Chapter 20
CHAPTER TWENTY
Marco
Tuesday morning, I woke up to étienne propped on one elbow, watching me with an expression I couldn’t quite read.
“Creepy,” I muttered, voice rough with sleep.
“You snore.”
“I do not.”
“You absolutely do. It’s cute.” He leaned down and kissed me, morning breath and all. “Come on. We’re making breakfast together, now that you’re in a walking boot.”
Twenty minutes later, we were both in the kitchen, navigating the space with the kind of choreography that came from weeks of cohabitation, but which still had room for improvement.
“I’m making French toast.” étienne pulled out eggs and bread. “The real kind. With actual Canadian maple syrup, not that fake stuff you have in your pantry.”
“My pantry has perfectly good syrup.”
“It’s corn syrup with maple flavoring. That’s an abomination.” He grabbed the bottle he’d bought last week and held it up like a trophy. “This is the real thing. Grade A. From Quebec.”
“Fine. I’ll make the bacon.” I opened the fridge and pulled out the package.
“Canadian bacon?” étienne looked over and immediately protested. “That’s not Canadian bacon. That’s just American ham.”
I pointed. “The package literally says Canadian bacon.”
“It’s a lie. We don’t call it that in Canada. That’s an American thing.” He cracked eggs into a bowl, whisking aggressively. “You want real Canadian bacon, you need peameal bacon. Back bacon. Not these sad little ham circles.”
“These sad little ham circles are delicious.”
“They’re impostors.”
I started heating the pan anyway, unable to stop smiling at his indignation. “You’re very passionate about breakfast meats.”
“I’m passionate about accurately representing my country’s cuisine.”
We worked side by side, occasionally getting in each other’s way—him reaching for the spatula while I was using it, me opening the fridge while he was trying to get to the stove, both of us navigating around each other with varying degrees of success.
The thought struck me suddenly: if I couldn’t coordinate making breakfast, what did that mean for my game?
I’d always anticipated passes, covered gaps, worked as a unit with my team—especially étienne.
But I’d been out for weeks now. Had I lost that?
Would I have to rebuild my chemistry from scratch when I finally got back out there?
“Move,” he said, nudging me with his hip.
“You move. I was here first.”
“I’m trying to flip the French toast before it burns.”
“And I’m trying to get the plates.”
We did an awkward dance around each other, laughing, until finally the French toast was plated and the “Canadian” bacon was lightly browned to perfection.
At the table, we settled across from each other with our plates loaded. Under the table, our feet found each other, his socked foot sliding against mine.
The French toast was perfect—crispy on the outside, custardy inside, with the rich maple syrup étienne had insisted on. The bacon, despite its questionable nomenclature, was a deliciously salty complement.
“Okay,” I admitted. “The real maple syrup is better.”
“Told you.” He looked smug. “Quebec knows what it’s doing.”
“And the fake Canadian bacon?”
“Still American. Delicious. But American.”
Our feet stayed tangled together while we ate, the quiet morning intimacy settling over us like a comfortable blanket.
This was what I wanted. Not just the big moments—the passion, the declarations—but the playful arguments about bacon, the casual touches that said I’m here, you’re here, we’re together.
“What?” étienne asked, catching me staring.
“Nothing. Just… this is nice.”
“Yeah.” His foot pressed against mine. “It is.”
When étienne got home from practice that afternoon, he dumped his duffel by the door and headed straight to the kitchen bar, where I was texting my personal trainer about our schedule for the week.
“Okay,” he said. “Turnabout is fair play. You suffered through my maple syrup tutorial. Now I want to learn how to make noodles. The real stuff, not just dry spaghetti in a box.”
“You want to make pasta?”
“I want to make whatever you’ll teach me.” He started rolling up his sleeves. “Your family’s recipes. The ones that matter.”
My gut tightened. He understood—this wasn’t just about learning to cook. This was about learning a piece of me.
“Fresh pasta.” We washed our hands, and I gathered ingredients from the pantry. “It’s where everything starts. Flour, eggs, olive oil, salt.” I arranged them on the counter with the precision my nonna had taught me. “Four ingredients. That’s it.”
“That’s all?” He looked skeptical. “Seems too simple.”
“It’s simple ingredients. Everything else is technique.” I measured flour onto the counter, creating a well in the center. “Watch.”
I cracked eggs into the well, added a drizzle of olive oil and pinch of salt, then started incorporating flour with a fork. étienne watched intently, asking questions, taking mental notes like he was studying game tape.
When it was his turn, he dove in with characteristic enthusiasm, getting flour everywhere—the counter, his shirt, somehow in his hair.
“How did you get flour in your hair?” I asked.
“I’m a hands-on learner.” He grinned at me, completely unbothered by the mess. “I never had family like yours to teach me how to cook. Is this right?”
His confession was so casual, but it tugged at my heart. “You have me now.” I moved behind him, putting my hands over his to guide the motion. “Like this. Gentle. You’re not fighting it, you’re coaxing it.”
“Coaxing.” His voice had dropped lower. “Got it.”
We worked the dough together, my hands over his, until it came together into a smooth ball. Then I showed him how to knead it, how to feel when it was ready, how to let it rest.
“Now we wait thirty minutes,” I said.
“What do we do for thirty minutes?”
