Chapter 17
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
étienne
I stood in front of the mirror in Marco’s guest room—my room, technically, though I hadn’t slept there in days—adjusting my sweater.
But today felt different. I was getting ready for a game, knowing I’d come home to my boyfriend.
The word still sent a thrill through me.
I headed downstairs and found him on the couch, his booted foot propped up, tablet in hand. “What’re you reading?” I asked with a smirk. “Getting some tips for later?”
He looked up and his expression shifted. Was that a blush?
“You look good,” he said.
“Thanks.” I did a small turn. “Standard game day uniform.”
He set the tablet aside and held out his hand. I crossed to him and he caught my hand, pulled me closer, then reached up to straighten my sweater at my shoulder.
His hands lingered, smoothing the fabric even though it didn’t need it.
“I wish I was playing,” he said quietly.
The longing in his voice made my gut tighten. “I know.”
“It’s been almost two weeks. I should be there. On the ice. With the team.” He looked up at me. “With you. Getting ready at my stall.”
I sat on the edge of the coffee table and faced him. “You will be. Soon. Your foot’s healing well. The physical therapist says you’re ahead of schedule.”
“Not soon enough. What if I can’t come back from this?”
“You will—”
“But what if I don’t?” He looked up at me, and his expression was raw. “What if this is it? What if I never play again?”
“Marco, that’s not going to happen. It’s a broken foot, not—”
“I’m thirty-two, étienne. I’m not young anymore. One bad injury, one complication, and it’s over.”
“Hey.” I caught his chin, made him look at me. “You’re going to come back from this. Stronger than before. And when you do, you’re going to be unstoppable on that ice. Like always.”
A small smile tugged at his mouth. “You’re very optimistic for someone who’s about to play Carolina.”
My shoulders dropped. The warmth from moments ago evaporated, replaced by cold dread settling in my stomach.
A small frown crossed his face. “You’re worried about the game.”
“Yeah.” I couldn’t lie to him. “I've been playing like shit. What if tonight’s just more of the same?”
“It won’t be.”
“You don’t know that—”
“I know you.” Marco’s voice was firm. “You’re in your head right now, overthinking everything. But when you get on that ice, let your body take over. That’s when you’re at your best.”
“What if I can’t?”
“You can.” He reached up and cupped my face. “Stop thinking so much. Just play.”
I leaned into his touch. “Easier said than done.”
“I know. But I’ll be watching, and I know what you’re capable of. So go out there and show them.” He pulled me down for a kiss. “You’ve got this.”
I wanted to believe him. “Thanks.”
“Text me after the game.”
“I will.” I grabbed my keys, trying to hold onto his confidence even as doubt gnawed at me.
The drive to the arena was familiar, routine. But my mind kept drifting back to Marco on that couch, to the way he’d straightened my sweater, to the fact that I’d come home to him that night.
To his bed.
We hadn’t talked explicitly about what might happen that night. But the implication had been there in every kiss all day, in every touch. We’d sleep in his actual bed. Together. And whatever happened, happened.
The thought made my pulse quicken.
In the locker room, I went through my routine. The energy was good—guys were focused, ready, chirping about Carolina’s defense.
I was pulling on my jersey when Boucher’s voice cut through the chatter.
“Savard. Your better half not making it to watch the game tonight?”
The room didn’t go completely silent, but several conversations paused. Guys looked over.
I kept my expression neutral. “Didn’t realize you cared so much about my personal life. You jealous?”
Boucher’s eyes narrowed. For a moment I thought he might say something else, but he just scowled and turned back to taping his stick, his movements sharp and aggressive.
A few stalls down, Jensen caught my eye and smirked.
Kinnunen spoke up from across the room.
“Boucher. Shut up.”
Boucher turned. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me. Shut up.” Kinnunen’s voice was calm but firm. “Savard’s been taking care of an injured teammate. That’s what we do. So unless you have something constructive to say, maybe focus on the game instead of running your mouth.” He paused. “Captain.”
The locker room was silent now. Everyone watching. Waiting.
Boucher’s jaw tightened. “Just making conversation.”
“Make different conversation.” Kinnunen held his gaze. “We have a game to win.”
After a long moment, Boucher turned away. The tension wavered, conversations resumed, but I caught several guys glancing between me and Kinnunen.
Kinnunen met my eyes and gave a small nod. I nodded back, grateful but also worried. Boucher wasn’t going to forget that. Wasn’t going to let it go.
But that was a problem for later.
Right now, I had a game to play.
We won.
But I was barely part of it.
