Chapter 15
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
étienne
I woke up to warmth.
Not just the physical warmth of blankets and body heat, but something deeper. A warmth that settled in my chest and made me want to stay exactly where I was forever.
Marco was still asleep, his head on my shoulder, one arm draped across my chest. Morning light filtered through the windows, and I could see his face relaxed in sleep. The worry lines that had been etched between his eyebrows for days were gone. He looked peaceful. Content.
He looked like mine.
The thought should have terrified me. A day ago, I’d been convinced I’d spend the rest of my life hiding my feelings. Now I was lying here with him in my arms, and it felt like the most natural thing in the world.
I carefully extracted myself, trying not to wake him. He mumbled something and shifted but stayed asleep. His injured foot was still propped on pillows, the boot securing it in place.
Reality crashed back in as I checked my phone: 7:06 a.m. I had to be at the airport by nine thirty for our flight to Winnipeg. A one-day road trip—fly out that morning, play that evening, fly back the next morning.
Twenty-four hours away from Marco.
The thought made my chest tight. Which was ridiculous. I’d been on road trips before. Lots of them. They were part of the job.
But this time felt different.
I showered quickly, threw on jeans and a comfortable sweater—my usual road trip travel outfit. Packed my toiletries and sleep pants. Made coffee, extra strong, because neither of us had gotten nearly enough sleep.
When I came back to the living room with two mugs, Marco was awake, watching me with an expression I couldn’t quite read.
“Morning,” I said, suddenly nervous. What if he regretted last night? What if, in the light of day, he’d changed his mind?
“Morning.” He took the coffee I offered, his fingers brushing mine. “Ready for your roadie to Winnipeg?”
“Yeah. I’ll be back early tomorrow afternoon.”
A flicker crossed his face. Disappointment, maybe.
“How are you feeling?” I settled on the edge of the coffee table in front of him. “About last night?”
“Scared,” he said honestly. “But good. Really good.” He paused. “You?”
“Same.” I reached out and touched his face, marveling that I could do that. “Any regrets?”
“None.” He leaned into my touch. “You?”
“Not even close.”
We sat there for a moment, just looking at each other. His beard needed to be trimmed, and his hair stuck up on one side. He looked rumpled and sleepy and so damn beautiful it made my chest ache.
“I have to leave soon,” I said reluctantly.
“I know.”
“Will you be okay? I can call Kinnunen’s wife, have her check on you—”
“étienne.” He caught my hand, laced our fingers together. “I’ll be fine. I’ve been managing with the crutches for over a week now. I can feed myself, navigate the bathroom, get what I need. I’m not completely helpless.”
“I know you’re not. I just—” I squeezed his hand. “I don’t want to leave you.”
“It’s one day. You’ll be back tomorrow.”
“Still too long.”
He smiled, and it transformed his whole face. “You’re kind of adorable when you’re worried.”
“I’m not adorable. I’m appropriately concerned.”
“You’re adorable.” He pulled me closer. “But I promise I’ll be fine. Go play hockey. Score some goals. Come home safe.”
I hesitated, the newness of this—of us—making me uncertain.
But then I caught the welcome in his eyes, and I kissed him instead of answering.
Gentle and slow, pouring everything I couldn’t say into the press of my lips against his.
My hands cupped his face, thumbs tracing his cheekbones as I tried to memorize every detail—the softness of his mouth, the tickle of his beard, the way he sighed into the kiss like he’d been waiting for it.
He tasted like coffee and his unique flavor, and I wanted to chase that taste, to learn it by heart.
My gut sank with the weight of having to stop, having to wait until the next day to feel this again.
It felt impossible, the loss already creeping in before I’d even pulled away.
So, I kissed him slower, deeper, trying to make it last, trying to hold onto the warmth spreading through me and the way my heart kicked against my ribs every time he made that small sound in the back of his throat.
“I should go,” I said eventually, even though everything in me wanted to stay.
“Yeah.”
I stood up and grabbed my bag. Paused at the door.
“Text me,” I said. “If you need anything. Even if you just want to talk.”
“I will. You too.”
“I’ll probably text too much.”
“Good.” He was smiling. “I want you to.”
I backtracked for one more quick kiss—I couldn’t help myself—and then I forced myself out the door.
