Chapter 11
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Marco
I woke up to silence and a note on the coffee table.
Had to go in early for optional practice. Your meds are laid out. Ice packs in the freezer. Text if you need anything — é
The aloofness of it made my chest ache.
He’d left without waking me. Without our usual morning routine.
Because of what had almost happened yesterday.
Because I’d looked at his mouth, and he’d seen it. Because he’d leaned in—fucking hell, he’d leaned in—and then pulled away like I’d burned him.
I sat up slowly, careful of my foot, and stared at that note. The handwriting was just like étienne, larger than life and slightly messy. The words were practical, caring even.
But his absence was loud.
He’d run. And I didn’t blame him.
I would have run too, if I could have.
My phone rang around ten. Gia’s name flashed on the screen, and I debated not answering. But my sister had a sixth sense for when I was avoiding her, and ignoring the call would just make her more persistent.
“Hey, Gia.”
“Don’t ‘hey, Gia’ me. What’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong. I broke my foot, remember?”
“That’s not what I’m talking about, and you know it.” I heard a chair squeak in the background—she was probably in her office between clients. “You sound weird.”
“I’m on pain meds.” I stretched the truth—I hadn’t taken my prescription medication for a couple of days.
“You’ve been on pain meds for days. This is different.” A pause. “Is it étienne?”
My heart stopped. “What? Why would it be—”
“Because you always sound different when you talk about him. And Mama called me yesterday worried because you wouldn’t let her come take care of you, and you said étienne had everything handled.”
“He does have everything handled.”
“I’m sure he does. But that’s not the point.” Her voice softened. “Marco. Talk to me.”
I wanted to. Jesus Christ, I wanted to tell someone what had happened, what I was feeling, the hope and terror tangled up so tight I couldn’t breathe.
But even with Gia—the only person in my family who knew the truth about me—I couldn’t quite form the words.
“It’s complicated,” I said finally.
“It always is with you.” She sighed. “Are you okay? Really?”
“I don’t know.”
“That’s honest at least.” More creaking. “Look, I have a client in five minutes. But Marco? Whatever’s going on, you deserve to be happy. You know that, right?”
“Yeah.”
“I don’t think you do. But you should.”
After we hung up, I sat there staring at my phone.
You deserve to be happy.
Did I? Did I deserve to want my best friend? Did I deserve to hope that maybe, possibly, that moment yesterday had meant something?
Or was I just being selfish, risking everything good for feelings I should have kept buried?
The problem was that I’d spent three years training myself not to notice certain things about étienne. The way he moved, the sound of his laugh, the gentle affection in his touch. Not to let myself want more than friendship.
But lying there on the couch with nothing to do but think, I couldn’t stop my mind from replaying every interaction we’d had since he’d moved in.
The first night after my injury, when he’d slept on the other side of the couch “in case I needed anything.” The way he’d learned my medication schedule better than I knew it myself. How he’d insisted on helping me shower, even though we’d both known it would be awkward.
The way his hand had felt on my calf during PT exercises the previous day. The way his thumb had brushed against my skin.
Had there been something there? Something I’d missed because I’d been so focused on hiding my own feelings?
Or was I just rewriting history, seeing signs that didn’t exist because I wanted them to?
I thought about all the times over three years when we’d been closer than strictly necessary. When his hand would linger on my shoulder. When we’d fall asleep during movie nights with our knees touching. When he’d crash at my place even before he’d moved in, choosing my couch over his own bed.
Were those signs? Or just friendship?
I didn’t know. Couldn’t trust my perception when I wanted so badly for them to mean something.
The morning dragged on. I tried to watch TV, tried to read a romance novel on my iPad—to do anything that would stop my mind from spiraling.
But I couldn’t stop thinking about that almost-kiss. Maybe all those love stories were skewing my perception. Was étienne thinking about it too? Did he regret it? Was he trying to figure out how to ask me if he could move out without making it awkward?
I wondered if he’d felt even a fraction of what I’d felt in that moment, or if I was living in a fantasy world where hockey players could be gay and fall in love with each other.
Afternoon came. One o’clock, then one thirty, then two. étienne usually got home by noon after practice. Even when he had to stick around for training or treatment, he was rarely this late.
He was avoiding coming home. Avoiding me.
The realization hurt more than it should have.
At two thirty, I heard his Jeep pull up to the curb. The front door opened, and he came in, still in his post-practice sweats, looking exhausted.
“Hey,” he said, not quite meeting my eyes.
“Hey.”
