Chapter 12
CHAPTER TWELVE
étienne
I closed my bedroom door behind me and leaned against it, exhaling slowly.
No big deal.
I shook my head sharply. No. Not thinking about it again.
I’d come up here to do laundry. So, I’d do laundry.
My gaze fell on my unmade bed, the sheets rumpled and twisted from a restless and sweaty night of not thinking about Marco. Fine. I’d start with those.
I stripped the bed and bundled the sheets into my arms. Then I paused. This wasn’t even a full load. I might as well do Marco’s sheets too. Save water. Be helpful.
Not at all an excuse to avoid going back downstairs yet.
I headed down the hall to Marco’s room.
I stepped inside, and the lingering scent of his body wash hit me. Spicy and clean and dripping down his body.
Focus. Laundry.
I dropped my sheets to the floor and moved to the bed. Pulled back the comforter, started tugging at the fitted sheet. It came free easily on three corners, but the fourth was wedged tight between the mattress and the wall.
I leaned over and reached into the gap to pull it loose. My fingers brushed against something that wasn’t fabric.
A book.
I pulled it out, along with the sheet, and stared at it.
A well-worn paperback, the spine cracked from multiple readings. The cover showed two men in hockey jerseys—or half out of them, really. Close together, their faces inches apart in a way that was unmistakably intimate.
My brain stuttered to a complete stop.
This was… this was a romance novel. About hockey players. About two men.
Marco had a gay romance novel hidden under his pillow.
My hands moved before my brain caught up. I opened it, flipped through pages, and stopped when I hit a dog-eared corner.
The scene was explicit.
Two characters—teammates, apparently—in a hotel room after a game. One pressed against the wall, the other on his knees. The writing was detailed, unambiguous.
“God, yes, just like that—”
“You feel so good, I can’t—”
Heat flooded my face. I should close the book. Should put it back where I found it. Should absolutely not keep reading.
I kept reading.
My pulse jumped. My breathing went shallow. And my body responded—unmistakably, undeniably.
I was getting hard.
From reading about two men together.
The book slipped from my hands and hit the floor with a soft thud. I stared at it, then at the unmistakable evidence of my arousal, my mind racing in circles.
This was… I was…
Marco had this book. Had hidden it in his bed, marked this specific scene. Why? What did that mean?
But more importantly—more urgently—what did my reaction mean?
My father’s voice echoed in my head, sharp and disgusted when I’d hung a poster of a hockey player in my room: “You’re not one of those boys who likes other boys, are you? Because that’s disgusting. Unnatural. Not in my house.”
I’d been thirteen. Had learned quickly what was acceptable and what wasn’t. Had buried any hint of curiosity so deep I’d convinced myself it didn’t exist.
But it had existed, hadn’t it?
The house party. Eleventh grade. Simon Mercier sitting too close on the bed, his hand on my face, both of us leaning in—
The door had opened. Someone had interrupted. And I’d jerked back, laughing it off, blaming the alcohol. Had avoided Simon for the rest of the school year, told myself it was nothing. Just drunken stupidity. Just teenage confusion.
Everyone thought weird things at that age. It didn’t mean anything.
Except now I was standing in Marco’s bedroom, hard from reading a gay sex scene.
I bent down and picked up the book with shaking hands. Closed it carefully, bent the dog-eared page. Put it back exactly where I’d found it, wedged between the mattress and the wall.
Marco’s book. Marco’s secret.
And now mine too.
I grabbed both sets of sheets and left the room quickly, my mind spinning.
I’d seen Marco reading on his tablet hundreds of times while I played video games. I thought he was reading news, or hockey analysis, or viewing game tape.
What if he’d been reading romance novels all along?
What if that book wasn’t the only one?
What secret was Marco keeping?
Now that I thought about it, after three years of friendship and of us now living together, I’d never once seen Marco with a woman. I’d never heard him mention a past girlfriend. Never caught him looking at a woman or talking about being interested.
I’d noticed it—vaguely, in the back of my mind—but I’d never questioned it. Marco was private. Guarded. He didn’t share personal stuff easily. That was just who he was.
But now, with that book burned into my brain…
Was Marco hiding something he couldn’t tell anyone, not even me? Was he embarrassed to admit he read romances… or was he turned on by this kind of stuff?
