Chapter 21
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Marco
After lunch on Sunday, we ended up on the couch. I was reviewing game tape on my tablet, analyzing plays from the games I’d missed. étienne had his own tablet and was reading something—articles, probably, based on how often he scrolled.
His feet rested in my lap, a position we’d settled into naturally over the past week. My hand rested on his ankle, thumb absently rubbing circles against his skin.
This was what a Sunday afternoon should look like.
It felt like everything I’d ever wanted and never thought I could have.
The knock on the door shattered the peace like a slapshot.
étienne and I looked at each other across the couch. Neither of us was expecting anyone. Nobody ever just dropped by unannounced.
The knock came again. Louder. More insistent.
“I’ll get it.” étienne swung his legs off the couch.
“No. I will.” My gut told me this wasn’t going to be good. “You stay here.”
I made my way to the front door and looked through the peephole.
My heart stopped.
Cory Boucher stood on my porch, holding a shopping bag. He looked directly at the peephole like he knew I was watching.
Every instinct screamed at me to not answer. To pretend I wasn’t home. To keep that door closed and the threat on the other side.
But not answering would be suspicious. He’d wonder even more what I was hiding.
“Who is it?” étienne called from the sofa.
“Boucher,” I whispered, keeping my voice level despite the ice flooding my veins.
I heard movement—étienne getting up, probably adding distance from where we’d been sitting together. Making it look casual, like roommates and nothing more.
I took a breath and opened the door.
“Hey, Cap.” I forced my expression into something neutral. “This is a surprise.”
“Morelli.” Boucher’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Hope I’m not interrupting anything.”
“Not at all. What’s up?”
“Thought I’d drop by, see how you’re doing. Been a while since I checked in.” He held up the bag. “Brought you some protein bars. The ones Chuck recommends for injury recovery.”
He’d never checked on me before. Never brought supplies. Never shown any interest in my recovery beyond the obligatory “How’s the foot?” in a text.
“That’s nice of you.” I didn’t move from the doorway. “Thanks.”
“How’s it healing?” He peered past me into the house, eyes scanning what he could see. “Getting around okay?”
“Better. Walking boot now. Should be skating in a few weeks.”
“Good, good. We need you back.” His attention shifted past me. “Savard still staying with you?”
“Yeah. His apartment’s taking longer than expected.”
“How long’s it been now? Five weeks?”
“Haven’t really been counting.”
“Long time to be living with someone.” His tone was casual, but there was something underneath it. Something sharp. “You two getting along okay?”
“Fine. He’s a good roommate.”
“I bet he is.” Boucher’s eyes moved back to me. “Can I come in? Just for a minute. Want to make sure you’ve got everything you need.”
No. Absolutely not.
But refusing would give him exactly what he was looking for.
“Sure,” I said, stepping back. “For a minute.”
He came in, and I felt the violation of it immediately. His presence in my space—our space—felt like contamination. Like something dirty and dangerous infecting the sanctuary we’d built.
étienne had settled back onto the couch with his phone, looking relaxed. Too relaxed. A performance of casual comfort that was just slightly off if you knew what to look for.
“Savard,” Boucher said. “Still here, I see.”
“Still here.” étienne’s voice was level. “The landlord is dragging his feet.”
“Tough break.” Boucher moved further into the living room, his eyes cataloging everything.
The two water glasses on the coffee table.
The blanket we’d shared last night, still spread out on the sofa.
My tablet next to étienne’s. A basket of mingled laundry waiting to be folded.
The general air of cohabitation that we couldn’t completely hide.
Nothing explicitly incriminating. But also, nothing that screamed “just teammates.”
“Nice place,” Boucher said. “Very… comfortable.”
“Thanks,” I said.
“You keeping it clean, Savard? Or is Morelli the housewife in this arrangement?” He laughed like it was a joke, but the homophobia underneath was clear.
étienne’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. “We split chores. Like adults.”
“Of course, of course.” Boucher moved toward the kitchen, looking around. “Mind if I grab some water?”
Yes, I minded. I minded everything about this.
“Help yourself,” I said.
He went into the kitchen, opening cabinets like he had a right to, looking at how we’d organized things. He pulled out the bottle of étienne’s Canadian maple syrup, examined it like it meant something, then set it back and opened the next cupboard.
“Cabinet above the dishwasher,” I managed, forcing the words past my clenched jaw.
“Ah, there we go.” Boucher opened it with exaggerated care, as if he hadn’t been deliberately opening the wrong ones.
“You’ve got a nice setup here,” he said, filling a glass from the tap. “Very domestic. Cozy.”
The word “domestic” felt like an accusation.
He came back to the living room, drinking slowly, his eyes still moving over everything.
The photos on the wall—mostly family, a few of the team.
The shoe rack by the door with two pairs of sneakers and his hiking boots next to my desert boots.
The bookshelf with my books and now some of étienne’s mixed in.
“So, Savard,” Boucher said, settling onto the sectional without being invited. “Most guys would’ve found a hotel after the first week. Or crashed with different teammates. Spread the burden around, you know?”
“He’s not a burden,” I said. My tone was casual, but I felt the tension underneath.
“No?” Boucher looked between us. “Because from the outside, it looks pretty… committed. Savard leaving games early for you, Morelli. Taking care of you full-time. Now living together for over a month. Some people might read into that.”
There it was. The threat barely veiled at all.
“Some people should mind their own business,” I said, sharper than I meant to.
Boucher’s smile widened. “Oh, I am minding my business. As captain, it’s my business to know what’s going on with my team. To make sure everyone’s focused on hockey, not… distracted by other things.”
I stood. “I think you should leave.”
“What?”