The drive to the airport felt longer than usual. I kept thinking about Marco on that couch, alone in the house, managing his recovery without me there to help.
It was stupid to worry this much. He was a grown man. A professional athlete. He’d survived thirty-two years and previous injuries without me hovering over him.
But I’d gotten used to taking care of him. Used to being the one who made sure he ate, took his meds, iced his foot on schedule. Used to being needed.
And maybe I just wanted an excuse to stay close.
At the airport, I found my seat on the team jet next to Kinnunen. He looked up from his phone as I settled in.
“Hey. How’s Morelli doing?”
“Good. Better. Getting around on the crutches pretty well now.”
“That’s good.” Kinnunen studied me for a moment. “You look better too. Less stressed.”
My face heated. “Yeah?”
“Yeah. Past few days you’ve been wound tight. Today you seem more relaxed.” He grinned. “Good night’s sleep finally?”
If only he knew.
“Yeah.”
We landed in Winnipeg around noon local time. The routine kicked in—check into the hotel, drop bags, head to the arena for a light skate, pregame nap, dinner as a team, back to the arena.
I texted Marco throughout the day.
étienne
Landed. Hotel’s nice.
étienne
Just finished skate. How’s your foot?
étienne
About to nap. You eating lunch?
His responses came quickly, which eased some of the worry.
Marco
Glad you landed safe. I’m fine. Stop worrying.
Marco
Foot’s the same. Did my stretches.
Marco
Just ate a sandwich. Not as good as the ones you make.
That last one made me smile like an idiot.
In the locker room before the game, my phone buzzed with another message.
Marco
Good luck tonight. I’ll be watching.
I was typing a response when Boucher’s voice cut through the room.
“Savard. You planning to play hockey tonight or just text your girlfriend all during the game?”
I looked up. He was watching me with that expression I’d learned to hate—smug, knowing, challenging.
“Just checking in with Morelli,” I said evenly. “Making sure he’s got everything he needs.”
“Right. Morelli.” Boucher’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “You two are attached at the hip lately. Can’t even go on a road trip without constant communication.”
Several guys looked over. Interested. Curious.
“He’s recovering from surgery,” I said. “He’s doing better. Thanks for asking.”
“You’re very dedicated.” The emphasis on that word again. “Almost like you’re married or something.”
The locker room went quiet. Not completely silent, but enough that people were definitely paying attention now.
“He’s my best friend,” I said, keeping my voice level even though my heart was pounding. “And my teammate. That’s what teammates do.”
“If you say so.” Boucher turned away, dismissing me.
I shoved my phone in my duffel and focused on getting ready. I taped my stick, checked my equipment, ran through my pregame mental preparation.
But my hands were shaking.
Boucher was getting bolder. More direct.
I forced it out of my mind. Had to focus on the game. On doing my job. Couldn’t let Boucher’s bullshit distract me.
Except I couldn’t stop thinking about it.
Every time I stepped onto the ice, Boucher’s voice echoed in my head. Almost like you’re married or something. The smirk. The insinuation. The threat barely hidden beneath the surface.
And underneath that, everything else I was trying not to think about: what I was, what Marco and I had become, what would happen if anyone found out.
My head wasn’t clear. It was chaos.
First period, I fumbled a pass in the neutral zone that led to a turnover. Winnipeg scored thirty seconds later.
Second period, I lost my man on a defensive zone faceoff. He scored. My fault. Again.
I couldn’t find my timing, read the plays, or do anything right. Every shift felt like moving through mud. My instincts—the thing I’d always relied on—had completely abandoned me.
Coach benched me for most of the third period. Just a handful of shifts when he had no other choice.
We lost 4–1.
In the locker room, no one said anything to me. Guys stripped out of their gear in silence, avoiding eye contact. The disappointment was thick enough to choke on.
Coach didn’t pull me aside. Didn’t need to. We both knew.
Kinnunen paused on his way to the showers. “You okay?”
“Fine.”
He didn’t believe me. I could see it in his face. But he didn’t push. Just nodded and walked away.
I’d thought figuring out I was bisexual would help. Thought telling Marco, having him say it back, would make everything clearer.
Instead, I was playing worse than ever.
Back at the hotel, I collapsed onto the bed and stared at the ceiling.
My phone lit up with a message from Marco.
Marco
You okay?
I stared at the text. He’d watched the game. Seen me fall apart. Knew exactly how badly I’d played.
