Chapter 18
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Marco
I woke to my phone ringing on the nightstand.
For a second, I was disoriented—the weight of an arm across my chest, warmth against my back, the unfamiliarity of sharing my bed. Then memory flooded back. étienne. The previous night. Everything.
My phone kept ringing. I reached for it, still half asleep, and saw Mama’s name on the screen.
Shit.
I glanced over my shoulder at étienne. Still asleep, his face peaceful, one arm draped over me like he had every right to be there.
Which he did. But my mother wouldn’t believe that.
I answered, keeping my voice low. “Hey, Mama.”
“Marco! Why do you never answer your phone?”
Because I’ve been avoiding your calls.
“Sorry. It’s been busy.” I tried to shift without waking étienne, but his arm tightened around me reflexively. “What’s up?”
“What’s up is that you sound weird. Are you still asleep? It’s almost nine.”
“Yeah, I was sleeping. Late night.”
“Doing what? You’re supposed to be resting your foot.”
“I am resting. I just—” étienne shifted beside me, still asleep, and made a small sound. Not loud, but audible.
Mama paused. “What was that?”
My heart stopped. “What was what?”
“That noise. Is someone there with you?”
“No. Just… TV. I fell asleep with the TV on.”
“It didn’t sound like the TV.”
“Well, it was.” I carefully extracted myself from étienne’s arm and slid out of bed, limping toward the bathroom. I closed the door quietly and leaned against it on one foot. “What did you need, Mama?”
“I don’t need anything. I want to check on my son.” Her voice softened slightly. “How are you feeling? Really?”
“I’m fine. The foot’s healing. I’m getting around more.”
“Are you doing physical therapy?”
“Every day. I have a trainer coming to the house to supervise. And I’m working out, so I can get back on the ice as soon as I’m cleared.”
“That’s good. That’s very good.” She paused. “But I still think I should come visit. Even just for a few days. I could cook for you, make sure you’re eating properly—”
“Mama, I’m eating fine—”
“Takeout and frozen dinners aren’t eating fine, Marco.”
“I’m not living on takeout.”
“Because the last time I visited, your refrigerator had beer and mustard in it. That’s not cooking.”
Despite everything, I almost smiled. “That was two years ago, Mama.”
“Hm.” She didn’t sound convinced. “Still. A mother wants to see her son when he’s injured. Make sure he’s really okay.”
“I’m really okay. I promise.”
“You promise, but you won’t let me visit. That makes me worry more, not less.”
I rubbed my face. “It’s just not a good time.”
“When is it a good time? You’re injured. You’re home all day. This is exactly when I should visit.”
“Mama, basta.”
“Okay, okay. I’ll let it go. But promise me you’ll call if you need me.”
“I promise, Mama.”
After she shared family news, she hung up. I thunked my head against the door, my heart racing.
That was too close. Way too close.
When I hobbled back into the bedroom, étienne was awake, sitting up against the headboard, his hair messed up on one side.
“Was that your mother?” he asked.
“Yeah.”
“Did she—did she hear me?”
“Maybe. I told her it was the TV.” I sat on the edge of the bed and rubbed my face. “She wants to visit.”
“Oh.” étienne’s expression shifted.
I let out a frustrated breath. “She won’t let it go. Keeps asking why I won’t let her visit, saying she needs to see me with her own eyes to make sure I’m okay.”
“That’s… kind of sweet, actually.”
I looked at him. “Sweet? It’s overbearing. Intrusive. I’m thirty-two years old and she still treats me like I can’t take care of myself.”
étienne was quiet for a moment, his gaze dropping to his hands. “She just wants to make sure you’re okay.”
“But—”
“Marco.” He looked up at me, and his expression made me stop.
“I wish I had someone like that. Someone who called because they were worried, who wanted to visit to make sure I was healing properly.” His voice was quiet.
“Someone who cared how I was doing instead of just finding faults in everything I did.”
The words landed like a punch to the gut.
étienne’s father. The calls after every game, cataloging every mistake. The constant criticism that wore étienne down.
I thought about my mother’s voice on the phone—worried, insistent, wanting to cook for me and take care of me. Overbearing, yes. But coming from a place of love.
Not from judgment. Not from disappointment.
“You’re right,” I said quietly. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”
“I know.” He gave me a small smile. “She drives you crazy. But she cares, Marco. Really cares. That’s… that’s not something everyone has.”
I reached for his hand. “Your father’s an asshole.”
“Yeah. He is.” étienne laced his fingers through mine. “But your mother isn’t. She’s just worried about you. And maybe a little bit in your business, but—” He shrugged. “That’s what mothers do when they love you.”
