Rinkside Rebound
They tumble onto Quentin’s bed, the sheets cool against Alessio’s heated skin. Quentin’s weight settles over him, solid and grounding, his mouth never leaving Alessio’s. There’s a vulnerability in the way Quentin touches him, a hesitation that belies the confidence of his movements. Alessio realizes with a jolt that this is new for Quentin, this quiet intimacy, and the thought sends a rush of warmth through his chest.
“Alessio,” Quentin murmurs against his neck, his voice low and urgent. “You’re sure?”
Alessio nods, his fingers threading through Quentin’s hair. “Never been more sure,” he breathes, arching into Quentin’s touch. “Just shut up and kiss me.”
Quentin chuckles, low and soft, his lips curving against Alessio’s skin. “Pushy kid,” he murmurs, but there’s affection in his tone. He obeys, kissing Alessio with a single-minded intensity that steals the breath from his lungs.
They move together, finding a rhythm that’s all their own. It’s not the frantic, angry clash of their on-ice battles, but something softer, sweeter. Alessio loses himself in the feel of Quentin’s body against his, in the way the veteran’s hands tremble just a little when they skim over his skin. He kisses the scar on Quentin’s brow, the one on his ribs, mapping the stories written on his body with gentle lips and fingertips.
Quentin’s breath catches when Alessio touches him, his body responding with eager honesty. There’s no pretense between them, no room for their usual competitive banter. Just this raw, aching vulnerability, this quiet admission of want.
Afterward, they lie together in the dark, Alessio’s head pillowed on Quentin’s chest. The veteran’s heartbeat is steady beneath his ear, his breathing slow and even. Alessio traces idle patterns on Quentin’s skin, savoring the warmth of him, the solid reality of his presence.
“Q?” he murmurs, his voice low beneath the hum of the air conditioning.
“Hmm?” Quentin’s response is a low rumble in his chest, his fingers stroking Alessio’s hair with lazy affection.
“You’re not going to get weird about this, are you?” Alessio asks, tilting his head to look up at him. “Because I’m not sorry. Not even a little bit.”
Quentin is quiet for a long moment, his eyes steady on Alessio’s face. “No,” he says finally, his voice rough. “Not sorry either.” He leans down, brushing a soft kiss to Alessio’s forehead. “But we can’t let anyone find out. Not yet.”
Alessio nods, his heart sinking a little. He knows Quentin is right, that their teams would have a field day with this, but the thought of hiding still stings. “I know,” he says, resting his cheek against Quentin’s chest again. “But eventually—”
“Eventually,” Quentin agrees, his arm tightening around Alessio’s shoulders. “Just not now.”
They fall silent, the burden of their secret hanging between them. Alessio listens to the steady beat of Quentin’s heart, letting it soothe the nervous energy still humming beneath his skin. He knows this changes everything, that their rivalry will never be the same. But for tonight, in the quiet dark of this hotel room, he lets himself sink into the warmth of Quentin’s embrace, into the unexpected tenderness they’ve found in each other.
Morning comes too soon, the shrill ring of Alessio’s alarm shattering the peace of the room. He groans, burying his face in the pillow, the events of the night before flooding back in a rush of heat and confusion.
He rolls over, reaching for Quentin, but the bed beside him is empty, the sheets cool beneath his fingers. Alessio sits up, blinking in the harsh light filtering through the curtains. Quentin is already dressed, his back to Alessio as he stares out the window, his phone pressed to his ear.
“I’ll be there,” Quentin says, his voice low and clipped. “Just have to grab my bag.” He hangs up, sliding his phone into his pocket. He doesn’t turn around.
Alessio watches him for a moment, the distance between them suddenly vast and unfamiliar. “Q?” he says, his voice rough with sleep.
Quentin finally turns, his expression hidden. “We need to go,” he says, his tone brusque. “The shuttle leaves in twenty.” He grabs his bag, slinging it over his shoulder. “I’ll see you on the plane.”