étienne
No.
Three dots appeared, disappeared, appeared again.
Marco
We’ll figure it out. You’ll be home tomorrow.
étienne
What if I can’t figure it out? What if this is just who I am now?
Marco
It’s not. You’re just in your head. Once you stop overthinking it—
étienne
I can’t stop overthinking it. That’s the problem.
A long pause. Then:
étienne
Miss you.
Marco
I’ve been thinking about kissing you all day.
Heat flooded through me. I typed back.
étienne
Good. Because I’ve been thinking about it too.
Marco
Can’t wait for you to get back.
étienne
Same
We texted back and forth for another hour. Nothing important, really. Just talking. The kind of conversations we’d always had, but different. Weighted with new meaning. With the knowledge of what we were to each other.
Eventually, I had to sleep. Early flight in the morning.
étienne
Goodnight. See you tomorrow.
Marco
Night. Fly safe.
The flight home felt endless.
I’d never been this impatient to get back from a road trip. Usually, I was tired, ready to rest, maybe grab something to eat on the way. Today, all I wanted was to get home. To Marco.
We landed around one. I grabbed my bag, said quick goodbyes, and drove home faster than I probably should have.
My Jeep was barely in park before I was out, grabbing my bag, and heading for the door.
It opened before I could reach it.
Marco stood there on his crutches, smiling, and my stomach cartwheeled.
I dropped my bag on the porch and crossed the distance between us in three strides. He steadied himself against the doorframe as I reached him, and then I was pulling him close, careful of his foot but needing to touch him, to hold him, to confirm he was real and there and mine.
“Hey,” he said softly, leaning into me.
“Hey.” I buried my face in his neck, breathing him in. “Missed you.”
“It was less than twenty-four hours.”
“Still too long.”
He laughed, and I felt it vibrate through his chest into mine. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Don’t care.” I pulled back enough to see his face. “How’s your foot?”
“Same as it was yesterday. How was the flight?”
“Boring. Made me appreciate being home.”
“This is home now?” His expression opened. Vulnerability. Hope.
I realized what I’d said. Called his place home. Not “your place” or “the house.” Home.
“Yeah,” I said, meaning it. “This is home.”
He kissed me then, right there in the doorway where any neighbor could see.
Ben Goas walking his dog. Jessica Bonnefield, who’d shown up with a chicken casserole that first day.
But I didn’t care. Didn’t care about anything except the fact that I was here with him, and I didn’t have to pretend anymore.
At least not when we were home.
Eventually, I grabbed my bag from the porch and closed the door. I helped Marco back to the couch, even though he insisted he could manage fine.
“About my apartment.” I settled beside him. “My landlord called yesterday. Maybe another month. Six weeks at most.”
A month. Six weeks. And then I’d go back to my place.
“What if it takes longer?” I found myself saying. “What if they find more damage or whatever?”
He studied my face. “Are you hoping your apartment stays damaged?”
“Maybe.”
“étienne—”
“I don’t want to leave.” The words came out more honest than I’d intended. “I know that’s selfish. I know you need your own space. But I don’t want this to end.”
“This?” He gestured between us. “Or living together?”
“Both. Either. I don’t know.” I ran my hand through my hair, frustrated with my inability to articulate what I was feeling. “I just know I don’t want to go back to how things were before.”
He was quiet for a moment, his thumb rubbing small circles on my knee. “Your apartment getting fixed doesn’t mean we have to stop… this. Us. We’ll just have to figure out how to do it with more distance.”
“I don’t want distance.”
“Neither do I. But we can’t stay in this bubble forever.” His expression was gentle but serious. “Eventually, we have to figure out how to be together in the real world. With games, practices, separate spaces, and people watching.”
I knew he was right.
But I didn’t want to think about eventually. Didn’t want to think about Boucher’s suspicions or my father’s homophobia or all the complications waiting outside these walls.
Right now, I just wanted him. I wanted to pretend we could have this without consequence.
“One month,” I said. “At least one more month of me being here.”
“At least,” he agreed. “Maybe six weeks if we’re lucky.”
“I’ll take it.”
He leaned in and kissed me, slow and sweet, and I let myself believe—just for a moment—that maybe we could make this work.
That maybe home wasn’t a place but a person.
And I’d found mine.