Chapter 19
CHAPTER NINETEEN
étienne
The water was almost too hot, but I didn’t adjust it.
I stood under the spray, eyes closed, letting it pound against my shoulders while my mind replayed the night before. Every touch, every sound, every moment of being with Marco.
It had been different than I’d expected.
Not bad different. Not disappointing or awkward or any of the things I’d worried about in the abstract. Just… different.
Being with women had been familiar. Being with Marco was new territory.
Different angles, different textures, different responses.
He knew what would arouse me, his reactions were more raw, less performative.
The brush of his beard against my skin, the strength in his callused hands, the way he’d looked at me like I was everything he’d ever wanted.
And somehow, despite the newness—or maybe because of it—it had felt right in a way nothing else ever had.
I turned off the water and grabbed a towel, feeling lighter than I had in days.
I found Marco in the kitchen, leaning on a crutch and making coffee. He looked up when I came in, and his expression softened.
“Morning,” he said.
“Morning.” I crossed to him, unable to resist the pull. I wrapped my arms around him from behind and rested my chin on his shoulder. “Sleep okay?”
“Sure did.” His hand came up to cover mine where they rested on his stomach. “You?”
“Best I’ve slept in weeks.”
He made a small sound—contentment, maybe—and leaned back into me. We stood there while the coffee brewed, just existing together in the quiet morning light.
This was what I wanted, I realized. Not just the physical intimacy we’d shared last night, though that had been incredible. But this everyday closeness. The casual touches. The comfort of being near him without needing a reason.
I wanted mornings like this. Wanted to wake up next to him every day. Wanted to make coffee together and share breakfast and navigate the mundane routines of life as a team.
I wanted forever.
The thought should have terrified me. A week ago, it would have. But now, standing in his kitchen with him in my arms, it just felt inevitable.
“I have practice in an hour,” I said eventually, not moving.
“I know.”
“And you have that doctor’s appointment afterward. The follow-up.”
“I know.” He turned in my arms to face me. “Will you come with me? To the appointment?”
“Of course.” I kissed him, unable to help myself. “Wouldn’t miss it.”
Practice that morning was fine. Nothing special, just a standard game-day skate to keep loose before that night’s matchup with Nashville.
But I was distracted.
Not badly—I hit my marks, made my passes, didn’t embarrass myself. But my mind kept drifting back to Marco. To last night. To the appointment that afternoon and what the doctor might say about his recovery timeline.
To the possibility of being traded and losing the happiness I had just found.
That afternoon, the orthopedist’s office was busy—other injured athletes, post-surgery patients, people in various stages of recovery. We checked in and settled in the waiting room, Marco’s leg stretched out in front of him.
“Nervous?” I asked.
“A little. Hoping for good news.”
“You’ve been doing all the PT exercises. Following all the rules. You’ll be fine.”
“Maybe.” He glanced at me. “Thanks for coming.”
“Where else would I be?”
His expression softened, and he reached for my hand. Then he seemed to remember where we were and pulled back. The rejection stung, but I understood. We couldn’t risk it here, in public, where anyone might see and wonder.
“Marco Morelli?” a medical assistant called from the doorway.
Marco stood immediately, and I rose with him on instinct before my brain caught up. Wait—was I supposed to go back? I’d driven him here, sure, but that didn’t mean I should follow him into the exam room. We weren’t family. Weren’t boyfriends in any way that medical staff would recognize.
The medical assistant looked at Marco, her expression professionally neutral. “Do you want your friend to come back with you?”
Friend. The word landed heavy in my chest. I froze halfway out of my chair, suddenly hyperaware of how this must look. Two teammates. Two friends. Nothing more. Marco could easily say no, could tell me to wait here, and I’d have to sit back down and pretend that didn’t hurt.
“Yes,” Marco said without a second’s hesitation.
Relief crashed through me so hard my knees almost gave out. I straightened fully and followed him toward the medical assistant.
She smiled at us—warmer now, knowing. “Right this way.”
