Chapter Text
The scent of the Ottawa Centaurs' locker room always hit the same: a heavy mixture of industrial-strength disinfectant, stale ice, and the pungent aroma of expensive leather and sweat. It was a sanctuary of noise. To anyone else, the cacophony of slamming locker doors, the rhythmic thumping of hockey tape being ripped, and the loud, overlapping shouts of twenty professional athletes would be overwhelming. For Luca Haas, it was the only place where the silence in his head finally stopped screaming.
Luca sat on the wooden bench, his fingers trembling slightly as he unlaced his skates. He kept his head down, his blonde hair falling over his eyes. Beside him, Wyatt Hayes, the team's starting goaltender, was sprawled out in his own stall, still wearing his goalie pads. Wyatt looked like a mountain of gear, his expression one of perpetual, relaxed boredom.
"You were leaning too far into the slot on that last drill, kid," Wyatt said, his voice a low, steady drawl. "I could see your eyes wandering. You're thinking too much."
Luca looked up, a small, tentative smile touching his lips. "I just wanted to make sure the pass was coming."
"Pass is coming. Always is," Wyatt replied, finally beginning to peel off his leg pads with a series of loud, wet slaps. "You gotta trust the play. Trust your teammates. Trust me to bail you out if you screw up the gap control."
"I trust you, Hazy," Luca murmured.
"Good. Because I'm tired of watching you overthink your way into a stumble. You play like you're waiting for someone to yell at you."
Luca stiffened. The comment hit a nerve he didn't know was exposed. He shifted his weight, the movement causing his jersey to ride up. He quickly yanked the fabric back down, his gaze snapping back to his laces.
"I'm just... focusing," Luca said.
Wyatt chuckled, a soft sound that didn't carry any judgment. "Focusing is great. Paranoia is a bit much for a Tuesday practice. You're doing fine, Luca. Better than fine. You're a natural. Just stop acting like you're an intruder in your own locker room."
The locker room began to empty as players migrated toward the showers. The atmosphere shifted from the intensity of the ice to the lazy, sprawling comfort of the post-practice wind-down. Luca waited until the crowd thinned, his movements deliberate and slow. He hated the vulnerability of the changing area, though the Centaurs had a culture that made it easier. Here, no one mocked the smaller guys or picked on the rookies. Under Ilya’s leadership, the room had become a fortress of mutual respect. Still, the ghosts of foster homes and cold apartments clung to Luca’s skin.
He stood up and pulled his sweat-soaked jersey over his head in one quick, fluid motion.
Wyatt was standing just a few feet away, pulling on a clean t-shirt. As Luca’s arms reached upward, the light from the overhead fluorescent tubes caught the skin of his upper shoulders and the curve of his collarbone.
Wyatt stopped mid-motion. His eyes locked onto the pale, thin lines that crisscrossed Luca's skin. They weren't fresh; they were silvered and old, a map of a war fought in secret. They were precise, rhythmic, and unmistakable.
The air in the room seemed to thicken. Luca felt the shift in Wyatt's attention and froze. He dropped his arms instantly, the jersey falling back into place, but the damage was done. The silence that followed wasn't the comfortable kind they had shared moments ago. It was heavy, charged with a sudden, piercing clarity.
Luca’s heart hammered against his ribs like a trapped bird. He didn't look up. He couldn't. He focused on a loose thread on his hockey pants, his breathing becoming shallow and jagged.
"Luca," Wyatt said.
The name was a whisper, devoid of its usual playful edge. It sounded fragile.
Luca stepped back, his shoulder hitting the cold metal of his locker. "I have to go. I have... I have a call."
"Hey, hold on," Wyatt said, stepping closer. He didn't reach out—he knew better than to crowd someone who looked like they were preparing to bolt—but his presence was a steady anchor in the room. "Those marks. On your shoulders."
Luca swallowed hard, his throat feeling like it was filled with glass. "It's nothing. Old stuff."
"Old stuff doesn't usually look like that," Wyatt replied. His voice remained calm, but there was a new undercurrent of gravity. "How long ago?"
"It doesn't matter," Luca whispered. "It's over. I don't do it anymore."
