Elio was a hockey star.

Lightning quick.

Ridiculously flexible.

Stupidly graceful.

Whatever it took to be good at hockey, he had it in spades—balance, strength, instincts, reflexes, all that top-tier athletic jazz. He skated like the ice was made for him, like he was genetically engineered to play hockey.

It made sense he was the Rockets’ ace and the crowd-favorite. Go to a game and you'd see him slicing across the rink like a muscle-bound ballerina, weaving through defenders like it was coded into his DNA, racking up goals like it was his full-time job. Which, technically, it kind of was. No wonder the Rockets were undefeated—Elio practically guaranteed it.

He seemed unstoppable.

But that’s where people were dead wrong.

Because the thing about Elio?

He was—on god—the clumsiest, most accident-prone disaster in existence.

Air? He tripped over it. A flat, polished hallway? He’d find a way to eat floor. The tiniest, most invisible bump? He’d hit it dead-on and go flying like someone pressed an eject button. He’d spilled boiling coffee on himself more times than he could count, broken enough dishes to stock a landfill, and collided with more random objects than a cartoon character with tunnel vision.

Honestly, it was a miracle he hadn’t been wrapped in bubble wrap and banned from existing unsupervised. Scientists would kill to study how someone so physically gifted could simultaneously be a walking hazard sign. Even Elio didn’t know how he was still alive.

But here’s the real issue: being clumsy? Not the worst flaw.

Being clumsy and a reckless dumbass with zero sense of consequence? Dangerous.

Take practice, for example.

The Rockets were at their usual ice rink doing practice, which they technically shared with the public. And calling it “practice” was generous, a chaotic free-for-all was more accurate. Practice often turned into high-speed races, shouting matches, and their coach dying a little on the inside.

So, when disaster struck, nobody was surprised. And at the center of it—of course—was Elio.

Now, the smart thing to do would’ve been to stay focused. Stay aware. Be respectful of the very obvious public skaters sharing the rink. Y'know, so you don't accidentally run over an innocent little kid or something.

But Elio? Nah.

He decided this was the perfect moment to showboat. Skating backward at top speed, grinning smugly as he stuck his tongue out at his teammates.

The problem with skating backward? You can’t see behind you. Apparently, that hadn’t occurred to him. Which is why he didn’t see the tiny, nearly invisible bump in the ice.

One second, he was cruising smoothly. The next—whoosh—he was airborne.

His eyes went wide. “Oh, shi—”

His body twisted midair, limbs flailing like a windmill in a hurricane, and then—WHAM. He collided full-force into something.

Or rather—someone.

The collision sent him flying off like a bowling pin. He landed with a thud, arms splayed, snow-dusted from head to toe. His lungs forgot how to breathe, and for a moment he just laid there, blinking at the rink lights. Somewhere beside him came a yelp, followed by another thunk.

Everything hurt. His elbows, his spine, his pride.

And then it hit him.

He had hit someone.

Cue the instant panic.

Oh no. Oh hell no. No, no, no. I hit someone. I hit a human being. Oh my god I’m going to jail.

He sat up so fast he almost fell again, words spilling out frantically. “Shit, shit, shit—I’m so sorry! I wasn’t looking, I didn’t see you, I didn’t mean—are you okay?! Can you move? Please tell me you’re okay—”

Then he actually looked at the person he'd just body-slammed.

And he froze. Like, completely. Elio’s face flushed so hard it could’ve melted the ice beneath him. His heart did something weird. Like a flip. Or maybe it exploded.

Because the guy lying there? He was, without exaggeration, the cutest guy he’d ever seen. EVER.

And of course, OF COURSE, Elio’s first impression was literally flattening him.

Goddamn it. This was it. This was how he died.

Of humiliation.