Damiano didn’t respond to Cal right away, just let his words settle as he watched Alex across the room, surrounded by a laughing crowd of younger players. The kid, Maxim, was still draped over him, his curls tousled under Alex’s rough handling. Alex looked like he belonged there, like he had been around this team for years instead of days, and that made something twist in Damiano’s stomach.

Cal’s voice was steady, careful—like he was picking his words with the same precision he used to place his shots. “Alex isn’t the kind of guy who can be forced into doing anything,” he’d said, as if Damiano didn’t already know that. He’d spent years watching Alex do whatever the hell he wanted, no matter who tried to stop him. But there was truth in the rest of it, too. He was the kind of guy every captain wanted in his corner. Even Damiano, in the part of himself that still remembered what winning felt like, knew that.

Cal didn’t wait for a reply, just settled his tab and left Damiano standing at the bar with his drink barely touched. He barely noticed the press of bodies moving around him, the music thumping low in his bones, or the buzz of conversation filling the space between him and whatever Alex was saying to the rookies. The only thing that broke his trance was the sudden, warm brush of fingers against his forearm.

Alex had returned, as effortlessly as he had left, tugging Damiano toward the group with a small, easy smile. No words, just that quiet, insistent pull, and for reasons he couldn’t quite understand, Damiano followed.

The night continued in a haze of noise, laughter, and fleeting touches. Damiano didn’t drink much—didn’t trust himself to—but he could feel the warmth of intoxication radiating from Alex. His hair was a mess, his shirt too bright, his smile too careless. He was spinning between conversations, between drinks, between people, always shifting, always moving. And yet, somehow, his orbit never strayed too far from Damiano.

When the next bar was announced to be a five-mile walk, Damiano put his foot down. His voice was firm, even over the protests, and he barely had to say it twice before a handful of players—Alex included—peeled away with him. It was an easy out, and Alex took it without a fight.

The walk back was quieter, filled with idle complaints about league rules and casual banter about upcoming games. Alex walked close beside him, close enough that their shoulders brushed when he shifted. Damiano didn’t pull away.

By the time they reached the team housing, the group had thinned further, some players peeling off for the stairs. Damiano made for the elevator, his steps slow but certain. Alex followed, without question, without comment.

The doors shut, and for the first time all night, silence stretched between them.

Damiano turned, catching Alex’s gaze before the doors slid open again, and two more players stepped in. Damiano clenched his jaw, shifting slightly to put space between them. He felt Alex do the same.

When they reached Damiano’s floor, he stepped out, expecting Alex to stay behind. But instead, there was the familiar sound of his footsteps following.

The hallway was quiet, and Damiano hesitated at his door. He should send him away. Should tell him to fuck off, or at least offer some biting remark about how much time he was suddenly spending at Damiano’s side. But he didn’t.

Instead, he left the door open just long enough for Alex to slip inside.

The room was clean—plain, almost to a fault. Damiano had never been one to waste time decorating, and most of what filled the space was just standard-issue furniture and a few scattered sponsorship gifts. He caught Alex scanning the room, taking it in, before finally meeting his gaze again.

Damiano stared back, waiting.

Alex didn’t flinch, didn’t look away, just held his gaze with that same steady intensity he always had.

The silence stretched, thick and heavy between them.

Then Damiano broke it. “If you’re staying, you can sleep on the floor.”

Alex blinked, like he’d just remembered where he was, what he was doing. Then, abruptly, he moved toward the door.

“Oh, nah, I’ll go back to my room,” he said, his voice lighter, almost too casual. But then he hesitated, turning back. His eyes were clear, his face serious. “You know, I didn’t want to fight you today.”

Damiano’s jaw tightened.

“I don’t want to be enemies with you anymore, not like this, not like we were.” Alex’s expression flickered with something—regret, maybe, or something heavier. “I wish you hadn’t made me do that.”

And then, with nothing more than a quiet goodnight, he was gone.

Damiano stood there for a long time after the door shut, staring at the empty space where Alex had been.

♧

Morning came too fast, and Damiano felt every hour of lost sleep dragging him down as he made his way to the lobby. His face ached, the bruises from the fight settling deep, and the exhaustion pressed into his bones. He barely had the energy to pretend he wasn’t feeling like absolute shit.