Dr. Chen examined Marco and was pleased with his progress. “You’re doing great.” She reviewed Marco’s recent X-rays on her computer. “Ahead of schedule, actually.”
“So, what does that mean?” Marco asked. “For a timeline?”
“We can transition you to a walking boot today. No more crutches, though you should still be careful about bearing too much weight. Start with short periods of walking, gradually increase as tolerated.”
Marco’s whole face lit up, his eyes widening. “Really?”
“Really. And if you continue on this trajectory, I’d say you could start light skating in about four weeks. Full return to play, maybe two weeks after that.”
The medical assistant fitted Marco with the walking boot—a bulkier, more supportive version of what he’d been wearing. He stood up carefully, testing his weight, and broke into a grin.
“No crutches,” he said, looking at me. “I can actually walk.”
“Don’t overdo it,” the assistant warned. “Still healing. But yes, you can walk.”
In the parking lot, Marco walked to my Grand Cherokee on his own. Slower than usual, cautious, but independent. Free.
That night, Marco watched the game against Nashville from the team suite.
The game was a disaster from the opening faceoff.
I’d told myself I could do this. Told Marco I just needed to play better, focus harder, block everything else out. One good game would quiet the trade rumors and show Coach I was worth keeping.
Except I couldn’t get out of my own head long enough to play.
First period, I fumbled a pass at the blue line. Nashville recovered and scored on the rush. My fault.
Second period, I had a clear shot at the net, but I shot wide. I wanted to disappear into the ice.
My mind kept drifting to the team’s suite, where Marco was watching me fail.
I spent most of the third period on the bench and watched the game happen without me.
We lost 3–2.
The silence was heavy in the locker room after the game. Guys stripped out of their gear without looking at me. They didn’t need to say anything. We all knew I’d cost us the game.
Coach Wilson walked past my stall. Didn’t stop. Didn’t speak. That was somehow worse than if he’d yelled.
Kinnunen paused on his way to the showers. “We need you, étienne. Figure out whatever this is and fix it.”
“I’m trying—”
“Try harder.” He walked away.
I’d been so sure determination would be enough. That wanting it badly enough would make the difference.
But it hadn’t. I’d wanted to play well more than I’d wanted almost anything, and I’d still fallen apart the moment the stakes were real.
I didn’t want to face Marco. Didn’t want to see the concern in his eyes, the worry that I was going to get traded and we’d lose each other.
But I couldn’t avoid him forever.
I finally stripped out of my gear, showered, dressed, and headed home. He was waiting in the living room.
“Bad game,” he said quietly. Not a question.
“Yeah.”
“The open net—”
“I know.” My voice came out sharper than I meant. “I missed. I played like shit. I don’t need you to tell me.”
He was quiet for a moment. “I wasn’t going to criticize. I was going to say that happens to everyone sometimes.”
“It’s been happening to me every game for two months.” I pressed my palms against my eyes. “I told you I’d play better. Told you I could fix this. And I can’t. I can’t fix it, Marco.”
“You’re putting too much pressure on yourself—”
“The trade rumors are real. Boston and Toronto are making offers. If I don’t turn this around, I’m gone.” I looked at him. “And trying to turn it around is making me play worse. So what do I do? Just accept I’m getting traded?”
“No. You—” He stopped, seemed to be choosing his words carefully. “You stop trying to force it. Stop thinking so much. Just play.”
“I can’t just play! Every shift matters. Every mistake could be the one that gets me traded.” My voice was rising. I took a deep breath. “I’m sorry,” I said quietly. “I just—I don’t know what to do anymore. Determination isn’t working. Trying harder isn’t working. I don’t know how to fix this.”
I settled beside him on the couch.
“I don’t want to talk about it anymore.”
“Okay. What do you want to talk about?”
“Us.” I kissed him, and the discipline I’d maintained all day shattered.
My mouth crashed against his, desperate and hungry, trying to make up for every moment we’d had to pretend to be just friends.
Slow and deep one second, then harder, more urgent, swallowing the gasp he made when I pulled him over my lap.
