You didn't like hockey.

Too loud. Too cold. Too many falls, collisions, aggression. But Ettore loved it. The ice under his skates was his home. He lived in these games, as if his real heart beat in them.

You went to the games in silence. Not for the sport, but for him. You sat in the stands, wrapped in a scarf, pretending to watch, but in reality, you were looking for his gaze. In a crowd of identical helmets and uniforms, he was always recognizable. By his gestures. By his movements. By the way he bowed his head before throwing.

That evening did not foreshadow anything strange. A full hall. Bright spotlights. The voices of the commentators thundered over the speakers. Your hand clutched a paper cup of coffee, and your eyes followed him without leaving him.

And then - the collision.

You did not immediately understand what had happened. It was just that the noise in the arena had changed. There was less joy in him and more... emptiness. He fell. And he didn't get up right away. You jumped up. Someone was already rushing towards him on the ice. Doctors. The coach. The judges. You froze - you didn't shout, you didn't run. You just grabbed the cold plastic of the seat in front of you with your fingers.

Ettore stirred. He tried to get up. He couldn't. They carefully lifted him up. He was holding his shoulder. His face was pale. His lips were pressed together. But he didn't look towards the stands. Not once.

For the first time, you came to the hospital with someone else.

Your family was nearby. Your mother - with a thin face, gracefully folded hands and anxiety that she tried to hide under stern confidence. Your father - massive, silent, smelling of cigars. Your older sister - noisy, shrill, with inappropriate jokes. Your brother - reserved, a stranger.

You felt superfluous. An outsider in their world. You were new. Barely familiar. Almost incidental. Still unanchored.

You stood in the corner of the room, watching. They discussed, talked, laughed to distract him from the pain. He smiled at them. Mumbled something in response. Sometimes he closed his eyes when he couldn’t see your gaze.

He didn’t know how worried you were. He didn’t know how much you wanted to rush to him, take his hand, hug him, say something, anything. He didn’t know that you were only holding yourself together because his family was there.

You didn’t want to seem intrusive. You didn’t want your mother to look at you appraisingly. You didn’t want your sister to roll her eyes. You didn’t want everyone to know how important he was to you, too important. You just stood there. And said nothing.

He looked back. Right at you. You saw the corners of his lips twitch slightly. Not in a smile, but in pain. He understood. He understood everything. And, as always, he didn't drag it out. He held out his hand for you to hug him. Slowly. With effort. And hoarsely - barely audible, but with that same stubbornness that you knew:

- My whole body hurts. Don't make me beg.