Chapter 10
CHAPTER TEN
étienne
It had been a day since the shower, and everything was wrong.
Not obviously wrong. Not in a way that someone looking in from the outside would notice.
We still went through the motions—me making coffee in the morning, Marco waking later, both of us scrolling through our phones in silence.
Me making sure he took his medications, fetching what he needed, making sure he ate.
But now there was this awareness between us. A charged silence that felt like walking on thin ice, where every word had to be carefully chosen, every movement deliberate and considered.
Marco wouldn’t quite meet my eyes. I kept finding excuses to be in another room.
And I missed him. Missed the friendship we’d had before I’d seen his hard cock in the shower and felt things that confused me.
“You ready for PT exercises?” I asked, looking at my phone instead of at him.
“Yeah. Sure.”
The physical therapist had given him a list of simple exercises to do at home. Mostly just range of motion stuff, keeping the muscles active while his foot healed. Today’s assignment was leg raises—lying on his back, lifting his injured leg straight up, holding it for ten seconds.
Simple. Clinical. Nothing that should feel complicated.
Except everything felt complicated now.
I helped him down to the floor and positioned a pillow under his head. I tried not to notice the way his gym shorts had ridden up slightly, exposing more of his thighs and how his tanned legs paled closer to the top. The way his T-shirt molded to his abs.
Tried and failed.
“Okay,” I said, settling beside him. “Raise your leg, ten reps, hold for ten seconds each. I’ll count.”
He nodded, jaw tight. Whether from anticipated pain or something else, I couldn’t tell.
He lifted his leg—the one in the boot—and I instinctively reached out to spot him, my hand settling lightly on his bare calf just above the boot.
His skin was warm under my palm. I could feel the flex of muscle as he held the position, could feel the slight tremor of effort.
“One,” I counted. “Two. Three…”
I’d helped him with exercises dozens of times before, spotted him through countless reps, but I’d never noticed his unexpectedly soft leg hair or the constellation of tiny moles just above his right knee. “Eight, nine, ten. Good. Bring it down slowly.”
He lowered his leg, and I should have moved my hand. Should have pulled back, given him space.
But my hand stayed on his calf, thumb absently brushing against his skin. His eyes flicked to me, dark and unreadable, then away.
“Again,” I said, my voice rougher than it should have been.
We went through all ten reps like that. Me counting, him lifting, my hand resting on his calf to feel the muscles contract and release with each rep. The hair there was nearly black compared to my own light blond. I was noticing details I had no reason to notice. Things I didn’t have words for.
By the end, we were both breathing harder than the exercise warranted.
“That’s good,” I said. “You’re done.”
“Okay.”
Neither of us moved.
“I should…” He gestured vaguely at the couch. “Get up.”
“Right. Yeah.”
I stood and positioned myself to help him up. He reached for my hands, and I pulled him to standing, trying to be careful of his foot, trying to make sure he was stable.
But pulling him up meant pulling him close.
And suddenly he was right there. Right in front of me. Close enough that I could see the darker flecks in his brown eyes, could count the individual whiskers in his beard, could feel the warmth radiating off his body.
Close enough that I could feel his breath ghosting across my cheek.
Close enough that when his gaze dropped to my mouth, I felt it like a physical touch.
Time slowed. Stopped. The whole world narrowed to this—Marco’s face inches from mine, his hands still gripping mine, his eyes on my lips.
I wanted to kiss him.
The realization hit like a hard check to the boards. Sharp and undeniable and completely terrifying.
I wanted to close the distance between us. To know what his mouth would feel like against mine. Pull him closer and never let go.
I was leaning in. I realized it with a shock—my body was moving forward, pulled by something I didn’t understand, drawn toward him like gravity.
His breath hitched. His eyes widened slightly.
And I froze.
What the fuck was I doing?
I jerked back, my hands releasing his so fast he swayed. I shoved my shoulder under his arm, but that felt like too much contact. As soon as he had his balance, I practically thrust him toward the couch. “Careful,” I said, the word coming out harsh. “Don’t put weight on your broken foot.”
He sank onto the cushions, and I stepped back. Put the coffee table between us like a barrier. My hands shook, and I jammed them in my pockets.
“You good?” I asked, and my voice came out strange. Too high. Too tight.
“Yeah.” He wasn’t looking at me anymore. “I’m good.”
“I should—” I gestured at nothing. “I need to get ready. Game tonight.”
“Right. The game.”