I squeezed his hand, guilt settling heavy in my chest. “I’ve taken her for granted.”
“Maybe.”
“My father called too,” étienne said finally. “After the game.”
I’d figured as much. “What did he say?”
“The usual. That I played terribly, the trade rumors are everywhere, I’m embarrassing him.” His voice was flat, matter of fact. “That I need to fix whatever’s wrong with me or I’ll be gone by Christmas.”
“étienne—”
“He’s not wrong about the trade rumors.” He pulled his hand away, ran it through his hair.
“You’re working on it—”
“Working on it isn’t enough.” He looked at me, his eyes dark with turmoil. “Marco, what if I can’t fix this?”
“You will.”
“But if I don’t—”
“Then we’ll figure it out.” I caught his hand again, held it tight. “But you’re not getting traded. You’re going to turn this around.”
“I wish I had your confidence.”
“Then borrow mine until you find your own again.”
He managed a smile, small and fragile. “Deal.”
I pulled him closer, and he came easily, settling against me. We sat like that for a while, both of us wrapped up in our own thoughts about families and secrets and all the ways this could fall apart.
étienne tugged on my hand, pulling me toward him.
“Come here.”
I went, letting him pull me into his arms. “You have practice in an hour.”
His hand slid under my shirt, palm warm against my skin. “Plenty of time to shower.”
“Together?”
“Saves water.” His grin was wicked. “Very environmentally conscious.”
Despite everything, I smiled. “Very.”
The shower was an exercise in restraint.
étienne’s hands roamed as he helped me wash, fingers trailing over my shoulders, down my back, across my chest. Not quite innocent, not quite leading anywhere we didn’t have time for.
I returned the favor, skimming the landscape of his body under the spray of hot water. The curve of his spine, the muscles of his shoulders, the sensitive spot just below his ear that made him shiver.
“We should stop,” I said, even as my hands continued their exploration.
“Probably.” His mouth found my neck. “We should definitely stop.”
“You have practice.”
“Yeah.” But he didn’t stop kissing me.
“étienne—”
“Tonight,” he promised, pulling back to look at me. His eyes were dark with want. “Tonight, we’ll have time. I’ll make it worth the wait.”
Heat pooled in my groin, and my cock thickened. “That’s not helping me behave.”
“Good.” He kissed me once more, then stepped back, his own dick hard. “Come on. I really do need to get ready now.”
We finished showering with admirable self-control, dried off, and got dressed. The whole routine felt domestic in a way that made my chest light. This was what it could be like.
I wanted this forever.
The thought hit me so hard I had to steady myself against the counter.
Forever meant coming out. Meant facing my family and possibly losing them.
My father’s respect. My mother’s love, conditional as it had always been on being the right kind of son.
Sunday dinners. Holiday gatherings. All of it, gone.
Replaced by disappointed phone calls that would eventually stop coming.
By prayers for my soul instead of conversations.
By a photo of me turned face down in my mother’s living room, too painful to look at but too precious to throw away completely.
I’d become the person they whispered about at church, the cautionary tale, the son who chose sin over family.
And they’d believe—truly believe—that cutting me off was an act of love
Could I do that? Could I choose this—choose him—over safety?
“You okay?” étienne appeared beside me, concern in his expression.
“Yeah. Just thinking.”
“About?”
“Later. You need to go.”
He studied my face for another moment, then nodded. Kissed me quickly and grabbed his duffel.
After he left, the house felt too quiet. Only a couple of weeks ago, being home alone would have been ideal; now, it made me jumpy.
étienne got back from practice around noon, bringing pizza from the Italian place I liked. We settled on the couch with our laptops—him reviewing something for the team, me catching up on game tape I’d missed.
Except he wasn’t reviewing team stuff.
I could see his screen from the corner of my eye, could see him scrolling through articles, clicking links, reading intently.
After about twenty minutes, curiosity got the better of me. I glanced over and caught a headline: “What Does It Mean to Be Bisexual?”
étienne noticed me looking and quickly closed the tab, his face flushing. “I was just…”
“It’s okay.” I set my laptop aside. “What are you reading?”
He hesitated, then opened the browser again. “Articles. About being bisexual. About coming out. About… all of it. I just—I want to understand. Want to know what this means.”
I moved closer, looking at his screen. He had multiple tabs open. Personal essays from bisexual men. FAQs about bisexuality. Coming out stories.
“How long have you been researching?” I asked.
“Since I figured it out.” He scrolled through one article. “I needed to know I wasn’t alone. That other people felt this way. That it was real.”