definitely his least favorite.
Young’s mouth twisted into what looked like an attempt at an encouraging smile.
“Well,” he said awkwardly, “if you ever wanna talk or something—”
“I don’t.”
Young nodded once, clearly recognizing the cue.
That was his moment to leave.
“Okay,” he said quietly.
Then he slipped past Luca and out the bathroom door.
Luca stayed there a moment longer, breathing slowly, staring down at the running water in the sink.
Finally he shut off the tap, wiped his face again, and followed him back out toward the noise of the bar.
——
Luca was sitting cross-legged on his bed, a sketchbook balanced against his knees.
Across from him, sprawled shamelessly across the middle of his blankets, was Anya.
The dog had once again taken refuge in Luca’s room—her preferred hiding place whenever Ilya decided she needed to participate in something she clearly considered unnecessary. Today it had apparently been another attempt at rabbit patrol in the backyard.
Anya had refused.
So now she was hiding.
Again.
Luca dragged his pencil gently across the page, sketching the soft curve of her ears and the way her paws were tucked beneath her chest. He had drawn her often enough by now that the lines came easily.
Music played quietly from the speaker on his desk—his carefully curated Indie German Mix.
The kind of music that made him feel a little closer to home without making the homesickness unbearable.
He hummed softly along under his breath, his accent rounding the words as he mouthed the lyrics.
The room felt calm.
Safe.
For a moment, the world outside his bedroom didn’t really exist.
Then his phone lit up on the bed beside him.
The screen blinked with a message.
Anni 🩷
Luca’s pencil stopped moving immediately.
He picked up the phone.
Anni 🩷: sorry wegen gestern
Anni 🩷: wann kommst du nach Hause?
Luca swallowed hard.
For a moment he just stared at the message.
More than anything in that moment, he wished he could do exactly that—book a flight, pack a bag, and be sitting next to his sister by tomorrow morning. He imagined walking through the front door, Anna launching herself at him like she used to when they were kids.
He imagined being there.
Actually there.
Instead of thousands of kilometers away.
But hockey seasons didn’t pause for homesick big brothers.
His thumbs hovered over the screen before he finally typed back.
Me: Ihr kommt alle hierher über Weihnachten. Mama hat es mir versprochen, als wir das letzte Mal gesprochen haben :)
It wasn’t the answer she had asked for.
But it was the only one he had.
A few seconds later the reply came.
Anni 🩷: Ok
Just that.
Two letters.
Luca felt something twist painfully in his chest.
He stared at the screen a moment longer before setting the phone back down beside him.
Anya lifted her head slightly, watching him with the vague concern of a creature who sensed the emotional atmosphere had shifted.
“It’s fine,” Luca murmured softly, reaching out to scratch behind her ears.
She leaned into the touch immediately.
His phone buzzed again.
Luca assumed it was Anna.
Instead, a different name appeared on the screen.
Young
Luca frowned slightly and opened the message.
Young: hey Haasy. I need your help with something. can we meet?
Luca blinked.
Haasy.
Right.
The nickname.
Half the team had started calling him that sometime during training camp—some warped hockey logic derived from his last name.
He still wasn’t entirely convinced he liked it.
And Elijah Young asking him for help was… unexpected.
Luca glanced back down at the sketchbook in his lap, then at Anya, who had already settled her head back onto his blanket like a queen claiming her territory.
Outside his door he could hear faint movement in the house—voices, the distant clatter of something in the kitchen.
Probably Ilya.
Probably still arguing with the rabbit.
Luca sighed quietly and picked up his phone again, staring at Young’s message.
Something told him this was about to become his problem whether he wanted it to or not.