Chapter 23
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Marco
I checked my phone for the tenth time in as many minutes.
étienne
Landed. On my way home. Thirty minutes.
Marco
Hurry
étienne had sent that text seventeen minutes ago. Which meant he’d be here in thirteen more minutes. Assuming traffic was normal and he didn’t stop anywhere.
I forced myself to sit on the couch, then immediately stood up again.
The house was too quiet. Had been too quiet all week. How quickly my definition of quiet had changed!
I’d tried to stay busy. Working out. Reorganizing the kitchen cabinets. Reading. Anything to avoid sitting alone with my thoughts.
Because alone with my thoughts meant thinking about that text conversation we’d had on Friday night.
I want to tell Kinnunen.
I’d nearly dropped my phone when I’d read it. My heart had raced, my hands had shaken, and all the worst-case scenarios flooded my mind at once.
I’d wanted to text back immediately: No. Absolutely not. Too dangerous.
But I’d forced myself to slow down. To think it through.
étienne needed this. He was a more social creature and thrived off being seen. He needed support, needed to not carry this secret alone.
And he’d been clear: he wanted to tell Kinnunen he was bisexual, not that we were together.
He was trying to protect me and I’d still said no. Or close enough to no.
I could tell how much it was torturing him, though. In the end, I’d compromised. That’s what they did in romance novels.
Not permission, exactly. Not prohibition either. Just fear wrapped up in trust.
And now I’d spent the last four days wondering if I’d failed him. If my fear was holding him back from what he needed. If eventually he’d resent me for it.
A car door slammed outside.
I was at the front door before I’d made a conscious decision to move, yanking it open just as étienne reached for the handle.
He froze, duffel bag in hand, eyes finding mine.
For a second, we just looked at each other. Seven days of separation, of missing him, of texts that couldn’t possibly convey everything I felt—all of it hanging in the air between us.
Then he crossed the threshold, dropped the bag, and I was pulling him inside, kicking the door closed, pressing him against it as our mouths found each other.
The kiss was desperate. Hungry. Seven days of wanting condensed into one moment of finally having.
His hands were in my hair, on my face, sliding down my back like he was trying to confirm I was real. I gripped his shoulders, his waist, needing to touch him everywhere at once.
“Missed you,” he gasped against my mouth.
“Seven days is too long.”
“Don’t want to do that again.” He kissed me harder.
We made it as far as the couch before the urgency overtook us. Clothes came off in a tangle of hands and lust. I pulled him down on top of me, and the weight of him, the solid reality of him, made my chest finally ease.
“Marco—” His hands were everywhere, touching, claiming, relearning. “Need you. Missed you so much.”
“I’m right here.” I pulled him closer, closer, until there was nothing between us. “Right here.”
We moved together with the raw desperation that came from finally being allowed to have what we’d been aching for.
Every touch felt urgent and necessary, like we were making up for lost time, reclaiming what we’d been forced to give up.
He moved between my legs and teased my taint and balls with his tongue until I was writhing.
When his mouth closed around my cock—hot and slick and eager—I came apart completely.
My back arched off the couch, my hands flew to his hair and gripped hard, and I couldn’t stop the sounds tearing from my throat.
The vulnerability of it, of letting him see me like this, should have terrified me. Instead, it felt like freedom.
And when I returned the favor—pulling him up, rolling us over, settling between his thighs with shaking hands—I circled his rim with a spit-slick finger as I eased his foreskin back and took him into my mouth, savoring the weight of him on my tongue.
His breath caught and broke, and he alternately begged and cursed in French.
Fragmented pleas in a language I barely understood—“S’il te pla?t…
oui… putain, Marco… ne t’arrête pas.” Don’t stop.
His fingers threaded through my hair, his thighs trembled on either side of my shoulders, and his voice cracked on my name.
Hearing him lose his English, hearing him unravel in his mother tongue because of me almost made the week apart worth it.
With both of us gasping as if we’d just skated sprints, I collapsed on top of him, bare skin to skin. He took my weight, unwilling to move apart.
“The bed was wrong without you,” he said.
“Tell me about it.”
He shifted to look into my eyes, and his hand came up to trace my face. “What were you doing all week? Besides working out and going to the grocery store with Alyssa?”
“Thinking too much. Spiraling. The usual.”
His expression softened. “About Boucher?”
“About everything. Boucher. Us. That conversation we had about Kinnunen.” I made myself meet his eyes. “I’m sorry I—”
“Don’t.” He cut me off gently. “You don’t have to apologize for being scared. I get it.”
“But you need—”
“What I need is for you to feel safe. That’s more important than anything else.” He kissed me softly. “I’m not going to do anything that makes you uncomfortable. Not without talking to you first.”
The certainty in his voice made my throat tight. “You’re too good to me.”
“Impossible. There’s no such thing as too good for you.”
We eventually made it upstairs to the shower, then, after dinner, to bed properly. The urgency was gone now, replaced by something slower, more thorough.
After we were both spent and sated, we lay wrapped around each other. I felt more settled than I had all week.
“So,” étienne said, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on my back. “Kinnunen invited us to Thanksgiving dinner on Thursday.”
My stomach clenched. “What?”
“Yeah. He and Alyssa are hosting. A few other teammates are going. He asked if we wanted to come. Both of us.”
I could already feel the anxiety building. Being social. Having to hide in front of people. Acting like “just friends” when all I wanted was to be close to him.
“Do you want to go?” I asked carefully.