In the laundry room, I loaded the sheets into the washing machine, added a detergent pod, and pressed start.
And stood there staring as the machine began the wash cycle, trying to make sense of anything that had just happened.
I arrived at the rink the next morning after barely sleeping again, and it felt like a refuge. Hockey, I understood. Hockey made sense.
Or it usually did.
Today, getting dressed in the locker room, I found myself hyperaware of my teammates in a way I’d never been before. Not attracted to them—I wasn’t—but suddenly conscious that I could be. That the possibility existed where it hadn’t before.
The world had shifted. What else had I missed about myself all these years?
Kinnunen caught me staring at nothing, lost in thought.
“Earth to Savard. You in there?”
“Yeah. Sorry. Just thinking about tonight’s game.”
“Right.” He didn’t sound convinced. “You’ve been off lately, man. Everything okay?”
“Fine. Why does everyone keep asking me that?”
“Because you’re acting weird. And you played like shit against Tampa. Even worse than the off games you’ve been having lately, and that’s saying something.” He lowered his voice.“Is it the trade rumors? All the speculation about Boston and Toronto, is that what’s got you so fucked up?”
I hesitated, then shrugged. “Yeah. Probably.”
The lie came easily.
Because the truth was so much worse than trade rumors. Instead, I was having some kind of crisis about being attracted to my best friend. Which made no sense because I wasn’t—
“Look, I get it,” Kinnunen said, misreading my silence as confirmation. “Trade talk is brutal, especially when you’re struggling. But you can’t let it get in your head like this, or you’ll play yourself right out of Colorado.”
“I know.”
“Do you? Because right now you’re playing like someone who’s already given up. Like you’ve accepted you’re getting traded.” He paused. “Stop thinking about the rumors and just play. That’s the only way to make them go away.”
I nodded, letting him believe the problem was trade anxiety and not the complete upheaval of everything I thought I knew about myself.
“Thanks, Kinnunen.”
“Anytime. Now, get ready to actually play hockey.”
I geared up, grateful he’d given me an excuse I could use with everyone else. Trade rumors. That’s why I’m distracted.
So much easier than the truth.
The morning skate was light—game day protocol, just keeping loose. But I couldn’t focus. Kept missing passes, losing track of plays, my mind somewhere else entirely.
Boucher skated by during a water break, close enough that only I could hear him.
“Nice of you to join us today, Savard. Thought maybe you’d be too busy playing nurse.”
I stiffened. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing. Just interesting how dedicated you’ve been to Morelli’s recovery.” His smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Very… devoted.”
The emphasis on that last word felt deliberate. Like he was implying something.
“He’s my teammate. And my friend.”
“Right. It’s just fucking weird how close you two are.” Boucher skated away, leaving me standing there with ice in my veins.
He knew. Or suspected. Or was fishing for confirmation.
Either way, it was a threat.
Back home, I headed straight for my room while Marco was on a call with his physical therapist. I needed space. Needed to think.
My phone rang. My father. Of course.
I almost didn’t answer. But ignoring him just made things worse.
“Hey, Papa.”
“étienne. Finally. I’ve been trying to reach you for days.”
“I’ve been busy. Marco’s recovery—”
“Yes, I’ve heard.” His voice was sharp with disapproval. “Seems like everyone’s talking about how you left the game for him.”
“He needed help. That’s what teammates do.”
“Teammates?” He scoffed. “I played professional hockey for years. Never once did I see teammates act the way you two do. It’s not normal.”
The threat was clear. Not subtle. Not kind.
Just my father, making sure I knew that being anything other than straight would be unacceptable.
“I have to go,” I said. I hung up before I said something I’d regret.
I sat there on my bed, hands shaking, my father’s words echoing in my head.
It’s not normal.
My own father, my only living relative, would reject me if he knew how I’d reacted to Marco’s book. And Marco?
Our friendship would shatter. Marco would reject me for invading his privacy, finding something he’d hidden, something deeply personal, and reading it without permission. For discovering a secret he clearly didn’t want anyone to know.
He’d never forgive me for that violation.
So, I had to keep this buried. Other than my father, Marco was my only family, and losing him wasn’t an option.