From the first shift, I felt it—that weight in my chest, that fog in my head that wouldn’t clear no matter how hard I tried to focus. My reads were slow, my timing off, my instincts completely silent.
First period, I turned the puck over at our blue line. Carolina scored thirty seconds later.
I skated back to the bench with my head down, Coach Wilson’s glare burning into the back of my neck.
Second period, I missed an open net. Just… missed it. The puck on my stick, the goalie out of position, and I shot wide. The arena groaned.
Jensen scored twice to put us up 2–1. Boucher added another goal in the third. We won 3–1, no thanks to me.
Zero points. Two turnovers. Multiple missed opportunities. Coach cut my ice time in the third period—again. I spent most of the final frame on the bench, watching my teammates win without me.
In the locker room after the game, guys were celebrating around me. Coach Wilson didn’t look at me. Didn’t need to. We both knew.
I showered quickly, dressed, avoided eye contact with anyone. The high of winning—for everyone else—felt like a stark contrast to the failure sitting heavy in my gut.
I made it to my Jeep, sat in the driver’s seat, and stared at nothing.
My phone rang. Papa.
I didn’t want to answer, but he’d just keep calling.
“All?, Papa.”
“étienne.” His voice was sharp, clipped. “I watched your game.”
Of course he had. Papa watched every game, cataloging every mistake, every moment of failure.
“We won—”
“They won. You were a liability out there.” He didn’t even pause for breath. “Two turnovers. That missed net in the second period… a ten-year-old could have made that shot. What is wrong with you?”
You are. I gripped the steering wheel. “I’m working on it—”
“You’ve been ‘working on it’ for two months. It’s getting worse, not better.” His voice rose. “Do you know what people are saying? The trade rumors are everywhere now. Boston, Toronto, even Montreal is talking about bringing you back at a discount because Colorado wants to dump you.”
My stomach twisted. “I saw the posts,” I said quietly. Fresh ones today, posted during the game.
Hearing Colorado’s patience with Savard wearing thin. Decision could come soon.
“Then you know you’re running out of time. Whatever is distracting you, whatever has you playing like this, you need to fix it. Now.” He paused. “Or you’ll be playing for someone else by Christmas.”
“I’m trying—”
“Trying isn’t good enough! Savards don’t accept mediocrity. We don’t make excuses. We perform.” His disappointment was palpable even through the phone. “I raised you better than this.”
“Papa—”
“I don’t want to hear excuses. I want to see results. Play like a professional or don’t play at all.”
The line went dead.
Connard.
I sat there in the parking lot, phone still pressed to my ear, my father’s words echoing in the silence.
You’re running out of time.
Decision could come soon.
You’ll be playing for someone else by Christmas.
I dropped the phone onto the passenger seat and pressed my palms against my eyes.
Two months of terrible hockey. And somehow, everything was getting worse.
What if this was it?
What if Papa was right? What if I was out of time? What if I had to leave Denver and—
I forced Papa’s words out of my head. Focused instead on Marco waiting for me. On what that night might bring.
By the time I pulled up to the curb in front of Marco’s house, my hands had stopped shaking.
The house was mostly dark except for the lamp by the couch and light spilling from upstairs. I grabbed my bag and headed inside.
“Marco?”
“Upstairs!”
I took the stairs two at a time and found him in his bedroom. Our bedroom, I supposed, at least for now.
He was sitting on the edge of the bed, changed into sleep clothes—soft cotton pants and a T-shirt. His crutches leaned against the nightstand.
“Hey,” he said, and his smile was warm. Genuine. Everything Papa’s voice wasn’t.
“Hey, you made it up on your own.” I dropped my bag and crossed to him, leaning down to kiss him. “Miss me?”
“It’s been seven hours.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“Yes. I missed you. Rough game?” he asked quietly.
“Yeah.” I sat down beside him heavily.
“étienne—”
“I don’t want to talk about it.” I kissed Marco again, harder this time. “I want to be here. With you. Want to forget about everything else.”
He understood. His hand came up to cup my face, his thumb brushing along my jaw. “Okay. We’re here. Just us.”
“Just us,” I repeated.
I stood up and changed into the sleep clothes I’d moved to Marco’s room—soft flannel pants, no shirt because the house was always warm. When I turned back, Marco was watching me with hooded eyes that made heat pool low in my stomach.
“What?” I asked.
“Nothing. Just… come here.”
I crossed back to the bed. He took his boot off, slid under the covers, and shifted over, making room. I climbed in beside him, the unfamiliar territory of someone else’s bed becoming familiar because it was his bed. Our bed.