Chapter 10 #2
Everything I did was a half second behind where it should be, and in the NHL, a half second might as well be an hour.
Tampa scored on a play I should have intercepted. I’d been in position, had seen the pass coming, but my body hadn’t reacted fast enough. The puck had gone past me like I wasn’t even there.
Coach Wilson benched me for the rest of the first period.
I sat there watching the game, but all I could see was Marco’s face. I should have been worried about my playing, the trade rumors, when all I could feel was that pull, that want, that moment when I’d almost done something that couldn’t be undone.
Second period, Coach put me back in. I tried to shake it off, tried to play through the distraction.
Made it maybe three shifts before I turned the puck over in the neutral zone and Tampa went the other way for a goal.
Benched again.
“What’s going on with you?” Coach asked when I got to the bench. Not angry yet but getting there. “Your head’s not in this game.”
“Sorry, Coach. I’ll focus.”
“You better. Because this—” He gestured at the ice, at the scoreboard showing us down 1–3. “This isn’t like you.”
Isn’t like you.
Except it was like me now. This was who I’d become—the guy who couldn’t focus, couldn’t execute, couldn’t do the basic things I’d done my entire career.
I used to play on instinct, on feel, on reading the game as it developed. But I couldn't read anything right now except the memory of Marco’s face inches from mine during PT exercises, the moment I’d almost kissed him, the wanting that wouldn’t go away no matter how hard I tried to focus on hockey.
The GM was watching, probably taking notes on every mistake I made. And I was giving him plenty to write about.
Third period, I barely saw ice time. Coach had given up on me. Just a few shifts here and there when he had no other choice, and I fumbled every one of them. Turnover. Missed pass. Wrong position. The trifecta of incompetence.
We lost 2–4.
My worst game of the season. Maybe my worst game in years.
In the locker room after the game, the atmosphere was tense. Losing at home always sucked, but losing when one of your top forwards played like garbage was worse.
Boucher made some comment I didn’t quite catch about focus and commitment. I didn’t have the energy to care.
My phone had a text waiting.
Marco
Tough game. You okay?
I stared at it for a long time. The concern in those four words made my chest tight. Even now, even after what almost happened, he was worried about me. I typed and deleted three different responses before settling on:
étienne
Yeah. Just off tonight.
His reply came immediately.
Marco
Want to talk about it?
No. God, no. I couldn’t talk about it. Couldn’t tell him I’d played like shit because I couldn’t stop thinking about almost kissing him. Couldn’t admit that I was so confused about what I felt I could barely function.
I should go home—to Marco’s house—and face whatever awkwardness was waiting there. Should deal with this like an adult. But the thought of being in that house with Marco right now, with this thing sitting between us unacknowledged…
Except I didn’t have a choice. Marco was my best friend—the most important person in my life.
And the longer I stayed away, the more time he had to assume the worst. To think I’d run because I was disgusted, or uncomfortable, or couldn’t handle whatever had almost happened between us.
I couldn’t let him spiral like that. Couldn’t let one weird moment destroy three years of friendship because I was too much of a coward to face it.
I sat in my Jeep in the arena parking lot for twenty minutes, trying to get my head together. Finally, I started the engine and drove home.
The house was dark except for the lamp by the couch. Marco was still awake, his tablet in his lap, but he set it aside when I came in. “Hey,” he said quietly.
“Hey.”
We looked at each other for a moment, the air between us charged, heavy with everything we weren’t saying.
“You need anything?” I asked, because focusing on logistics was easier than acknowledging what had happened. “Meds? Ice?”
“I’m good. Already took my meds.”
“Okay.” More silence. I wanted to escape to my room, to hide from this awkwardness, but I forced myself to stay. To at least try to be present.
“Game was rough,” Marco said finally.
“Yeah.” I ran a hand through my hair. “Just couldn’t focus.”
“Because of—” He stopped. Started again. “Is everything okay?”
No. Nothing was okay. I’d almost kissed my best friend and now I couldn’t think straight, and I had no idea what I was feeling or what it meant. “Just tired,” I lied. “Long week.”
He nodded, but I could see in his eyes that he didn’t believe me. That he knew something was wrong, even if he didn’t know what.
“I’m going to bed,” I said. “You good down here?”
“Yeah.”
I headed for the stairs, then paused. Looked back at him. He was watching me with an expression I couldn’t read, between worry and something else I didn’t dare name.
“Goodnight, Marco.”
“Night.”
I went upstairs to my room, closed the door, and leaned my forehead against it.
I’d almost kissed Marco. I’d wanted to kiss him so badly it had felt like need.
Like hunger. Like I’d die without it. And I had no idea what that meant.
I didn’t know if he’d wanted it too or if I’d imagined the whole thing.
I didn’t know what would happen the next day, or the day after, or how long we could keep living in this house together with this thing between us.
All I knew for certain was that everything had changed. That whatever we’d been before—the simple friendship we’d built—was gone.