The door clicks shut behind him, and Alessio is alone, the faint trace of Quentin’s soap the only evidence he was ever there. He showers quickly, the hot water doing little to ease the tension in his shoulders. He dresses, his mind racing, replaying every touch, every whispered word from the night before.
The shuttle ride to the airport is quiet, Quentin sitting near the front, his attention fixed on his phone. Alessio claims a seat in the back, his knee bouncing with restless energy. He wants to talk to Quentin, to reassure himself that last night meant something, but the veteran’s closed-off posture keeps him in his seat.
They board the plane together, the awkwardness between them a physical thing. They take their seats, the same as before, but everything feels different now. Alessio risks a glance at Quentin, finding the veteran watching him, his dark eyes guarded.
“Last night—” Alessio starts, but Quentin cuts him off.
“Never happened, Murphy,” he says, his voice low and steady. “We agreed.”
Alessio nods, looking away. “Right,” he says, his voice tight. “Never happened.”
The flight to Nashville is a study in silence, the air between them charged with things unsaid. They don’t speak, don’t touch, the easy banter of yesterday gone. Alessio stares out the window, watching the clouds drift by, his thoughts in knots.
When they land, Quentin is the first off the plane, his long strides carrying him quickly through the terminal. Alessio follows at a slower pace, his duffel bag heavy on his shoulder. He watches Quentin walk away, the veteran’s broad back disappearing into the crowd.
“See you around, old man,” Alessio murmurs, his voice low beneath the din of the airport. He knows they’ll face each other again soon, that the playoffs will bring their teams together for another battle on the ice. But for now, all he can do is watch Quentin go, the memory of last night a secret weight in his chest.
The weeks crawl by, the memory of that night in St. Louis a constant hum beneath Alessio’s skin. He and Quentin don’t speak, don’t text, the silence between them stretching into something heavy and fraught. Alessio throws himself into practice, into film study, into anything that will keep his mind off the enforcer who’s taken up permanent residence in his thoughts.
The playoffs arrive, the intensity of the postseason a welcome distraction. The Cascades and Vipers are set to face off in the first round, a best-of-seven series that promises to be a battle. Alessio tries to focus on the game, on the thrill of competing for the Cup, but his gaze keeps drifting to Quentin, to the way he moves on the ice, to the familiar set of his shoulders.
Their first game is a physical affair, the rivalry between the teams boiling over into big hits and chippy play. Alessio scores early, a slick wrist shot that beats the Cascades’ goalie glove-side. He celebrates with his teammates, but his eyes find Quentin on the bench, the veteran’s face a mask.
Quentin gets him back in the second period, a heavy hit along the boards that leaves Alessio gasping for breath. “Welcome to the playoffs, kid,” Quentin mutters as they jostle for position, his voice low and rough.
“Good to be here, old man,” Alessio fires back, shoving him away. “You’re looking a little slow out there. Need a nap?”
Quentin’s jaw tightens, but he doesn’t respond, his focus locked on the puck. They play each other hard, their usual competitiveness edged with something new, something sharp. Alessio feels it in the way Quentin watches him, in the way his body checks have a little extra bite.
The series is a back-and-forth battle, the teams trading wins and losses, the margin of victory always slim. The media hones in on Alessio and Quentin’s on-ice chemistry, the way they seem to always find each other on the ice, the way their battles seem personal.
“Looks like Murphy’s got a target on his back,” one commentator says during a post-game analysis. “Marcelli’s been all over him this series.”
“That’s just good old-fashioned playoff hockey,” his co-host replies. “But you’re right, there’s definitely some tension there. Almost like they’ve got history.”
Alessio ignores the speculation, focusing on his game, on proving himself on the biggest stage. But he can’t ignore the way his heart races when Quentin’s on the ice, the way his skin prickles when their eyes meet across the red line.
Game 6 is a must-win for the Vipers, the series knotted at 3-2. The arena is electric, the crowd a sea of green and blue. Alessio scores twice, his speed and skill putting the Vipers ahead early. But the Cascades claw their way back, tying the game late in the third period.