I looked at them. He was right. They were resting on his hip, loose and open, and they were perfectly still. Not controlled still. Not forced still. Genuinely, naturally, peacefully still.
"No," I said. "They're not."
"That's not the bread."
"No. That's not the bread."
He kissed my knuckles one more time. Soft. A callback to the equipment room, the gesture that had started everything, transposed into a different key.
"You don't have to fight anymore," he said.
"Fighting is my job."
"Your job can change. You can change. The roster spot is not worth your hands. Your hands are not worth less than your job. Your hands bake bread and hold mine and just made me come so hard I saw colors, and I refuse to accept that they exist primarily to punch people."
I laughed. The sound was watery and unexpected and real. Luca's face lit up the way it always did when I laughed, as if thesound was a gift he hadn't expected to receive and was going to treasure disproportionately.
"Colors?" I said.
"Shut up. It's a compliment."
"Which colors?"
"I'm not telling you which colors. The point is that your hands are capable of a wide range of activities and fighting should be the least of them."
I pulled him closer. He came willingly, tucking himself against my chest, his face in the hollow of my throat. His breathing slowed. His body softened. The warmth of him against me was specific and total and necessary.
"Luca."
"Mm."
"I'm going to talk to Coach."
"About what?"
"About transitioning out of the enforcer role. About playing actual hockey."
He lifted his head. His eyes were bright and wet and the gold flecks were catching the lamplight.
"Really?"
"You said my hands are worth more than a roster spot. I'd like to find out if that's true."
"It's true."
"Then I'd like to prove it. On the ice. With actual hockey instead of fighting."
He kissed me. Hard and quick and full of something that was not just attraction or affection but pride, which was an emotion I had not frequently been the recipient of and which landed in my chest like a stone thrown into still water, sending ripples in every direction.
"I'm proud of you," he said.
"You're crying."
"I'm not crying. I'm expressing moisture."
"Expressing moisture is crying."
"It's a different category. Ask my nonna. She has a taxonomy."