Marco’s eyes locked onto the puck hurtling toward him. The Seattle Jackals’ center—cocky, fast, with reflexes like a goddamn feral cat—was already smirking. For once, Marco wasn’t smiling. Pure, razor-edged concentration etched across his face.

1-2. If the Jackals scored now—

The puck came. A blur. Faster than most could track.

Marco moved faster.

His stick connected with a CRACK, the puck ricocheting to the far end of the arena like a bullet.

BUZZER.

Helmet off, gloves flung into the bench, Marco roared: “THE KING OF MOTHERFUCKING WALLS!” His voice shook the rafters as he body-slammed into his teammates, a tangle of sweat and triumph.

Coach Lucien summoned them with a whistle, slapping each player’s back. “Good-fucking-job, boys.” His lips twitched—almost a smile. A miracle, given his usual “drill till you puke” demeanour.

Damon was first to explode. “WOO! LET’S FUCKING GO!” He hooked an arm around Marco’s neck, shaking him. “Are you kidding?! That save was perfect! Knew you had it, pretty boy!”

“MVP!” Theo crowed, tossing his water bottle in the air as Marco caught it.

For once, Coach didn’t rain on their parade.

Marco grinned, hand already outstretched. “Alright, boys—twenty bucks from every fucker who thought I couldn’t block that.”

Theo groaned but slapped a crumpled bill into his palm. “I hate you.”

“You love me.” Marco blew him a kiss because twenty dollars was twenty dollars.

Matteo materialised beside Marco like a grumpy shadow. A single nod. “Good work.” Behind him, Killian mirrored the gesture. Introverts.

Damon slung an arm around Marco again, wiggling his eyebrows. “Alright, superstar. Coach is happy, we won... so how ‘bout we find someone for you to sink into?”

Marco gasped, clutching his chest like he was in a soap opera. “Damon. Are you pimping me out?”

“No. I’m celebrating you. With consenting adults.” Damon said, Marco snorted, letting himself be dragged into the game after party.

Matteo just sighed like a tired parent, not that he'd be there, he had a girlfriend to get back to. "Just make sure to use protection." The grump warned.

Psshhh—What guy wouldn't remember that? Of course, he'd use a condom!

---

It’d been two months. Two whole months, and Marco was whipped. Not just regular whipped—“I-refuse-to-touch-another-woman-after-that-one-mind-blowing-hook-up” whipped.

You. That was her name. And she’d left the moment the sun came up—no number, no note, not even a “Hey, that was fun” scrawled on his chest in lipstick. Fuck, she could’ve at least stayed for coffee!

Was he pouting? Abso-fucking-lutely.

Even now, post-practice, he was sprawled on the bench like a sulking golden retriever. Matteo—bless his emotionally constipated heart—had finally hit his limit.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Matteo tossed a protein bar at Marco’s face.

“Just... that girl. After the game.” Marco sighed like a Victorian widow.

Matteo responded by yeeting his sweaty jersey directly into Marco’s soul.

“HOW DARE YOU!” Marco gasped, clutching the jersey to his chest. “I THOUGHT WE WERE FRIENDS!” He launched it back—missing Matteo entirely and hitting Damon square in the face.

“HEY! WATCH IT!” Damon screeched, clutching his towel like a Victorian maiden. “NOT MY PRETTY FACE!” Then—because logic had left the building—he whipped his towel off and flung it at Aidan.

Chaos erupted. Jerseys flew. Grown men shrieked.

And then—the locker room door opened.

Janna stood there, blinking. Behind her? You, watching the shitstorm unfold with raised eyebrows.

Damon froze under his girlfriend’s glare. “Babe, listen. Marco started it.” Pointing at him like a toddler who got caught stealing candies.

Killian—that rat bastard—just nodded, because of course everyone believes the silent introvert.

But Marco wasn’t listening. All he saw was her. You. Right there. Alive. Real.

“Well, Marco,” Janna’s smile was 10% cheer, 90% I will end you. “You says she needs to talk to you. Something important.”

Marco stumbled to his feet, shirtless, dignity long gone. “Oh. Um. Fuck. Sure.”

The hallway was quieter - except for Janna's "I SWEAR TO GOD, DAMON!" still raging in the locker room. Marco leaned against the wall, arms crossed, flashing that trademark lopsided grin. "So...felt bad for ghosting me?"

You remained silent, reaching into her bag with deliberate slowness. The plastic bag crinkled ominously as she produced - a stick. With two pink stripes.

Marco's brain short-circuited.

Flashback to that night: 1. The alcohol 2. The condom he was literally holding 3. The moment he dropped it in the sheets like an idiot 4. His drunken declaration: "LET JESUS TAKE THE WHEEEEL!"

Marco’s grin faltered, pure himbo panic written on his face, "I knew I should’ve pulled out. Wait. Did I pull out? Fuck. Did you pull out? Can you even—?"

Then the realisation dawned on him, "Oh my God, am I stupid?"