Chapter 24
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
étienne
The drive to Kinnunen’s house was quiet. I kept one hand on the steering wheel, the other resting on the console between us—close to Marco’s hand but not touching. Kept my eyes on the road instead of looking at him the way I wanted to.
“We can leave anytime,” Marco said quietly as I pulled onto Kinnunen’s street. “If it gets too hard. If we need to.”
“We’ll be fine.” I pulled into the driveway behind another car. Took a breath. “We can do this.”
We got out of the Jeep and walked to the front door together—the way we always would have, the way best friends did. The performance had already begun, except now the performance was acting like the friendship was all there was. Roommates. Teammates. Just that. Nothing more.
Kinnunen answered the door with a baby in his arms.
“étienne! Marco!” Kinnunen stepped back to let us in. “Come in, come in. This is Lilja.”
The baby—not quite a year old—looked at us with serious blue eyes. She had Kinnunen’s coloring but delicate features that must have come from Alyssa.
“She’s beautiful,” I said.
“She’s trouble.” But Kinnunen’s smile was pure pride. “Alyssa’s in the kitchen. Go on in. The others are already here.”
I followed Marco inside, my first thoughts immediate and unbidden. Did Marco even want children? I did—bon Dieu, I wanted them. Wanted to be the father I’d never had, patient and supportive instead of critical and cold. Wanted to raise a child who knew they were loved unconditionally.
But there were so many things I still didn’t know about being in a relationship with Marco.
So many conversations we hadn’t had yet because we were too busy hiding.
Alyssa appeared from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a towel.
Petite and blonde with a warm smile, she made you feel welcome immediately.
“étienne and Marco! So glad you could make it.” She hugged us both, completely unselfconscious. “Even though not all of you celebrate American Thanksgiving, I appreciate you humoring me.”
“Thanks for having us,” Marco said.
“Of course! Come see everyone.”
The living room held five other people. Tyler Jensen sat on the couch next to a girl who must have been his girlfriend. Three other teammates were scattered around: Alexei Kuzmin, our second line center; Brent Harris, a defenseman; and Callan Reid, our backup goalie.
Jensen stood when we came in. “Hey! étienne, Marco. This is my girlfriend, Kaitlin.”
Kaitlin smiled and waved. She looked to be about Jensen’s age, nineteen or twenty, pretty and comfortable with him in a way that spoke of a stable relationship.
“Nice to meet you,” I said.
“Man, it’s good to see you, Morelli,” Reid said. “How’s the foot?”
“Getting there,” Marco said. “Should be skating in a couple of weeks.”
“Seriously?” Harris leaned forward. “That’s ahead of schedule, isn’t it?”
“A little. But the doctor said it’s healing fast.” Marco smiled slightly. “Ready to get back out there.”
“We need you back,” Kuzmin said in his heavy Russian accent. “Defense is shit without you.”
We settled in—Marco took the armchair near the window, and I sat on the end of the couch closest to him. Close enough to talk easily, the way we always positioned ourselves. Natural. Normal. Safe.
“Can I get you drinks?” Alyssa asked. “Beer, wine, soda?”
“Can I help?” I asked.
She waved a hand. “I’ve got it.”
After she brought beers for both of us and disappeared back into the kitchen, the conversation flowed easily. Hockey talk, mostly. The game against Vegas. The upcoming road trip. Jensen telling an animated story about his first NHL goal that had everyone laughing.
I leaned back and relaxed into the familiar rhythm of being around Marco in public. This part was easy—we’d been doing it for years. Joking together, finishing each other’s sentences, the comfortable back-and-forth of people who knew each other well.
We could be close. We just couldn’t be too close.
Alyssa called us to dinner twenty minutes later. She and Kinnunen had set a beautiful table—china, cloth napkins, and a full Thanksgiving spread.
“Wow,” Jensen said. “This is amazing.”
“Figured I’d do it right if I was going to do it at all.” Alyssa directed the seating. “Tyler, Kaitlin, you’re there. Alexei, Brent, Callan, along this side. étienne, Marco, you two are here, next to each other. Mikael at the head and Lilja and me at the other end.”
My stomach did a small flip. Next to Marco meant close contact but I’d have to be so careful about what that contact meant.
We settled into our assigned seats, Marco on my right. Our knees bumped under the table as we adjusted our chairs. The kind of thing that happened between friends.
Except my whole body was aware of where his leg pressed against mine.
Lilja was in a highchair next to Alyssa, banging a spoon happily against the tray.
“So,” Kaitlin said brightly as we started passing dishes. “How do you all know each other? Obviously the team, but are you guys friends outside of hockey too?”
