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“Yes.”

“Would either of you like anything to drink or eat? There’s a full bar and plenty of dinner options, if you’re interested.”

Nico couldn’t think of anything less appetizing than what passed for stadium food. And he needed to remain sober. “I would prefer sparkling water, if you have it.”

Easton spoke to the bartender and a bottle of sparkling water soon arrived, along with a beer for Filippo. The lights dimmed dramatically. Then obnoxious, seizure-inducing strobes flashed in time with rock music. Nico tried to appear interested as the crowd got louder and the players were shown on screen. Verreault was featured the most often in the game highlights, his name and face eliciting cheers from everyone in attendance. If only they knew what Verreault looked like naked . . . Cristo santo. The crowd would spontaneously combust from the sheer hotness of all that bare, muscled skin.

The players emerged one-by-one and rocketed onto the ice. Easton was naming the players, but Nico barely paid attention because his eyes were locked on Verreault. The Reign captain skated fast, the movements effortless and graceful. He looked intense. Focused. Like he was the only one in the building. He spoke to no one, shot the puck into the net, and stretched his legs.

The starting lineups were introduced and the Canadian national anthem followed. Standing, Nico tried to appear like he gave a shit, then they were in their seats once more as Verreault lined up on the center logo across from the opposing player. They bent over and the position reminded Nico of the other night. Hmm, that was an image he’d never forget.

The referee dropped the puck to the ice. Sticks clattered as Verreault battled with the other player and ended up with control. From there it was a blur. Men skated quickly all over the ice, bodies twisting and straining as they maneuvered, shoving, slamming each other into the sides of the rink. Each time that happened, the wood rattled upon impact, the sound like a gunshot, even with the loud crowd.

It was brutal. And beautiful.

How the fuck hadn’t Nico known hockey was like this? He’d lived in Toronto for ten years, but hadn’t once attended a sporting event. There hadn’t been interest, especially for an activity so cold. But this was mesmerizing, chaotic. Nico could appreciate the physicality of it, the roughness. Sacrificing one’s body and safety for a group of men. Wasn’t that what he did for the ’ndrina almost every day?

He watched as Verreault and the other starters hopped off the ice, only to be replaced by different players. This happened again and again, with players swapping in and out. Nico leaned over to Easton. “Why do they switch so often?”

“They keep the shifts short for maximum energy,” Easton said, never taking his eyes off the ice. “Typically, a player will only be on the ice for a minute, minute and a half at a time.”

“And the hitting?” Filippo asked.

“What, checking into the boards? That’s part of hockey. Like missing teeth, fighting, and playoff beards.”

Fighting?

As Easton described some of what was going on, Nico kept his gaze on Verreault. The Reign’s captain charged the ice, aggressive and commanding, whenever his blades touched the surface. He skated fast and passed the puck with a snap of his wrist. When they stopped to battle for a face-off (as Easton explained), Verreault always won.

The man was a machine. A lightning-fast, high-performance machine operating on a sheet of glass. This Nico could appreciate. As a boy, he loved gears and engines, anything he could take apart and put back together. Anything he could figure out and improve. As soon as he could drive, it meant fast cars that he’d make go even faster. He spent hours rebuilding and days with grease under his fingernails—filled with the satisfaction of knowing he’d improved on the original.

Until his father stepped in and insisted Nico give up the cars and the garage, a hobby no seventeen-year-old needed, certainly not the heir to a mafia empire. Why was Nico wasting time on such frivolous activities when he could be learning how to run the business properly, make the family even more money? Because in the end, for a Marzano, it always came back to money.

Shouts in the crowd caught his attention. Verreault and another player streaked down the ice, only one defender in their way. The arena seemed to collectively hold its breath, excitement building, hope knotting them all together. Even Nico paused, curious to see what would happen. The two Reign skaters moved in symmetry, mirror images of one another, almost as if they were tethered together, and they passed the puck once, twice, then Verreault faked another pass before firing it into the goal himself.

The crowd exploded. Lights, sounds, cheering . . . mania. It reminded him of when Inter Milano scored during football games Nico had enjoyed as a young boy, back when he had the time for leisure activities like sports. But this was a smaller space, indoors, so the reaction felt bigger—and Nico could tell Verreault felt this on the ice as well, his expression open and proud as his teammates hugged him. Too far up to hear the words, but Nico could see their mouths move, the broad grins. The slaps and the high-fives. Then Verreault skated over to touch gloves with the rest of his team, a victorious gladiator. A returning hero.

Ah, yes. This was the reason for the muscles, the secrecy. Letting men fuck his ass dry and not even demanding an orgasm from it. To maintain this. Nico’s ribs suddenly felt too tight.

“Madre di Dio,” Filippo murmured, elbowing Nico’s arm. “He is very good, no?”

“Top shelf! What a beauty!” Easton exclaimed as he dropped back down next to Nico. “Man, I never get tired of watching Bennett Verreault score.”

“It was nice,” Nico said tepidly, not knowing how to express in English what he had just witnessed. Italian was far more dramatic and emotional.

Mozzafiato.

Breath-stealing. But not the goal. The man.

“I wish to meet him,” Nico said casually, hiding the intensity of his words with a flick of his fingers toward the team.

“Who, Verreault?”

“Yes.”

Easton nodded, as Nico knew he would. Greed and a pending sponsorship deal were powerful motivators. “Sure. I can take you down after the game and introduce you to some of the boys.”

“Not some,” Nico corrected. “One.” In case he hadn’t been clear.