His weight settled astride me, and I groaned into his mouth, my hands sliding up under his shirt to find bare skin, hot and smooth beneath my palms. I pulled back.
“About getting home to you. About touching you like this.”
His fingers combed through my hair, tangling in it and gripping hard enough to sting.
The small flash of pain made everything sharper, more real.
He made a sound—half moan, half whimper—that went straight through me, settling low and insistent in my groin.
His hips rocked against mine and I broke the kiss to breathe, to press my forehead against his and try to remember how to think.
“Bedroom,” he murmured against my mouth, his voice wrecked and breathless. His fingers tightened in my hair. “Now.”
The urgency differed from the night before. The previous night had been exploratory, thoughtful, learning. Tonight was desperate. Hungry. We’d crossed the threshold already—now we just wanted more.
Clothes came off fast. Hands roamed with purpose. I learned new things about him—how much pressure he liked, what made him grip my shoulders hard enough to leave marks.
And then I moved lower, nuzzling a path through the curly hairs on his chest to his groin.
I kissed the divot of his hipbone, nipped at the inside of his muscular thigh, and rubbed my cheek along the length of his cock.
I tentatively licked a stripe from base to tip, and his dick twitched in response.
“Are you sure you’re ready for that?” he asked.
I took his long, thick erection into my hand, worried he would be more than I could handle. “I’m sure I want to try.” I ran my nose along his silky yet hard length, inhaling his intoxicating, musky scent. The sensual overload made my cock throb.
When I finally tasted him, the sounds he made were worth every moment of nervousness, every second of uncertainty about whether I’d know what I was doing.
I didn’t, really. Had no experience with this, no reference point except instinct, knowing what I liked, and paying attention to his responses.
But his hands in my hair were gentle and guiding. His voice—rough with pleasure, saying my name like a prayer—told me I was doing something right.
For him. For Marco. For my best friend turned lover. My heart tripped over itself.
I found a rhythm I could maintain, slow and steady, taking him in as far as I comfortably could. I was making this up as I went, but my inexperience didn’t seem to matter—not with the way Marco’s hips lifted. His breathing turned harsh and uneven, and broken, desperate sounds fell from his lips.
“I’m about to come,” he warned, his voice ragged. “Pull off.”
But I didn’t want to pull away. I wanted to give him everything, to take him over the edge, to show him without words what he meant to me.
And when he finally came apart, flooding my mouth with the unfamiliar, salty taste of cum, I raised my gaze to his face and swallowed. I didn’t hold back. The vulnerability in his expression—trust and release and something deeper—made my chest feel too tight.
I crawled back up his body, and he pulled me into a kiss that tasted like gratitude.
“Your turn,” he said, voice rough.
“You don’t have to—”
“I want to.” He wrapped his hand around my cock, and I groaned. “Let me.”
He took his time, exploring until he discovered that sucking on my balls made my back arch off the bed, incoherent curses spilling from my lips. When he finally took me in his mouth, the sensation was so intense I almost couldn’t handle it. Different from anything I’d experienced before.
I came harder than I ever had, shouting his name.
Afterward, we lay side by side, completely wrecked, the only sound our ragged breathing slowly evening out.
Marco sat up first, reached for a water bottle on the nightstand, and cracked it open.
He passed it to me without a word, and I propped myself up on one elbow to take a long drink, the cool water soothing my raw throat.
When I handed it back, our eyes met, and something passed between us—acknowledgment, maybe, of what we’d just shared.
“That was…” I couldn’t find words.
“Yeah.” He settled back against me, head on my chest. “It was.”
I stroked his hair, feeling the weight of what we’d just experienced. The vulnerability of it. The trust required to be that open with another person.
“I’ve never…” I started, then stopped.
“Never what?”
“Never felt this way with anyone before.” The admission felt huge. “With women, it was good. Really good sometimes. But this—with you—it’s more… vulnerable. More exposed. Like you see all of me, not just the parts I choose to show.” I tightened my arm around him. “Is that weird?”
“No.” His hand traced patterns on my chest. “I feel it too. This thing between us—it’s not just physical.”
“No. It’s not.”