“Some of us,” Harris said. “Depends on who you can tolerate for extended periods.”
Everyone laughed.
“What about you two?” Kaitlin looked between me and Marco. “Mikael mentioned you’re roommates?”
“Yeah,” I said easily. “My apartment had smoke damage. Marco had space. Made sense.”
“That’s really nice of you, Marco. Some guys wouldn’t want to live with a teammate for long.”
“étienne’s easy to live with,” Marco said, and there was genuine warmth in his voice. “Cleaner than me, better cook. I got the better end of the deal.”
I nudged his shoulder with mine—playful, casual, typical of us. “He’s lying. I’m a slob and a disaster in the kitchen.”
“You make good French toast,” Marco countered.
“That’s literally the only thing I can make.”
Everyone laughed, and my tension eased slightly. This was okay. This was how we always were—joking, comfortable, best friends who lived together and knew each other well.
Throughout dinner, I watched Mikael and Alyssa interact. His hand on her shoulder when he stood to refill her wine, her gaze catching his across the table. The secret smiles, the comfortable intimacy of people who’d built a life together.
Tyler and Kaitlin were the same. Holding hands under the table when they thought no one was looking. Sharing food off each other’s plates. Unfiltered affection.
And I had Marco beside me—close enough to feel the warmth of him—but I had to make sure every touch looked casual. Friendly. Nothing more.
When I reached across him for the rolls, my arm brushed his chest. Normal. When he passed me the butter, our fingers touched briefly. Casual. When he made a joke and I laughed, leaning into his space, our shoulders pressed together for a moment. Just friends.
Except none of it felt like “just friends” to me.
The exhaustion of constant vigilance was overwhelming.
“So, neither of you are seeing anyone?” Kaitlin asked during a lull in the conversation. “Two good-looking single guys? Surprising.”
My heart stopped. Marco had gone still beside me.
“Nope,” I said lightly. “Just us bachelors.”
“Marco?” She looked at him expectantly.
“Same. No girlfriend.”
“Well, you’re both catches. I’m sure that’ll change soon.” She turned her attention to Reid and asked about his dating life, mentioning she had a friend who’d like to meet him.
I kept my expression neutral, took a sip of my water. Under the table, Marco’s knee pressed slightly harder against mine—a brief moment of solidarity. Anyone watching would see nothing. But I felt it.
After dinner, we migrated to the family room for football. The turkey coma was setting in, and everyone eased into comfy positions.
Mikael and Alyssa took the couch, Lilja between them, playing with a stuffed toy. Tyler and Kaitlin claimed the loveseat, with Kaitlin curled into Tyler’s side. The other guys spread out in chairs.
I ended up on the floor with my back against the couch, and Marco naturally dropped down beside me. This was normal for us—we’d sat like this plenty of times during team gatherings.
But I was hyperaware of his shoulder against mine, his leg stretched out parallel to mine. Of the fact that if I turned my head, I could count his eyelashes.
“That was a terrible call,” Marco muttered during a play.
“Completely,” I agreed, and we launched into an analysis of the referee’s incompetence that had Reid joining in from his chair.
I reached for my beer on the coffee table, and Marco shifted to give me room. Our hands brushed, just for a second, but I felt his fingers catch mine, a ghost of a touch that could have been accidental.
Except I knew it wasn’t.
When I settled back, I let my shoulder press more firmly against his. Close, but typical during football games. Nothing suspicious.
It was absolutely torture.
Halftime came, and I volunteered to help Alyssa with dessert. Anything to move, to break the precarious proximity that was slowly driving me insane.
In the kitchen, I spooned whipped cream onto slices of pumpkin pie while Alyssa distributed them. Marco came in carrying empty glasses.
“Just setting these by the sink,” he said.
“Okay.”
We were alone. The kitchen was tucked away from the family room, out of immediate view. I relaxed slightly, let my guard down just a fraction.
He moved to set the glasses down at the same time I reached for another plate. Our hands brushed—just like at dinner, just like on the floor, except this time there was no one watching.
His fingers caught mine, held for just a second longer than necessary.
“Hey,” he said quietly, and when I looked up, his eyes were soft, warm. The way he looked at me at home when we didn’t have to hide.
Footsteps in the hallway.
We jerked apart—not dramatically, just a natural step back—just as Alyssa came through the doorway.
She stopped, her eyes moving between us. An expression crossed her face I couldn't interpret.“Oh! Sorry, didn’t mean to interrupt.”
“You didn’t,” I said, probably too quickly. “Just grabbing dishes.”