Chapter 6
CHAPTER SIX
étienne
Getting Marco from the hospital lobby to my Grand Cherokee should not have been so complicated.
He was on crutches, right foot encased in a bulky non-weight-bearing boot, moving with a concentration that meant every step hurt more than he was letting on.
The nurse had wheeled him out of the ER—hospital policy—but now he was trying to navigate the few steps between the wheelchair and my SUV parked at the curb on his own.
I could see the strain in his jaw, the way his knuckles were white around the crutch grips.
“I’ve got you.” I slid an arm around his waist to take some of his weight.
“I’m fine.”
“Sure you are. That’s why you look like you’re about to pass out.”
“I’m not—”
“Marco.” I tightened my grip, guiding him toward the open door. “Shut up and let me help you.”
He didn’t argue after that, which told me exactly how not-fine he was.
Getting him into the passenger seat required coordination we didn’t have.
The boot didn’t fit in the footwell properly, and the crutches kept getting in the way.
And by the time we’d figured out the logistics, Marco was pale and breathing hard, and I was ready to fight the entire concept of orthopedic footwear.
“Okay?” I asked once he was settled, seatbelt fastened, boot propped awkwardly against the floorboard.
“Yeah.” His eyes were closed, head back against the headrest. “This is going to be a nightmare, isn’t it?”
“Probably. But we’ll figure it out.”
The drive home was quiet. Marco dozed off somewhere around the third block, pain meds and exhaustion finally catching up to him. I checked on him at every stoplight. I made sure he was breathing okay, that he wasn’t in too much pain, that the boot wasn’t digging into anything it shouldn’t.
Why was I this worried? It was just a broken foot.
People broke bones all the time. He’d heal and be back on the ice in a couple of months.
There was no reason for this knot of anxiety sitting heavy in my chest, no reason I should feel like the entire world had tilted sideways the moment I’d seen him go down on that ice.
But I did feel it. And I didn’t understand it.
By the time we got to his townhouse, I’d already reorganized the living room in my head. Marco wouldn’t be able to manage stairs easily, which meant the couch was going to be his home base for a while. Which meant we needed to make the couch actually livable.
“Stay here,” I told him as I parked at the curb. “I’m going to set some stuff up first.”
“étienne, I can—”
“Stay. Here.”
I was inside before he could protest further, moving through the house with purpose. A pillow from his room. Extra blankets from his closet. Coffee table moved closer to the sectional for water, meds, phone, remote. Ice packs from the freezer. His laptop. Chargers.
I was in the middle of rearranging the furniture when I realized what I was doing—building a command center, creating a space where Marco could have everything he needed within arm’s reach without having to move.
Nesting. I was basically nesting.
The thought was so ridiculous I almost laughed. Except it didn’t feel ridiculous. It felt necessary.
When I went back out to my SUV, Marco had managed to get the door open but was clearly trying to figure out the physics of getting himself out without landing face-first on the sidewalk.
“I’ve got you,” I said again, and it was starting to sound like a mantra.
This time, he didn’t argue. Just let me help him out, take his weight, and guide him slowly up the front walk and into the house.
His reaction when he saw the living room setup was immediate.
“étienne. What did you do?”
“Made you comfortable. You’re going to be down here for a while.”
“You brought a pillow down from my bed?" Marco's voice had gone slightly higher. His eyes fixed on it like I’d brought down something incriminating instead of just a pillow.
“Yeah? You don’t have one down here.”
“You didn’t—” He stopped himself, jaw working. “It’s fine. Thanks.”
But it clearly wasn’t fine. Something about the pillow had thrown him off balance, though I couldn’t figure out what. It was just a pillow from his bed.
I let it go. Whatever was bothering him, he’d tell me if it mattered.
Or not. Marco didn’t exactly excel at sharing.
“I can manage the stairs—”
“Sure. And you could also fall down them and break something else, and then where would we be?” I steered him toward the couch, helped him ease down onto the cushions. “Just accept it. You’re stuck down here, and I’m going to take care of you.”
“You don’t have to—”
“I know I don’t have to. I want to.” I propped his booted foot up on the pile of throw pillows I’d arranged, making sure it was elevated properly. “Now stop arguing with me.”
He watched me move around the living room, his expression unreadable. I could feel his eyes on me as I got him water, organized his pill bottles on the side table according to the schedule the hospital had given us, wrapped an ice pack in a towel and carefully positioned it around his boot.
I stood there for a second, hands in my pockets, feeling oddly… useful. It had been a while since someone actually needed me for something. Since I’d felt like I mattered beyond what I could do on the ice.
“You’re being ridiculous,” he said finally.
“Yep.”
“I’m not an invalid.”
“Nope.”
“I can take care of myself.”
“Sure can. You’re still not going to.” I settled onto the couch beside him, close enough that our hips touched. “You broke your foot just five hours ago. You’re on serious pain meds. You’re not taking care of anything except healing.”
He opened his mouth to protest again, but I cut him off.
“Marco. Let me do this. You helped me. I’ll help you.”
Some of his stubborn independence gave way to exhaustion and pain, and maybe—just maybe—relief that he didn’t have to do this alone.
“Okay,” he said quietly.