I practically ran to my room.
I closed the door behind me and stood with my back against it, my heart hammering like I’d just finished bag skates.
What the hell was that?
My hands were still shaking. I pulled them from my pockets and stared at them like they belonged to someone else. They’d been touching Marco seconds ago—steadying him, pulling him up, feeling the solid warmth of him—and now they were trembling.
When he’d been close—right there, his face inches from mine, his breath warm against my skin— panic and want had twisted in my chest. Sharp and confusing, warring with each other, making me want to pull him closer and shove him away at the same time.
I didn’t understand it. Didn’t understand the way my pulse had spiked when I’d looked into his eyes.
Why I’d jerked back like he’d burned me, and I’d practically thrown him at the couch just to get distance between us.
He was my friend. My best friend. And I was acting like… like what? Like I was afraid of him? That didn’t make sense.
I pushed off the door and moved to my closet, pulling out my game day clothes with more force than necessary. My hands were still unsteady.
This was stupid. I was being stupid. Marco needed help and I was making it weird, making it awkward, because of some momentary… what? Panic? Discomfort?
I didn’t even know what to call it.
All I knew was that standing that close to him had felt different than it should have. Had felt like something I needed to escape from before I did something I couldn’t take back.
Though what that something was, I couldn’t begin to explain.
My phone buzzed. Team group chat—someone posting about tonight’s game, some joke about Tampa’s goalie.
The game. Right. I had a game in three hours.
I needed to focus. Needed to get my head together, push all this confusion aside, and do my job.
I could figure out my crisis later. After we beat Tampa. After I got some distance from Marco and could think clearly.
I dressed in a sweater and chinos—the league had relaxed the rules on game-day suits—and grabbed my duffel bag. I tried to get myself into the right headspace.
But every time I closed my eyes, I saw Marco’s face inches from mine. Saw the way his eyes had darkened. Saw the moment I’d almost—
No. Not thinking about it.
I had to go downstairs eventually. Had to say goodbye before heading to the arena.
Marco was settled on the couch, his expression a mask. We didn’t look at each other.
“I called my personal trainer,” he said quietly. “He’s coming tomorrow to help me work out in my home gym. He can handle the PT exercises from now on.”
My chest twisted with guilt, maybe. Or relief. I couldn’t tell. “You don’t have to do that. I can still—”
“It’s fine.” He cut me off. “He knows what he’s doing. It makes more sense.”
“Right.” I shoved my hands in my pockets. “That’s probably better anyway.”
His jaw tightened, but he didn’t respond.
I stood there awkwardly, feeling like I should say something, apologize for something, explain something I didn’t understand myself. But the words wouldn’t come.
I’d let him down. That much was obvious. He’d needed help and I’d made it weird, made it uncomfortable, made him feel like he had to find someone else.
But underneath the guilt was relief. Sharp and undeniable.
I wouldn’t have to help him with exercises anymore. To touch him, be that close, feel whatever the hell I’d felt.
“Good luck tonight,” he said.
“Thanks.” I adjusted my bag on my shoulder, suddenly desperate to leave. “I’ll text you after.”
“Yeah. Okay.”
The silence stretched between us, heavy with everything we weren’t saying.
“étienne—”
“I should go. Don’t want to be late.”
I left before he could finish whatever he’d been about to say. Before I had to acknowledge what had almost happened.
The drive to the arena passed in a blur. My mind wouldn’t stop replaying the moment—the way he’d looked at me, the pull I’d felt, the split second before I’d caught myself.
Had he wanted it too? Or had I imagined that? Was I reading things into his expression that weren’t there?
In the locker room, I went through my pregame ritual on autopilot. Taping my stick at Marco’s stall even though he wasn’t there, checking my equipment, going through the routines I’d done thousands of times.
But my mind was back at the house. Back in that moment when I’d almost crossed a line I couldn’t uncross.
“You good, Savard?” Kinnunen asked, pausing by my cubby.
“Yeah. Fine. Why?”
“You seem off.”
“Just tired. Taking care of Morelli, you know.”
“How’s he doing today?”
“Fine. He’s fine.”
“Let me know if you and Marco need anything. I’m happy to help.” Then he nodded and moved on.
The game started, and I tried to focus. Tried to get into the flow and let my instincts take over.
But I couldn’t find my rhythm.
My passes were off. My positioning was wrong. I kept losing track of the puck, getting caught flat-footed, making reads that were too slow or too late.