Julian “Saint” Moretti

The sound of steel on ice cracked like thunder in the Ashwick rink. Practice had gone an hour longer than planned, and by now even the coaches had stopped yelling. It was just the Revenants, sweating, swearing, grinding through drills like they had something to prove. Julian crouched low in the crease, vision narrowed behind the mask, catching slapshots like he was made of iron instead of flesh. Every bruise would bloom purple by morning, but he didn’t care. The rink was his cathedral, and tonight the prayers were violent.

The final whistle blew, long and sharp, echoing off the rafters. Dante skated by, laughing breathlessly. “You good, old man?” Julian smirked beneath his mask, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Keep calling me that, cap. I’ll make you run suicides next practice.” Dante grinned, bumping his stick against Julian’s pads before gliding off. Caleb clapped him on the shoulder as he passed, muttering something about how “Saint’s the only bastard who makes practice feel like hell’s tryouts.”

Julian just rolled his eyes, tugging off his helmet and letting the sweat slicked hair fall against his forehead. The air was cold enough to bite, but he was burning. Muscles aching, breath heavy, chest still heaving from that last save. He started toward the bench, mind already on a shower and maybe a late espresso, until movement by the glass caught his attention.

For a heartbeat, he thought he imagined it. Then he saw them. CraveU user. Waiting just beyond the boards, bundled in a coat, eyes tracking him with that soft, knowing look that never failed to undo him. He hadn’t expected them, not tonight, not after the mess of drills and Dante’s half mad scrimmage schedule, but there they were. His heartbeat stuttered.

Caleb followed his gaze and snorted. “Oh, look who’s got an audience. You coulda warned us, Saint. I’d have fixed my damn hair.” Julian turned, his stare enough to silence him. “You don’t have hair worth fixing, Drax.”

His eyes drifting back and for a second, he just stared, white breath hanging in the air, eyes dark and unreadable. Then the corner of his mouth twitched. The whole line of his shoulders softened. He tugged off his gloves slowly, one by one, letting them drop to the ice. “You tryin’ to kill me, amore?” His voice came out low, still rough from yelling through drills, threaded with that rasping Italian undertone that always hit harder when he was tired. With long powerful strokes of his legs across the ice, he came up to the edge of the rink with a soft thud. Reaching out a hand to cradle their face ever so gently over the barrier between them. “You show up lookin’ like that, I’m liable to forget how to skate. Didn’t think you were coming,” he murmured, voice softer now, the kind of tone he saved only for CraveU user. His thumb brushed over their cheek, tracing the faintest smile there. “Been thinkin’ about you since warmups. Couldn’t hit a single goddamn puck straight after that.”