Chapter 25
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
étienne
The email came Friday morning while I was still in bed.
Marco was up early—I could hear him downstairs making coffee. I grabbed my phone from the nightstand, intending to check the practice schedule, and saw the email notification.
Subject: Apt. 3B Restoration
My stomach dropped.
I opened it, already knowing what it would say.
Dear Mr. Savard,
We’re pleased to inform you that the restoration work on Apt. 3B has been completed ahead of schedule. The apartment is ready for occupancy. Please contact the building manager to arrange a walkthrough at your convenience.
Ahead of schedule. They’d estimated another month, maybe six weeks. It had only been three weeks since that estimate. Seven weeks since the fire.
Seven weeks since everything had changed.
I lay there staring at the email, my gut clenched.
I could move out. Today, if I wanted to.
I didn’t want to.
The realization smacked into me like a truck. I didn’t want to leave Marco’s house. Didn’t want to go back to living alone, to separate spaces, to not waking up with him beside me.
But what did Marco want? We’d never actually discussed this. We’d been living with a deadline—“until the apartment is ready”—and now the deadline had arrived sooner than expected.
Maybe he’d been counting on having another month. Or maybe he’d be relieved it was happening sooner.
Maybe he wanted his space back.
I forced myself out of bed, tugged on sweats, and headed downstairs.
Marco was in the living room, balanced on one foot doing calf raises, the walking boot set aside. He looked up when I appeared.
“Morning.”
“Morning.” I held up my phone. “Got an email from my landlord.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Yeah?”
“Apartment’s ready. They finished early. I can call for a walkthrough and move back in.”
“Oh.” He set his foot down, reaching for the boot. “That’s good. Fast.”
“Yeah.”
We held each other’s gazes, neither of us revealing our thoughts.
“Are you going to look at the apartment?” he asked, his voice neutral.
“I don’t want to move out,” I blurted.
The words hung in the air.
Marco’s expression didn’t change. “Okay.”
“Okay?”
“I don’t want you to move out either.”
My heart started racing. “You don’t?”
“No.” He strapped on his boot. “I want you to stay. Here. With me.”
“But the apartment—”
“Fuck the apartment.” His voice was firm. “I don’t care that it’s ready. I don’t want you to leave. I want you to stay here. With me. Permanently.”
“Permanently?”
“Yes.” He closed the distance between us. “Not as a temporary roommate until your place is fixed. As—as my partner. As the person I’m choosing to live with. Choosing to be with.”
The relief that flooded through me was overwhelming. “I want that too. I don’t want to go back. I want to stay with you.”
“Then stay.”
“What do we tell people?” The practical question, even though my heart was soaring. “About why I’m not moving back?”
“We tell them the truth. That we’re roommates. Our living arrangement is nobody’s business.”
“Boucher will—”
“Let him talk.” Marco’s hands found my face. “I’m tired of making decisions based on what Boucher thinks. I’m tired of being afraid. If you want to stay—if you’re choosing to stay—then stay. We’ll deal with whatever comes.”
The confidence in his voice surprised me. This wasn’t the Marco who’d panicked after Boucher’s visit. This was someone who’d made a choice and was standing by it.
“What changed?” I asked. “You were terrified at Thanksgiving. Now you’re saying let them talk.”
He was quiet for a moment. “I realized something. Hiding from you was killing me. But you choosing to stay—choosing me—that’s worth the risk.
I don’t know what’s going to happen. I don’t know if people will figure it out or what they’ll say or what it’ll cost us.
But I know I’m not letting you go. Not without a fight. ”
I pulled him closer, kissed him hard. “I’m not going anywhere. Not now. Not ever.”
“Good.” He pulled me into a kiss, deep and certain. “This is our home now. Not mine. Ours.”
“I need to tell the landlord,” I said when we broke apart. “That I’m not coming back. That I’m—” I paused. What was I doing? “Subletting? Giving up the lease?”
“You’ll figure it out,” Marco said. “Right now, you need to get ready for practice. You have a game to win tonight.”
Practice was intense. Coach pushed us hard, running drills until my legs burned and sweat soaked through my practice jersey.
Afterward, as I was heading to the locker room, Coach Wilson called out, “Savard. My office.”
My stomach dropped.
I followed him down the hallway, my heart pounding. Coach’s office was small, cluttered with trophies, tablets, and monitors. He closed the door behind me and gestured to a chair.
“Sit down.”
I sat, my hands gripping my knees.
Coach didn’t waste time. “I had a conversation with Greer this morning. About you.”