Alex arrived looking like the opposite of how Damiano felt. Bright lavender shirt, matching jeans, hair carefully messy. He was made to stand out, to draw eyes, and Damiano hated that he noticed.

“You look like shit,” Alex greeted, before tacking on a half-assed, “Good morning.”

Damiano huffed, not dignifying it with a response.

“I can’t tell if the bags under your eyes are crazy noticeable or if I got some good punches in last night.” Alex was grinning, pushing his luck.

Damiano just gave him a flat look, unimpressed.

That didn’t stop Alex from bumping his shoulder in a friendly gesture, shifting beside him like he couldn’t stay still. “You gonna say good things about me, or should I prepare to talk shit about you and perpetuate the drama for the narrative?”

Damiano didn’t get the chance to answer before security arrived to escort them.

♧

At the facility, the media offices felt sterile, too controlled. Damiano hated it already.

They were given their usual PR spiel before being split up, shuffled into separate rooms. Damiano sank into his seat, feeling the weight of the morning press down on him.

The questions came fast. Standard bullshit, at first.

“What are your expectations for the season?”

“To win.”

“What’s it like having Alexandre on your team now, after years of rivalry?”

Damiano’s jaw tensed. He gave a neutral, rehearsed answer, something about competition bringing out the best in players. But even as he spoke, he could feel the shift in the air. The interviewer was glancing toward the people monitoring behind the cameras.

Something had happened.

Then, the next question dropped.

“So, uh, Alexandre had some interesting things to say about you earlier..”

Damiano exhaled sharply, already bracing himself.

“What’s your response to him calling you ‘so fucking hot’?”

Silence.

A muscle in his jaw twitched.

He had to bite back a groan, already feeling the migraine coming on.

Of course Alex had done something. Of course this interview was now about damage control.

Leaning back in his chair, he ran a hand down his face, exhaling through his nose.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered.

And that was before they even told him it was a live broadcast.

Damiano sat there, jaw tight, willing himself not to react. The cameras were still rolling, and the last thing he needed was to give them more ammunition.

The interviewer was grinning now, clearly pleased with whatever chaos they had just unleashed. “So, uh, any comment on that?”

Damiano dragged a hand through his hair, exhaling sharply. He could already hear the headlines. The social media edits, the jokes in the locker room, the inevitable texts from Cal telling him to get his shit together.

He leveled a look at the interviewer, expression carefully controlled. “My comment is that I’m here to talk about hockey.”

“Oh, come on,” they pressed, leaning forward. “It was a bold statement—”

“I’m sure it was.”

There was a pause, then a barely suppressed laugh from someone behind the camera. Damiano glanced at them, unimpressed. “You want an actual answer?”

The interviewer nodded, clearly expecting something entertaining.

Damiano exhaled. “Tell him to stay focused on the game.”

It wasn’t much, but it was enough. Let them spin it however they wanted. The less he fed into it, the better.

They moved on, but the tone of the interview had shifted. Every question now had an edge to it, an underlying thread pulling back to Alex. What was it like sharing a locker room with him after everything? Did he think their past fights would impact team chemistry? Did he trust him?

Damiano handled them the way he always did—with clipped, professional answers that gave nothing away. But by the time they finally wrapped up, he was already exhausted.

The moment he was out of the room, he pulled his phone from his pocket. The team group chat was already a mess.

Toni: LMAO what is happening??!

Killian: Did you guys see the clip yet????

Cal: Damiano.

Killian: “so fucking hot” I’M WHEEZING

Toni: Captain my captain, how we feeling??!

Damiano locked his phone without replying. If he looked at it any longer, he might actually throw it.

Instead, he headed toward the locker room, already bracing himself for whatever fresh hell was waiting.

It didn’t take long. As soon as he stepped inside, the reaction was immediate. A few guys clapped, a couple whistled. Someone—not even five feet into the room—called out, “Hey, so fucking hot!”

Damiano didn’t even slow his stride. “Who said that?”

Toni grinned from his stall, unbothered. “Just repeating what was said on national television.”

Damiano shot him a look, but Toni just waggled his brows. Across the room, Killian was half-crying with laughter.

He ignored them both, heading straight for his stall. He sat down heavily, running a hand down his face. It was barely noon, and he already wanted to get on the ice just to shut everyone up.