Wyatt let out a slow breath. He leaned back against the locker next to Luca's, crossing his arms. He didn't look away, but he didn't stare with pity. He looked at Luca with a quiet, observant intensity.
"Who did that to you?" Wyatt asked.
"I did," Luca replied, the honesty slipping out before he could filter it. He squeezed his eyes shut, bracing for the reaction. He expected disgust, or perhaps a sudden, suffocating wave of sympathy that would make him feel like a broken toy.
Instead, there was a long pause. When Wyatt spoke again, his voice was as steady as a heartbeat.
"Well. That's a lot to carry for someone who's barely twenty."
Luca opened his eyes. He looked at Wyatt, searching for the judgment he had been conditioned to expect. He found none. Wyatt just looked tired, his eyes reflecting a kind of understanding that didn't require a full explanation.
"You can't tell them," Luca pleaded, his voice cracking. "Please. Don't tell Ilya. Don't tell Shane."
Wyatt frowned, a small crease forming between his brows. "Why the hell would you want to keep that from them? They'd probably try to adopt you on the spot."
"I don't want to be a project," Luca said, a flash of sudden anger sparking in his voice. "I'm a hockey player. I'm a center. I'm not... I'm not some sad story."
Wyatt shifted his weight, his expression softening. "Kid, look at me."
Luca reluctantly met his gaze.
"You're not a project," Wyatt said firmly. "And you're not a sad story. You're a teammate. You're a pain in my ass when you overthink your gap control, and you're a hell of a player. Those lines? They're just skin. They don't change the fact that you're part of this team."
Luca felt a lump form in his throat. He looked away, blinking rapidly to clear his vision. The vulnerability of the moment was terrifying, but the lack of rejection was even more overwhelming. For years, he had associated his scars with shame, a secret brand of failure that he had to hide at all costs. To have someone see them and not recoil felt like a physical shock.
"Does it still happen?" Wyatt asked softly.
"No," Luca said, his voice stronger. "Not for a long time. I see Dr. Chen. I'm... I'm getting better."
Wyatt nodded slowly. "Good. Dr. Chen sounds like she knows her stuff. And for what it's worth, I'm not going to go running to the captains. Not if you're not ready. But you can't keep pretending you're made of stone, Luca. It's exhausting to watch."
Luca let out a shaky laugh, a sound that was half-sob. "Is it that obvious?"
"To me? Yeah. You've got a tell. You hold your breath whenever the room gets too quiet," Wyatt said, a hint of his usual humor returning. "It's a goalie thing. I notice when people are holding their breath. It's how I know when they're about to make a mistake."
Luca wiped his face with the back of his hand, feeling a strange sense of lightness. The secret was out, at least to one person. The world hadn't ended. The ceiling hadn't collapsed. He was still standing in a locker room that smelled like sweat and disinfectant, and he was still a member of the Ottawa Centaurs.
"Thanks, Hazy," Luca whispered.
"Don't mention it. Seriously. Don't mention it to anyone," Wyatt said, pushing off the locker. He reached out and gave Luca a quick, firm pat on the shoulder—careful to avoid the area where the scars lay. "Now get your gear packed. If you're late for the team dinner, Ilya will probably make you do extra laps, and I'm not in the mood to watch you suffer. It's bad for my karma."
Luca smiled, a real one this time. "I'm coming."
As Wyatt walked away, humming a tuneless song to himself, Luca stayed still for a moment. He looked at his reflection in the polished metal of the locker. He saw the young man the world saw—the talented Swiss rookie, the energetic teammate, the kid with the bright future. But for the first time, he felt like the version of himself that lived in the shadows was allowed to exist in the light, even if it was only for a second, and even if it was only with Wyatt.
He pulled his bag over his shoulder and followed the goalie out of the room. The weight on his chest hadn't disappeared, but as he stepped out into the hallway, the air felt a little easier to breathe. He knew the road ahead was long, and the scars on his skin were only a fraction of the damage Marcus and the foster system had left behind. But as he heard the distant, boisterous laugh of Ilya Rozanov echoing down the hall, Luca felt a flicker of something he had spent a lifetime fearing.
He felt safe.