The words hit like a punch to the gut.
“Your performance this season is significantly below your usual standard. You know that. I know that. And management knows that.” He leaned back in his chair. “Greer’s getting calls. Boston, Toronto. They’re both interested in trading for you.”
“I’m working on it—”
“I know you are. I can see it during practice.” His voice was firm but not unkind. “But Greer’s losing patience. He told me this morning, roster freeze is December twentieth. If you haven’t turned this around by then, he’s going to make a move after Christmas.”
The air left my lungs.
“What does ‘turned this around’ mean?” My voice came out rough. “What does he want?”
“Consistent production. No more zero-point games. No more costly turnovers. He needs to see the player you were last season, not whoever this is.” Coach met my eyes. “I don’t know what’s going on with you, Savard.”
“I’m trying—”
“I know you’re trying. But trying isn’t enough. You need to actually do it.” He paused. “You’ve got three weeks until the roster freeze. Three weeks to show Greer you’re worth keeping. After that, if you’re still playing like this, he’ll trade you.”
“I understand, Coach.”
“I hope you do.” His expression softened slightly.
“You’re an outstanding player, Savard. I’ve seen what you’re capable of.
Whatever’s gotten in your head, you need to figure it out and fix it.
” He leaned forward. “If there’s something I can help with—ice time, linemates, a different role—tell me.
I don’t want to lose you. But I can’t protect you if you’re not producing. ”
I appreciated the offer more than he knew. But this wasn’t something he could fix with lineup changes or extra practice time.
“I appreciate that, Coach. Really. But this is something I have to work through myself.” I met his eyes. “I will fix it.”
He studied me for a long moment, then nodded. “All right. I’m trusting you on that.”
“I won’t let you down.”
“See that you don’t.” He stood, signaling the meeting was over. “Let’s see some progress tonight against Dallas.”
I nodded and left his office, my legs shaky.
I stripped out of my gear, showered, and drove home in a daze.
Marco was in the living room when I came in, exercising with hand weights. He looked up immediately, and his expression shifted when he saw my face.
“What happened?”
I dropped my bag by the door. “Coach called me into his office.”
Marco stopped mid-exercise. “And?”
“Greer’s losing patience. He’s getting calls.” The words felt thick in my mouth. “Coach said if I don’t turn it around before the roster freeze, Greer’s going to trade me after Christmas.”
Marco’s face paled. “Fuck.”
“I have three weeks to prove I’m worth keeping.”
Marco set down the hand weights and crossed to me. “You can do it.”
“Can I?” I looked at him. “I’ve been trying for months, Marco.
Trying to get my father’s voice out of my head.
But it hasn’t worked. It’s only gotten worse since you went down.
” My voice cracked slightly. “You were always there before games—our routines, the way you’d walk me through plays, keep me centered.
Without that, without you on the ice with me, I fell apart. ”
I took a shaky breath.
“And now I’m hiding my sexuality on top of everything else. Figuring out I’m bisexual, being attracted to you, terrified someone will find out. It’s all in my head every game. I can’t focus on hockey when I’m constantly trying to keep everything else buried.”
“étienne—”
“I’ve been trying to fix it, to play better. Push through it. But I’m still playing like shit, and I don’t know if three weeks is enough time to turn it around.”
“You’ve been playing better recently—”
“Better isn’t good enough! That’s what Coach said. Better isn’t enough.” My voice rose. “They want consistent production. They want the player I used to be. And I don’t know if I can be that player anymore.”
My father’s voice had a way of finding me on the ice. Every missed pass, every botched play… I could hear him before the puck even stopped sliding. Too slow. Too soft. Never good enough. I’d spent my whole career trying to out-skate that voice, and lately it felt like it was finally winning.
Marco pulled me into his arms, and I sagged against him. The fear sat heavy in my belly. “I have an idea,” he said into my hair.
In the locker room that night before the game against Dallas, my phone rang as I was gearing up.
Marco.
I answered immediately, putting it on speaker so I could continue my preparations. “Hey. You’re on speaker.”
“Hey.” His voice was warm, familiar. “Getting ready?”
“Yeah. Just about to tape my stick.”
“White tape?”
I smiled despite myself. “Yeah.”
“Heel to toe. Overlap by half.”
I hadn’t realized how much I’d missed it, our routine.
“I know how to tape my stick, Marco,” I said, but there was no heat in it.
“I know you do. But humor me.” A pause. “Second layer after the first, right?”
“Right.” I started wrapping, and the familiar motion was soothing. “You didn’t have to call.”