Unfortunately, that wasn’t happening anytime soon.

Before he could even fully process what fresh nightmare his life had become, the PR manager walked in, looking ready to strangle someone.

“De Angelis,” they said, rubbing their temples. “We need to talk.”

Of course they did.

Damiano sat there for a moment longer, barely registering the chatter still rippling through the locker room. His fingers slid beneath his shirt, curling around the small glass jar that hung from the leather cord around his neck. The cool surface pressed against his palm, grounding him. Inside, the tiny shark teeth rattled softly with the movement.

"So fucking hot."

He didn’t even want to think about the implications of that.

He hadn’t had someone call him that since—

No.

His jaw tightened. He wasn’t going to think about her.

The PR manager cleared their throat, an impatient reminder that he had places to be.

Damiano forced himself to exhale, dropping his hand and standing up. He didn’t say a word as he followed them out of the locker room, ignoring the knowing glances from his teammates.

The walk through the facility was quiet, save for the sound of his own footsteps and the occasional clipped instruction from PR. They led him past the media rooms, past the offices, toward the smaller conference spaces where the real damage control happened.

Inside, the room was sterile—gray walls, a long table, the faint hum of an air vent overhead. Damiano stepped in, already bracing himself.

The PR manager shut the door behind them, arms crossed. “I assume you know why we’re here.”

He gave them a look. “Because my favorite skill forward is a fucking dumbass?”

Their expression didn’t change. “Because this is already blowing up, and we need to get ahead of it before it turns into something bigger.”

Damiano dragged a hand through his hair. “It’s a throwaway line.”

“It’s a headline,” they corrected. “You think we don’t already have half the sports media running with it? ‘Enemies to teammates—or something more?’” They scoffed, rubbing their temple. “Hell, I think GQ just posted about it.”

That got his attention. His stomach dropped. “Are you serious?”

They slid their phone across the table. The screen was already open to a tweet.

GQ SPORTS: ‘So fucking hot.’ Well, you heard it here first, folks. De Angelis v. Avery might be the rivalry of the season… but is it also the romance?

Damiano stared at it, gripping the edge of the table.

This couldn’t be happening.

“We need a strategy,” PR continued. “You can either lean into it for the media—”

“No.”

They raised a brow. “Or we can try to shut it down. But if we go that route, we need to be careful. The last thing we want is to make it look like you’re overcompensating.”

He exhaled sharply. “So what the fuck am I supposed to do?”

“For now?” They picked up their phone, sliding it back into their pocket. “Say nothing. Act normal. Play it off like it’s no big deal.”

No big deal. Right. Because this was just another day in his goddamn life.

Damiano rolled his shoulders back, nodding stiffly. “Fine.”

PR studied him for a second longer, then sighed. “We’ll keep monitoring it. If it gets worse, we’ll reassess.”

With that, they gestured toward the door, motioning him to leave.

Damiano hesitated for half a second before standing.

Act normal. Play it off. Simple enough.

If only his skin didn’t feel like it was on fire.

Damiano stormed back toward the locker room, his pulse hammering in his ears. Every step felt heavier than the last, his muscles tight with frustration.

He could already hear the rest of the team inside, their voices echoing down the hall, still riding the high from the game. No doubt, they’d all seen the damn headlines by now. He clenched his fists, jaw tightening as he pushed the door open.

Laughter. The stink of sweat, soap, and sports drinks. A couple of the guys were still half-dressed, towels slung over their shoulders, others sprawled out on the benches, caught up in post-game banter. The moment Damiano stepped inside, conversations dipped—just enough for him to notice.

His glare swept over them like a warning shot.

Yeah. They’d seen it.

They knew.

Damiano exhaled hard through his nose, shoulders stiff as he stalked toward his locker. He wrenched the door open with more force than necessary, the metal rattling against its hinges.

Turned his head just the smallest, and there the idiot was.

Standing there like he hadn’t just made Damiano’s life ten times more complicated. Like he wasn’t the reason half the internet was losing its shit right now.

Damiano felt the heat crawl back up his spine, rage simmering just under his skin. His grip on the locker door tightened until his knuckles went white.

He didn’t say anything for a long moment.

Didn’t have to.

The storm in his expression said it all.

"So fucking hot?" He spat at Alexandre. "Really?"