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I lean back against the counter, drying my hands on a towel. “She makes things feel… easier,” I admit, quieter this time. “Even when everything else is loud and chaotic. She just… fits.”

She reaches out and gently squeezes my arm once. “I can see that,” she says. “And I’m glad you have someone like her.”

“Finish helping me clean up,” she says lightly. “Then go outside before your father tries to adopt her.”

I let out a small laugh, the tension in my chest easing just a little. “Yeah,” I say, grabbing another plate. “Good idea.”

Game day.

The stands are filling up fast. I know Lena and my parents are already out there somewhere, probably arguing about snacks or whatever my dad decided to bring with him. The Icehawks are in the guest locker room. Everything feels more real.

And then there’s Santi.

He’s been prowling around the locker room all morning with that stupid camera, taking pictures and videos with the confidence of someone who’s worked here for years instead of showing up yesterday to ruin my life. Black nail polish. Rings. Eyeliner that should look ridiculous in a hockey locker room and somehow fucking doesn’t. His hair keeps falling into his face, which would be less annoying if every push of it back didn’t somehow turn into a cologne commercial nobody asked for.

And, of course, he’s got that little smile on his face. Calm. Amused. Wearing the smug certainty of someone who knows something everybody else doesn’t.

He probably does.

Santi has always had the deeply irritating habit of seeming specifically designed to piss me off and then having the personality to match.

I’ve been doing everything I can to avoid him.

During morning practice, I made it my full-time job. Every time someone came looking for me because “Santi needs a few shots,” I suddenly had somewhere else to be. Damian sent two different people after me at separate points. I still managed to dodge both of them.

But now there’s nowhere to run.

We’re all in the locker room getting ready, and Santi is right here in the middle of it, moving between us. Every time I glance up, he’s there — smiling, taking pictures, looking completely at ease.

I’m acting like I’m shy. Which is fucking ridiculous. I skated topless in front of a sold-out arena two seasons ago during some charity thing and didn’t even blink. But now? Now I’m suddenly very interested in the inside of my stall and making sure my tape is perfect.

It works for a while.

Until Cole appears out of nowhere, grabs me by the back of the neck like I’m a misbehaving puppy, and starts dragging me across the room. “New guy!” he yells. “Take a picture of me and my future brother-in-law!”

I stumble forward, already glaring at Cole, but it’s too late.

Santi looks up from whatever shot he was taking. He raises one eyebrow, that familiar little smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. The expression clearly says yeah, we’ll see about that.

“Alright,” Santi says smoothly, lifting his camera. “Smile, boys.”

I do not smile.

I stand there stiff as a board while Cole throws an arm around my shoulders and grins like an idiot at the camera.

Santi lowers the camera slightly and looks straight at me. “Matteo…” he says, low and teasing. “I know you can smile for me.”

I glare at him.

Cole, completely oblivious to the tension, just laughs and squeezes my shoulder tighter. “Come on, Mats. Don’t be a dick. Smile for the nice photographer.”

I keep glaring.

Santi watches me with entirely too much amusement.

I hold out as long as I can, but Cole’s grip on my shoulder is getting annoying and we’re starting to attract attention. With a sigh, I finally force my mouth into a smile. It’s tight, fake, and probably closer to a grimace than anything remotely convincing.

Santi says nothing. He simply raises the camera and takes the picture, clearly enjoying every miserable second of this.