my hockey heartthrob

Five years ago we promised forever in the back seat of a beat-up Subaru outside the rink at 2 a.m. It wasn’t the night Marcus won. It was the night after. The night before, he’d scored four personal goals against the Queens. Not the varsity Queens. _The_ Queens. Canada’s U-18 national team. Marcus was sixteen, a high school kid playing up for the Varsity Blues exhibition game, and he’d torn through a national roster like they were slow cones in practice. The rink was loud. His name was everywhere by the second intermission. I was in the stands, screaming until my throat hurt, but I couldn’t see him after. Team rules. Win against a national team and you celebrate as a team. No exceptions. Not even for me. He texted me at 1:03 a.m.: _Can’t talk. Don’t be mad. Tomorrow. Parking lot. 2 a.m._ So I waited. The next night, the Subaru was parked in the same spot, headlights off, engine ticking as it cooled. The air smelled like melted ice, old coffee, and the citrus spray he used on the dash because Marcus hated the smell of old seats. I climbed in through the passenger side, he was seated patiently waiting like a dog waiting at the gate for his for his favorite person to get home . “You were insane out there,” I said. Marcus grinned, that crooked grin that made him look 13 again. “Four goals, Leo. Against the Queens. Me.” “Against the _national_ Queens,” I corrected. "Do you think scouts are gonna call?” He asked, his eyes were bright. “they must. Tonight’s yours.” No one knew about us. Not the team, not his coaches, not my parents who thought I was just his ‘stats guy.’ We’d been careful for two years. Parking lots, late walks, hands that brushed in the hallway like it meant nothing. We’d agreed to keep it quiet until after summer break. “When we get back,” he’d said, “we tell everyone. No more hiding.” He leaned across the seat, forehead against mine. “When I get out of here, I’m not doing it alone,” he said. “You’re coming with me. Forever. You and me.” I believed him. I believed him because he said it like it was already done. He kissed me like he had all the time in the world. Like the calls, the contracts, the future weren’t already moving. I didn’t know it was the last time he’d say my name with that voice. The voice that said _love_ without saying it. Two days later, the development camp invite came. Three days after that, he stopped calling me love. On the fifth day I heard rumors he had signed a five years contract with the queens and moved to their training camp in Calgary and he'd changed his number for press reasons . *********** Five years later, he’s on every billboard in Toronto. “Captain Cole. Cup Final MVP. The face of hockey.” His face is on streetcars, on 40-foot screens at Dundas Square, on the cover of _Sports, Illustrated Canada_ with the Cup balanced on his knee. He’s polished now. Tailored suits, controlled smiles, answers that pass through three layers of PR before they hit the airwaves. And I’m the journalist assigned to cover his championship run for _The Metro Pulse_. Professional. Neutral. Not affected. That’s what I told myself when my editor, Carla, dropped the assignment on my desk at 8:47 a.m. on a Monday. “Cole’s doing exclusive interviews only,” she said, sliding a press pass across the desk. “He asked for you specifically.” I stared at the pass. _The queens training camp_ _Media_engraved on it. _Media Day_ _the queens Arena._ “He doesn’t know I work here,” I said. Carla raised an eyebrow. “He asked for ‘the guy who covered the Varsity Blues in 2020.’ That’s you, Leo.” She didn’t know. No one did. "I didn't have plans for traveling" I made an excuse "Everything is handled by the company you just go and pack your things and pick up you ticket from Jane ,she'll also tell you the hotel booked for you and the team you'll be going with" Carla fired back " this is a big deal Leo " This is the kind of things we need for the company " "okay "I swallowed my words as I tried to convince myself that it'll be professional and he's probably forgotten me already. ************ The interview room at the queens Arena smells like recycled air and new carpet. The overhead light is harsh, unforgiving. I set up my recorder, check my notes, and keep my hands steady. My notes are about line changes, power play stats, the timeline of his injury in Game 3. They’re not about the night he scored four against a national team, and the night after, we sat in his Subaru and promised forever before the NHL ever had his number. The door opens at exactly 2:00 p.m. Marcus walks in like he owns the building. Six-foot-two, shoulders broad from years of taking hits, jawline sharp enough to cut glass. Hair buzzed short on the sides. Navy suit, white shirt, no tie. No hint of the kid who used to fall asleep on my shoulder with stick tape still stuck to his fingers. He sees me. His stride doesn’t break, but something behind his eyes shifts. Fast. A crack in the armor. Then it’s gone. “Leo.” One word. Flat. Professional. “Captain Cole,” I reply, matching him. “Thanks for your time. We have twenty minutes before media day starts.” He sits across from me, leans back, crosses his arms. The mask is back on. The one he wears for cameras, for sponsors, for the league. For five years, I’ve watched it from a distance. Highlights on TSN, press conferences where he calls every teammate “a brother.” Never with me. Never a trace. “Let’s get this over with,” he says. We go through it. The playoff run. The hit in Game 4 that left him skating on one good leg. What it means to bring the Cup back to Toronto for the first time since ’67. My questions are clean. His answers are rehearsed. No eye contact beyond what’s required. No slip. No name. A perfect, boring, NHL-approved interview. “Last question,” I say. “What’s next after this season? Contract’s up. Free agency’s wide open.” Marcus pauses. For half a second, the mask slips. Something flickers behind his eyes—old, familiar, dangerous. “Not here,” he says. “Off camera.” The PR rep in the corner clears her throat. “We’re done here, Captain.” Marcus stands, nods once at me. “Off camera, Leo.” It’s not a request. ***************** The arena hallways are empty ten minutes later. He leads me down a corridor behind the visiting team’s bench, key card in hand, until we’re in a small equipment room that smells like sweat, skate steel, and old leather. The door clicks shut. For three seconds, neither of us speaks. Then his composure cracks. “You look good,” he says, voice low, rough around the edges. “So do you,” I say. “Captain Cole.” He steps closer. Not close enough to touch. But close enough that I can smell cedar and ice—the same cologne he wore the night he scored four against the Queens and the night we sat in his Subaru pretending the world didn’t exist. “Don’t do that,” he says. “Do what?” “Act like I’m just another quote in your notebook.” His eyes lock onto mine, and the cold from the interview is gone. In its place is heat. Focused. Unforgiving. “You walked away,” I say. “I did what I had to do,” he says. “You think it was easy? You think I wanted to go five years without hearing your voice?” I swallow. “Seems like you managed.” Marcus exhales, and his control frays. His gaze drops to my mouth, then back up, burning. “Don’t mistake professionalizm for 'over it',” he says. “You sit across from me and expect me to pretend I don’t remember every second we had?” The room feels smaller. The air feels thinner. I can now feel my heart racing and a sweat forming on my forehead. “Marcus—” “Don’t,” he cuts me off. “Not here. Not now.” He runs a hand through his hair, frustrated. “You’re here for the story. I’m here because if I don’t talk to you, they’ll send someone else. Someone who doesn’t know.” “Know what?” “That I never stopped,” he says. The words land hard, final. “That I never stopped craving you.” The recorder in my bag is still running. I don’t reach for it. Outside, the arena hums with a thousand voices. Inside, it’s just us, five years of silence, and the weight of a promise made on the night after he scored four against a national team, before anyone else got to claim him. The buzzer on the door sounds once. Two minutes until my exclusive turns into a scandal. And Marcus hasn’t moved.