I pulled him closer and kissed him. “I’m sure we’ll think of something.”
We ruined the pasta dough.
Wednesday’s game against LA was tight, a 2–1 win despite étienne’s lackluster performance. Solid game, not spectacular, but a win.
I watched from the team’s suite, but I wanted to be on the ice. Part of the team.
Thursday afternoon, étienne came home with a new deck of cards.
“Poker.” He raised a pack of poker chips. “I’m teaching you.”
“We’ve played poker before. Many times.”
“And that’s why I need to teach you.”
“Oh, it’s on.”
We settled at the kitchen table, and he dealt. Within three hands, it became clear we were both extremely competitive pro athletes, making the game more aggressive than it should have been.
“You’re bluffing.” I studied his face.
“Am I?”
“Your tell is obvious.”
“I don’t have a tell.”
“You absolutely have a tell.” I called his bluff and won the hand. “See?”
“Lucky guess.” But he was grinning. “Again.”
We played for hours, trash-talking, laughing, the easy back-and-forth feeling natural in a way I’d never experienced with anyone else. Even on the plane, our games weren’t this fun or carefree. This wasn’t performing. Wasn’t carefully monitoring my words or expressions.
This was just… being myself. At home, where I was safe. With someone who wanted that and who was safe here too.
“You know what’s funny?” étienne said, shuffling for another hand.
“What?”
“I’m happy.” He said it simply, like it surprised him. “Like, actually happy. I don’t think I’ve been this happy in years. Maybe ever.”
The admission made my gut light. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” He looked at me across the table. “Because of you.”
I took his hand. “Me too. The happy thing. Because of you.”
It wasn’t “I love you.” We weren’t there yet. But it felt important anyway. Like acknowledging something that mattered, even if we couldn’t name it yet.
Friday’s game against Washington was another tight win, 3–2. But étienne had a terrible night. Zero points. Minus-one rating. In the team suite, my chest tightened with worry.
He was getting worse, not better. And if this continued, Douglas Greer, the GM, would pull the trigger on a trade. Boston or Toronto would make their offer, and étienne would be gone.
We’d be separated. Different cities, different conferences. This thing between us was barely two weeks old, and it would be over before it really began.
And if we came out? That would only make it worse. Give Greer the perfect excuse of it affecting the team and trade étienne even faster.
I was watching the person I cared about the most slowly lose everything, and I didn’t know how to help him.
Saturday evening, we ordered Mexican takeout and settled on the couch. étienne handed me a PlayStation controller while he grabbed his own.
“Okay,” he said, navigating to a game I’d never heard of. “Co-op mode. This is a team effort.”
“I don’t really play video games.”
“You’re about to.” He grinned and started the level. “Just follow my lead.”
The game was some kind of sci-fi adventure that required coordination. étienne moved his character with practiced ease while I fumbled with the buttons, trying to remember which one made me shoot and which one made me jump.
“Cover me while I hack this terminal,” he said, his fingers moving rapidly across the controller.
“I don’t know what I’m doing.”
“Just shoot anything that moves. Left trigger to aim, right trigger to fire.”
I managed to keep the enemies off him long enough for him to complete the objective, though my aim was terrible and I died twice.
“Yes!” He threw his controller down when we succeeded and held up his hand for a high-five. “That’s what I’m talking about!”
I laughed and slapped his hand, caught up in his enthusiasm. We celebrated like we’d just won a playoff game, not completed a single level of a video game.
“We’re good at this,” he said, picking up his controller again for the next level.
“At video games?”
“At teamwork. In digital environments, anyway.” He glanced at me.
“We work well together.” His expression changed—his eyes softened, his mouth curved into something that wasn’t quite a smile but was close.
That look he’d been giving me lately, the one that felt like more than friendship but less than he was ready to name.
Like he was thinking something he didn’t have words for yet.
“Yeah.” I set my controller aside and pulled him closer, the game forgotten. “We do.”
He discarded his controller, stood, and held out his hand. “Come here.” He tugged me upstairs to the bedroom.
“Bossy.”
“You like it.”
He wasn’t wrong.
In bed, we had developed a comfortable rhythm. We knew what the other liked now, knew how to read responses, knew how to make each other fall apart.
His hands mapped my body with familiar confidence, finding all the places that made me gasp. His mouth followed, kissing a path down my neck, teasing a pebbled nipple, nipping at the juncture of my thigh.
When he enveloped my throbbing cock with his hot, wet mouth, I threaded my fingers through his hair and watched him with something that I couldn’t let myself say yet.
After he made me come so hard I saw stars, he rose, frantically took himself in hand, and shot ropes of cum onto my abs. When we were both drained and catching our breath, I pulled him down to kiss him properly. Tasting myself on his lips, not caring, just needing the connection.
After he cleaned my stomach with tissues from the box on the nightstand, he settled beside me. He pulled me against the light dusting of hair on his chest, and I rested my head on his shoulder.
“I… care about you,” I said quietly. “A lot. More than I probably should.”
“There’s no ‘should’ about caring.” His hand cupped my face, tilting it up to look at him. “And I care about you too. So much it scares me sometimes.”
He kissed me softly. “Whatever this is—whatever we’re building—it matters. You matter. More than anything.”
It wasn’t “I love you.”
But it felt like it meant the same thing.