Rinkside Rebound

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.

The press conference is a circus, the media swarming around the players like vultures. Alessio answers their questions on autopilot, his mind miles away. Then a reporter asks about his on-ice chemistry with Quentin.

Alessio freezes, his heart leaping into his throat. He looks up, his eyes scanning the room for Quentin, finding the veteran watching him from across the platform.

Their eyes meet, and something passes between them. He takes a deep breath, his pulse racing.

“It’s not just on-ice chemistry,” he says, his voice clear and steady. “Quentin Marcelli is important to me. More than just a rival.”

The room erupts into chaos. Alessio ignores them, his eyes still on Quentin. Then Quentin is moving, pushing through the crowd to get to him. He stops in front of Alessio, his dark eyes intense. “You sure about this, kid?” he asks, his voice low and rough.

Alessio nods, his heart in his throat. “Never been more sure of anything in my life,” he breathes.

Quentin’s lips curve into a smile, small and soft, and then he’s pulling Alessio into his arms, his mouth crashing down on his in a fierce kiss. The room falls silent, the reporters stunned into silence.

When they break apart, Alessio is breathless, his cheeks flushed. Quentin’s hand is warm on his neck, his thumb stroking the sensitive skin behind his ear. “Guess the cat’s out of the bag now, huh?” he murmurs, his voice rough with affection.

Alessio laughs, the sound giddy and bright. “Guess so,” he agrees, his arms tightening around Quentin’s waist. “No turning back now.”

Quentin’s smile widens, his eyes warm on Alessio’s face. “Wouldn’t want to,” he says softly. “Not for anything.”

The fallout is immediate and intense. Their phones blow up with notifications, the media frenzy surrounding their relationship reaching a fever pitch.

Their teammates’ reactions run the gamut. Some are supportive, clapping them on the back and offering words of encouragement. Others are skeptical, their eyes narrowed as they watch Alessio and Quentin navigate their new reality.

Quentin’s captain pulls him aside after practice one day. “You sure about this, Marcelli?” he asks, his voice gruff. “It’s a lot of pressure to put on a new relationship.”

Quentin nods, his jaw tight. “I’m sure,” he says, his voice firm. “Murphy’s worth it.”

Jake studies him for a long moment, then nods. “Alright,” he says. “Just… be careful. The media’s gonna be all over you.”

Alessio’s teammates are more accepting, their youthful enthusiasm shining through. “I knew it!” his best friend crows when Alessio confirms the news. “I knew there was something going on between you two!”

Alessio laughs, his cheeks flushing. “Yeah, yeah,” he says, shoving Luca playfully. “Don’t get too excited.”

But he is excited, his heart light in a way it hasn’t been in months. He and Quentin navigate their new reality with caution, aware of the eyes on them at all times. They keep their public interactions professional, their private moments sweet and stolen.

It’s a few weeks after the press conference that Alessio finally meets Clifford. He shows up at Quentin’s place after practice, a six-pack of beer in hand. Quentin answers the door, his smile wide and welcoming. “Hey, kid,” he says, stepping aside to let Alessio in.

Alessio steps into the apartment, his eyes widening as he takes it in. And there, in the middle of the living room, is Clifford.

The terrier mix looks up as Alessio enters, his tail thumping against the floor. He studies Alessio for a long moment, his head cocked to the side. Then, as if reaching a decision, he trots over, sniffing at Alessio’s shoes before butting his head against his hand.

Alessio laughs, crouching down to scratch behind Clifford’s ears. “Hey there, buddy,” he murmurs, his voice soft. “You must be Clifford.”

The dog leans into his touch, his eyes closing in pleasure. Alessio looks up at Quentin, a grin splitting his face. “He’s perfect,” he says, his voice warm.

Quentin smiles back, his eyes soft as he watches them. “He likes you,” he says, his voice rough with affection. “He’s got good taste.”