Rinkside Rebound

With seconds left on the clock, Alessio finds himself in the corner, battling for the puck with a Cascades defenseman. He wins the battle, spinning away with the puck on his stick, his eyes scanning the ice for an open man. He sees Quentin out of the corner of his eye, the veteran drifting into position to block his shot.

Alessio hesitates, just for a heartbeat, his eyes meeting Quentin’s. There’s something in the enforcer’s eyes, a flicker of warmth that makes Alessio’s breath catch. He takes the shot, the puck ringing off the post and into the net just as the buzzer sounds.

The Vipers celebrate, pouring onto the ice to mob Alessio, but his eyes are on Quentin, on the way the veteran watches him from the other end of the rink. There’s no anger in his gaze, no frustration, just a focused intensity that makes Alessio’s stomach flip.

They head to the locker room, the game’s tension still thick in the air. Alessio strips off his gear, his body aching, his mind racing. He knows they’ll face the Cascades again in Game 7, that their season will come down to one final battle.

He hits the showers, the hot water easing the tension in his muscles. When he returns to his stall, his phone is buzzing, a new message lighting up the screen.

**Unknown number: That was a hell of a shot, kid.**

Alessio’s heart stutters in his chest. He stares at the message, at the words he’s read a hundred times in his head but never expected to see. He thumbs a reply, his pulse racing.

**Alessio: Who is this?**

The reply is almost instant.

**Unknown number: Don’t play dumb, Murphy. It doesn’t suit you.**

Alessio swallows hard, his fingers unsteady as he types.

**Alessio: Q?**

**Quentin: Yeah.**

Alessio hesitates, a dozen questions swirling in his mind. He settles on the simplest one.

**Alessio: How’d you get my number?**

**Quentin: I have my ways.**

Alessio rolls his eyes, a grin starting to form despite himself.

**Alessio: Stalker much?**

**Quentin: Just wanted to say good game. You played well.**

The praise warms Alessio’s chest, a flicker of pride sparking in his veins.

**Alessio: You too, old man. That hit in the second was dirty though.**

**Quentin: All part of the game, kid. You know that.**

Alessio does know that, but it feels different now, after everything. He takes a breath, his thumbs hovering over the screen.

**Alessio: We should talk. After the series is over.**

There’s a long pause, the three dots appearing and disappearing as Quentin types and deletes. When his reply finally comes, it’s short, clipped.

**Quentin: We’ll see.**

Alessio frowns, a flicker of frustration sparking in his chest. He wants to push, to demand answers, but he knows this isn’t the time. He shoves his phone in his locker, turning his attention back to his post-game routine.

But the questions linger, their secret’s burden heavier than ever. He knows they’ll face each other again soon, that the stakes will be even higher in Game 7. He just hopes they’ll still be standing when the final buzzer sounds.

The days leading up to Game 7 crawl by, each hour thick with anticipation. Alessio throws himself into practice, into film study, into anything that will keep his mind off the upcoming game—and off Quentin. But the enforcer is always there, in the back of his mind, a persistent hum beneath his skin.

The media frenzy surrounding their on-ice chemistry only intensifies, the commentators dissecting every shift, every hit, every glance exchanged between them on the ice. Alessio does his best to ignore it, to focus on the game, on proving himself on the biggest stage. But the questions linger, their secret’s burden heavier than ever.

Game 7 arrives in a flurry of nerves and adrenaline. The arena is electric, the crowd a roaring sea of green and blue. Alessio takes the ice for warm-ups, his pulse racing, his eyes scanning the rink for a familiar number. He finds Quentin near the Cascades’ bench, the veteran’s face a mask of concentration as he stretches.

Their eyes meet across the ice, and for a heartbeat, the roar of the crowd fades away. There’s something in Quentin’s gaze, a flicker of warmth that makes Alessio’s breath catch. Then it’s gone, replaced by the familiar intensity of a competitor, and Alessio is left wondering if he imagined it.

The game is a physical affair from the first puck drop, both teams battling for every inch of ice. 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 closed book.

The hits are heavy and frequent, the rivalry between the teams boiling over into chippy play. Alessio takes his fair share of bumps, his body aching from the punishment. But it’s a hit in the second period that leaves him gasping for breath, a crushing blow from behind that sends him sprawling to the ice.

He lies there for a moment, stunned, his vision swimming. Then strong hands are hauling him to his feet, a familiar voice growling in his ear. “You okay, kid?”

Alessio blinks, his eyes focusing on Quentin’s face. The veteran’s jaw is tight, his eyes dark with concern. “Yeah,” Alessio rasps, his voice rough. “Yeah, I’m good.”

Quentin nods, his grip on Alessio’s arm tightening for a fraction of a second before he lets go. “Watch your back out there,” he mutters, his voice low. “They’re gunning for you.”

Alessio nods, still dazed, and skates slowly back to the bench. He can feel Quentin’s eyes on him, the pressure of his gaze like a physical touch. He shakes it off, focusing on the game, on putting the Vipers back on top.

The third period is a nail-biter, the score tied 3-3 with minutes to go. Alessio is on the ice for a crucial shift, his lungs burning, his legs heavy. He battles for the puck in the corner, his stick a blur as he tries to dig it free. A Cascades player barrels into him, knocking him off balance, and Alessio goes down hard, his head snapping back against the boards.

Stars explode behind his eyes, pain blooming at the back of his skull. He lies there, dazed, the roar of the crowd a distant hum in his ears. Then Quentin is there, shoving the Cascades player away, his face a mask of fury. “What the fuck was that?” he snarls, his voice raw. “He was in a vulnerable position!”

The player shrugs, unrepentant. “Just finishing my check,” he says, his tone flippant. “Not my fault he can’t take a hit.”

Quentin’s eyes flash, his hands clenching into fists. For a heartbeat, Alessio is sure he’s going to throw a punch, to defend him the only way he knows how. But then the linesman steps in, separating the two men, and the moment passes.

Quentin helps Alessio to his feet, his hand lingering on his arm. “You good, Murphy?” he asks, his voice low and rough.

Alessio nods, his head still spinning. “Yeah,” he says, his voice thick. “Thanks, Q.”

Quentin’s lips twitch, almost smiling. “Anytime, kid,” he murmurs, and then he’s skating away, back to his own end of the ice.

The Vipers lose the game in overtime, a heartbreaker of a goal that sends the Cascades streaming onto the ice in celebration. Alessio watches from the bench, his body aching, his heart heavy. He finds Quentin in the crowd, the veteran’s face lit with a rare smile as he congratulates his teammates.

The locker room is quiet after the game, the air thick with disappointment. Alessio strips off his gear, his movements slow and heavy. He hits the showers, the hot water doing little to ease the tension in his muscles.

When he returns to his stall, his phone is buzzing, a new message lighting up the screen.

**Quentin: You played a hell of a game, kid. Proud of you.**

Alessio’s heart stutters in his chest. He stares at the message, at the words he’s read a hundred times in his head but never expected to see. He thumbs a reply, his pulse racing.

**Alessio: Thanks, old man. You too.**

**Quentin: That hit was bullshit. You okay?**

**Alessio: Yeah, I’m good. Just sore.**

**Quentin: Good. Take care of yourself, Murphy.**

Alessio’s throat tightens, his Adam’s apple bobbing. He wants to say more, to ask when he’ll see Quentin again, but he doesn’t know how. He shoves his phone in his locker, turning his attention back to his post-game routine.

The next few days are a blur of exit interviews and end-of-season meetings. Alessio goes through the motions, his mind elsewhere. He can’t stop thinking about Quentin, about the way the veteran defended him on the ice, about the warmth in his eyes when their gazes met.