“I don’t know. Do you?”
“I asked you first.”
He laughed quietly. “It might be nice. Better than sitting here alone on Thanksgiving. And Alyssa’s supposed to be an amazing cook.”
“She is.”
He was quiet for a moment. “We don’t have to go. We can stay here. Make our own dinner. Just us.”
It was tempting. The safety of staying in our bubble.
“Let’s go,” I said. “We can’t hide in the house forever. I’m going to start light skating drills soon, and then I’ll be back with the team full-time. We have to navigate being around people eventually.”
“You sure?”
“No. But we should do it anyway. It’ll be good practice.”
He pressed a kiss to the top of my head. “Okay. We’ll go. Together.”
The word “together” felt both comforting and terrifying. Because we’d have to pretend we weren’t. Would have to repack all the emotions we’d let spill out and shove them back into a box where no one could see.
“Light skate in the morning?” I asked.
“Yeah. At nine.” He yawned. “God, I’m exhausted. The travel, the games, missing you—all of it.”
“Sleep. You need rest.”
“Will you stay?” His arms tightened around me. “Don’t want to wake up alone.”
“I’m not going anywhere.”
Wednesday evening, I caught a ride to the arena with Belov’s wife and headed up to the suite, settling in to watch the game from above instead of on the bench where I belonged.
The arena filled and the energy built. The fans streamed in, their voices growing louder as they found their seats.
The smell of concessions food—popcorn, hot dogs, beer—wafted in on the cold air coming through the vents.
Music pulsed from the speakers between announcements.
Below, the ice shimmered under the lights as players moved through drills, the crack of sticks against pucks sharp even from this height.
I watched étienne during warm-ups and tracked his movements, noting that he looked sharp, focused.
Good. He needed to be sharp for the game.
Vegas was a tough team. Fast, skilled, the kind of opponent that would exploit any weakness.
The game started at seven. From the first shift, I was on the edge of my seat with every pass, every shot, every defensive play. Watching with the eye of a player but the heart of someone who cared desperately about the outcome for étienne’s sake.
First period, étienne turned the puck over at the blue line. Vegas scored fifteen seconds later.
My hands gripped the armrests.
Second period, he missed an open pass that would’ve been a clear scoring chance. Lost a puck battle in the corner he should’ve won. Made a defensive read that was half a second too slow.
I watched Coach Wilson’s face on the bench—jaw tight, expression darkening with each mistake.
Third period, étienne barely played. Just a handful of shifts, and even those looked tentative, uncertain. Like he was afraid to make a mistake, which only made him make more mistakes.
We lost 4–2.
I sat back in my chair, feeling like I’d been punched in the gut.
Behind me, two men were talking—low voices, but not quite low enough. I recognized one: Mike Peterson, assistant GM.
“Savard’s having a rough year,” Peterson said.
“Rough is generous,” the other voice replied. Someone from scouting, maybe. “He’s been a liability for weeks. Stats are down forty percent from last season.”
“Boston’s still interested. Toronto too.”
My stomach dropped.
“For what return?”
“Second rounder, maybe a prospect. Not what we would’ve gotten two months ago, but better than nothing.” Peterson paused. “Douglas is getting calls daily. He’s listening.”
Douglas. Douglas Greer, the general manager.
“Think he’ll move him before the freeze?”
“Depends on the next few games. If Savard doesn’t turn it around…” A meaningful silence. “We’ve got roster decisions to make.”
I sat frozen, pretending I couldn’t hear them. Pretending my heart wasn’t racing, my chest wasn’t tight with panic.
Boston. Toronto. Both Eastern Conference teams. We’d see each other maybe twice a year if étienne got traded there.
And they were talking about it like it was inevitable. Not if, but when. Down on the ice, étienne skated toward the tunnel with his head down, shoulders hunched. He looked defeated. Broken.
And I couldn’t do anything to help him.
I got home before he did. When I heard his Grand Cherokee out front, I was already at the door.
He dropped his bag by the door and came to me. I pulled him into my arms, and he sagged against me like his legs wouldn’t hold him anymore.
“I can’t do this,” he muttered into my shoulder. “I can’t keep playing like this. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”
I should have told him what I’d overheard. Warned him it was worse than we thought, that management was actively discussing trading him, that he had maybe a week or two before they pulled the trigger.
But looking at his face—the exhaustion, the despair—I couldn’t do it. Couldn’t add to the weight he was already carrying.
“Nothing’s wrong with you.”
“Then why can’t I play? Why can’t I just—” His voice broke. “I’m trying so hard, Marco. I’m trying everything I know how to do, and nothing’s working.”
My chest ached. “I know you are.”
“I’m going to get traded.” He pulled back to look at me, and his eyes were red-rimmed. “I’m going to lose you. We just found each other and I’m going to lose you because I can’t get my shit together.”
“You’re not going to lose me.” I caught his face in my hands. “No matter what happens, we’ll figure it out.”
He closed his eyes, and I saw his throat work as he swallowed hard. “I’m so tired.”
I pressed my forehead to his. “Come on. Let’s go to bed.”
In my room, I helped him out of his sweater, his pants. He moved mechanically, like he was too exhausted to think. I pulled back the covers, and he climbed in without protest.
I got in beside him and pulled him close. He curled into me immediately, his head on my chest, his arm across my waist.
“Thank you,” he whispered.
“For what?”
“For not giving up on me. Everyone else has.”
My heart cracked. “I’m never giving up on you.”