He set his bag down by the door, ran his hand through his hair. “Sorry I’m late. Got caught up with… stuff.”
“It’s fine.”
Silence stretched between us, heavy and awkward. This wasn’t us. We didn’t do awkward silences. We’d always been able to talk about anything.
Except this, apparently.
“You eat lunch?” he asked finally.
“Not yet.”
“I’ll make something.”
He disappeared into the kitchen, and I listened to him moving around. Opening cabinets, running water, the clink of dishes.
Normal sounds. Domestic sounds. The kind of sounds we’d fallen into over weeks of living together.
But nothing felt normal anymore.
He brought out sandwiches twenty minutes later and settled on the other leg of the sectional.
We ate in silence for a few minutes before I couldn’t take it anymore.
“About yesterday—”
“It’s fine,” he said quickly. Too quickly. “Don’t worry about it.”
“étienne—”
“I was just trying to help you up, and we got too close. That’s all.” He wasn’t looking at me, his eyes fixed on his plate. “Nothing to make a big deal about.”
The dismissal shouldn’t have stung as much as it did. I’d known he’d pull back, known he’d want to pretend it hadn’t happened.
But hearing him say it—hearing him reduce that moment to nothing—made my gut tighten.
“Right,” I managed. “Yeah. No big deal.”
“Good.” He stood, gathering plates even though we’d barely finished eating. “I’m going to head upstairs. Do some laundry. It’s been piling up and I—yeah.” His eyes stayed fixed on the dishes in his hands, carefully avoiding mine.
The laundry excuse was paper thin, and we both knew it.
But I didn’t call him on it. Just watched him carry the plates to the kitchen, shoulders tight, moving like he couldn’t get away fast enough. “Okay.”
He slid the plates into the dishwasher. “Need anything?”
“I’m fine.”
He nodded and headed for the stairs, pausing at the bottom. For a second, I thought he might say something else. Might acknowledge the tension between us.
But he just said, “I’ll grab your laundry.”
“Thanks.”
His footsteps retreated up the stairs.
And I was alone again.
The shame hit then, washing over me in waves.
This was my fault. I’d corrupted our friendship with my inability to keep my feelings hidden. Had made him uncomfortable in his own temporary home. Had put him in a position where he had to pretend nothing had happened just to make living here bearable.
The guilt my mother had instilled in me rose, familiar and suffocating. This was why wanting men was wrong. Not because of some abstract moral code, but because of this—because wanting led to hurt, to broken friendships, to shame that felt like drowning.
I should never have let myself feel this way about étienne. Should have kept the walls up, kept the cautious suppression I’d maintained for seventeen years.
But I’d let him in. Let him take care of me, let him see me vulnerable, let myself imagine—just for a moment—that maybe I could have this.
And now I was paying the price.
I had three choices. Three possible paths forward.
One. Pretend it never happened. Follow étienne’s lead, never mention it again and hope that eventually things would go back to the way they’d been. Hope that we could rebuild the easy friendship we’d lost.
Two. Acknowledge it. Bring it up again, force a conversation about what had almost happened, risk losing him entirely when he confirmed what I already knew—that it had meant nothing, that he’d just gotten caught up in the moment, that he could never feel that way about me.
Three. Ask him to leave. Ask him to make other arrangements. Tell him I could manage on my own. Protect us both by creating distance before things got worse.
I lay there on the sectional, turning over each option, hating all of them.
Pretending felt like cowardice. But acknowledging it felt like self-destruction. And asking him to leave felt like giving up the only time in my life I’d ever felt truly seen. Even the awkwardness, the longing, the shame—all of it was better than not having him in my life at all.
I didn’t know which scared me more—the risk of losing him by speaking up, or the certainty of losing myself by staying silent.
Every time I closed my eyes, I felt it again. His hands on mine, pulling me up. The heat of his body close to mine. The way his eyes had darkened when he’d looked at my mouth.
The way he’d leaned in, just slightly, before catching himself.
That moment played on a loop in my mind, tormenting me. Because for just a second—just one brief, impossible second—I’d thought maybe he wanted it too.
But he’d pulled away. And today he’d dismissed it as nothing. I was left here with this want that had nowhere to go, these feelings that would never be returned.
Then it hit me. He was going to get my laundry. In my room. Had I left anything out that would give me away? He had no reason to look under the sink or look under my pillow. My heart raced, but there was nothing I could do.
I stared at the ceiling and made up my mind.
As long as he didn’t find my stash, I’d choose option one. I’d pretend it never happened. I’d bury my feelings deeper than before and hope they suffocated there.