“You heard me. I won’t let you come into my home and disrespect us. I don’t care if you’re captain or not—this is my house, and you’re not welcome here.”
Boucher’s smile faded. He stood slowly, his expression hardening. “Careful, Morelli. You might not like where this goes.”
“Neither will you if I report this to Coach,” I said evenly. “The door’s behind you.”
He stared at me for a long moment, then glanced at étienne. “Interesting.” He headed for the door but paused with his hand on the knob. “You know what they say—keep your friends close and your secrets closer. Hope yours stay that way.”
The door closed behind him with a soft click.
I locked the door with a vicious twist.
I turned around to find étienne standing, sweat dotting his hairline, his hands clenched into fists.
“He knows,” étienne said.
“He suspects.”
“That’s the same thing.”
“No, it’s not. Suspicion isn’t proof.” But my voice shook saying it.
“Marco, he just—” étienne gestured helplessly. “He came into your house, snooped around, made cutting comments. That wasn’t subtle. That was a threat.”
“It was.”
“He’s watching us. Looking for proof. And when he finds it—”
“He won’t find it.” I limped toward étienne to touch him, to ground myself. “Because we’ve been cautious. We haven’t done anything in public. There’s nothing for him to find.”
“He was just here. In our—in your house. Saw how we live together.”
“He saw two teammates sharing space during a recovery period. That’s all.”
“You don’t believe that.” étienne’s eyes were dark with fear. “I can see it in your face. You’re terrified.”
Fuck, I was terrified.
“It doesn’t matter what I believe,” I said. “What matters is what he can prove. And he can’t prove anything.”
“Yet.”
The word hung between us, heavy with implication.
I rubbed my face. “If Boucher outs us publicly—if he says something to the media or posts something online—our families would find out. Not from us. From strangers. From reporters calling them for comment.”
His face paled. “Merde.”
“Exactly. My mother would hear it from someone at church. Your father would see it on the news.” The thought made me sick. “We can’t let that happen. We have to control when and how they find out.”
“If we tell them at all.”
“Right. If.” I started pacing. “But until we decide that, we have to be more circumspect. Nothing Boucher can point to.”
“Make sure nothing looks like the couple we are.” étienne’s laugh was bitter. “Make sure we hide better. Is this what the last seventeen years has been like for you?”
“Yes.” I reached for him, pulled him close despite knowing we should be more guarded even now, even in our own house.
He buried his face in my neck, and I held him as he shook. With fear or anger, or both.
“I hate this,” he whispered. “I hate hiding. I hate that he can just walk in here and threaten us. Why don’t we go to Coach? Tell him what Boucher’s doing?”
I shook my head. “And say what? That Boucher came over and made vague insinuations? There’s nothing actionable there. He didn’t explicitly threaten us.”
“He basically accused us of being together—”
“Basically isn’t proof. And to explain why his comments were threatening, we’d have to admit the relationship.” I looked at him. “We’d be outing ourselves to Coach. Is that what you want?”
étienne was quiet.
“Plus, Boucher’s the captain. If it comes down to his word against ours, who do you think management would believe?”
“So we do nothing?”
“We don’t give him ammunition. And we wait.”
“Wait for what?”
“For him to make a mistake. Or for us to be ready to tell our families on our own terms.” I squeezed his hand. “But we don’t let him force our hand.”
We stood there holding each other in my living room, the peaceful afternoon we’d been having completely shattered.
This was what I’d been afraid of. What I’d known was coming.
The bubble was thinning. And I had no idea how to stop it.
Tuesday morning came too quickly.
étienne had to leave by nine for the team flight. They had a week-long roadie—Washington, Florida, Tampa Bay. The longest we’d been separated since we’d gotten together.
The thought hollowed my stomach.
We didn’t talk much over breakfast. Around eight, he packed his travel bag. I watched from the bed, feeling useless and anxious.
“You have everything?” I asked.
“Yeah. Just the usual.” He zipped the bag and set it by the door. Then he came back to the bed and settled beside me. “You’re going to be okay here?”
“I’m fine. I can manage.”
“I know you can. But that’s not what I asked.” He touched my face and made me look at him. “Are you going to spiral while I’m gone?”
“Probably.”
A small smile. “At least you’re honest.”
“I’ll try not to,” I amended. “But I can’t promise anything.”
“Text me. Any time. About anything. I don’t care if it’s three in the morning and you can’t sleep. Text me.”
“Okay.”
“And Marco?” He leaned in and kissed me softly. “Don’t let Boucher get in your head. He’s trying to scare us. Don’t let him win.”
“I’ll try.”
We had an hour before he had to leave. An hour to store up closeness for the week ahead.
He caught my gaze, and understanding passed between us without words.
We reached for each other at the same moment, clothes disappearing in a tangle of urgency.
We spent the next half hour lost in each other, devouring each other with hands and mouths.
It was more carnal this morning. More urgent. More desperate.
Like we were trying to prove something. To ourselves, to each other, to whatever forces were conspiring against us.
When I moved down his body and took him in my mouth, his hands tangled in my hair and he said my name like a prayer.
And when he returned the favor, the intensity of my orgasm nearly broke me.
He shifted and lay on top of me, chest to cock, his forearms taking his weight. Both of us were breathing hard, not wanting to acknowledge that time was running out.
“When I get back—”
“We’ll figure it out,” I finished. “We’ll figure out how to do this when I’m back at the facility. When we can’t hide in here anymore.”
“Together,” he insisted.
“Together,” I agreed, even though I had no idea how.
He left, and I stood at the door watching him drive away until his Jeep disappeared around the corner.
As I clomped back upstairs to the bed that still smelled like him, to the house that felt empty without him, I knew one thing for certain.
I’d rather have étienne and face the consequences than go back to the half life I’d been living before him.