“Good.” I grabbed the prescription bottles, reading labels. “You need to take the pain med in four hours. The anti-inflammatory is with food only.”
“You made a schedule.”
“Hospital gave me a schedule. I just wrote it down in a way that makes sense.” I’d set alarms on my phone, but he didn’t need to know that.
The first night and day blurred together.
Pain meds every six hours. Ice packs every hour—twenty minutes on, forty minutes off.
Keeping his foot elevated. Making sure he ate something before taking pills.
Watching him doze fitfully on the couch, jerking awake whenever the pain spiked, then settling back into uneasy sleep.
I moved through the house like I was on a mission, anticipating needs before he could voice them. Water glass empty? Filled. Ice pack melting? Switched out. Pillow slipping? Adjusted.
Taking care of him could have felt like a burden. Instead, it felt… right. Like I had a purpose beyond hockey. Like I mattered to someone in a way that had nothing to do with how many goals I scored.
My hand seemed to find him constantly. Checking his forehead for fever even though the hospital had said infection risk was low. Adjusting the blanket over him. Touching his shoulder when I asked if he needed anything. My fingers lingering on his knee when I repositioned his leg.
“You’re hovering,” Marco said, his voice rough from sleep and pain meds.
“I’m not hovering. I’m being appropriately concerned.”
“You’ve adjusted my pillows four times in the last hour.”
“They keep slipping.”
“étienne.”
I looked at him. Really looked. He was pale, dark circles under his eyes, but he was watching me with something I couldn’t quite read. Not annoyance. Not quite amusement. Something softer.
“I’m fine,” he said. “You can relax.”
But I couldn’t. The anxiety that had taken root in my chest when I’d seen him go down hadn’t eased.
If anything, it had gotten worse. Every time he winced, every time his jaw tightened with pain, every time he shifted uncomfortably, trying to find a position that didn’t hurt, I felt it like a physical blow.
This wasn’t normal. This level of concern, this need to fix everything, this feeling like the world would end if I couldn’t take away his pain.
I pushed the thought away. Not helpful. Not relevant. Marco was hurt; I was helping him. That’s all this was.
By midnight, I’d iced his foot, given him his meds on schedule, made him eat soup for dinner even though he’d protested he wasn’t hungry, and reorganized the command center at least twice to optimize efficiency.
I’d also texted Coach Wilson that I’d be at practice the next morning but might be late.
Checked the team group chat to make sure no one needed anything from Marco.
Responded to approximately fifteen texts from teammates asking how he was doing.
Ignored three calls from my father, who’d probably seen the news about Marco’s injury and wanted to know why I’d left the game.
Marco’s phone buzzed against my hip again—the fourth or fifth call since we’d left the ER. His family, no doubt. His mother would be frantic, his sister worried. They’d want updates, reassurance, to hear his voice and know he was okay.
But Marco was exhausted, hurting, barely keeping his eyes open under the pain medication. He didn't need to comfort anyone right now. Didn’t need to field questions or explain what happened or reassure them he’d be fine.
He could call them back later. When he felt up to it.
For now, I was holding his calls.
Marco had been asleep for an hour, pain meds finally pulling him under into something deeper than the fitful dozing he’d been doing. I should go upstairs. Get some actual sleep in an actual bed.
But the thought of leaving him down here alone made my chest tight.
What if he woke up in pain and couldn’t reach his meds? What if he needed water? What if he tried to get up and fell?
I grabbed a blanket from the closet and spread it over the short side of the sectional. The one perpendicular to Marco’s, close enough that I could reach him if needed.
Just for tonight. Just to make sure he was okay.
I settled onto the cushions, arranging pillows, trying to find a comfortable position. From here I could see Marco’s face, peaceful in sleep despite the pain he’d been in earlier.
This was practical. Made sense. Nothing weird about sleeping on the couch to keep an eye on an injured friend.
Except.
Except it felt like more than practicality. Like this was exactly where I was supposed to be.
I’d slept in the same room as teammates before. Hotel rooms on roadies when I was a rookie, that one time in juniors when the billet housing had gotten mixed up and three of us had ended up sharing a room for a week. It had been fine. Unremarkable.
This didn’t feel unremarkable.
This felt like a bone settling into place that I hadn’t known was out of alignment.
I watched Marco sleep, watched the rise and fall of his chest, watched the way his face relaxed when the pain meds really kicked in. And I felt that too-intense feeling wash over me again—the one that said I would do anything for him, be anything he needed, give up anything if it meant he was okay.
It was too much. Too big. Too complicated to examine in the middle of the night while running on adrenaline and worry and no sleep.
So I pushed it down. Locked it away with all the other things I didn’t have time to think about.
Marco shifted in his sleep, made a small sound of discomfort. I was on my feet before I’d consciously decided to move, adjusting his pillows, checking to make sure the boot wasn’t pressing wrong, brushing the hair back from his forehead because it had fallen into his eyes.
My hand lingered. Just for a second. Just long enough to feel the warmth of his skin, to notice that my heart was beating too fast for someone who was supposedly just helping a friend.
Why did this feel so important? Why did caring for Marco feel like the most crucial thing I’d ever done in my life? More important than hockey, more important than my own comfort, more important than anything?
I didn’t have an answer.