Chapter 25 #2
“I wanted to. Figured you could use the company.” His voice softened. “Like old times.”
My chest felt tight in a good way. “Yeah. Like old times.”
As I worked, Marco talked me through Dallas’s weaknesses. “Their first line center, Allard, watch his feet. He telegraphs his passes. When he plants his right skate, he’s going left. When he shifts weight forward, he’s looking for the cross-ice pass to his winger.”
“Got it.”
“And their goalie, he’s slow on the glove side high. You get a clear shot, go top shelf glove.”
I finished the second layer of tape and tested the grip. Perfect. “Anything else, Coach?”
He laughed. “Just play your game. Trust your instincts. You’ve got this.”
“Thanks for calling.”
“Anytime. Now go kick some ass.”
I hung up with a smile still on my face. Around me, guys were finishing their prep, the usual pregame energy building. I felt… steady. Grounded.
Coach called for us to head out for warm-ups. I grabbed my helmet and stick and headed for the tunnel.
When I stepped onto the ice, I looked up at the team suite. Marco was there in the front row, easy to spot even from this distance. I raised my stick in a salute.
He saluted back.
The game was tight from the start. Dallas came out hard, physical, testing us in every zone.
But for the first time in months, I felt like myself out there.
Not perfect. Not the player I’d been last season. But better. Marginally better.
My reads were quicker. My positioning more sound. In the first period, I picked up a lucky assist—a clean cross-ice pass to Jensen, who buried it short side.
Second period, I made a defensive play that broke up a two-on-one. Blocked a shot in the third that kept it a one-goal game.
We won 2–1.
Not a spectacular performance. Not the kind of game that would make highlights. But solid. Consistent. The kind of game where I did my job and helped my team win.
In the locker room after, Coach Wilson nodded at me. “Better game, Savard. That’s what I need from you.”
“Thanks, Coach.”
Kinnunen found me in the showers. “See? I told you. Whatever you worked out—it’s helping.”
“Yeah,” I said. “It is.”
Marco was waiting on the couch when I got home. “Good game,” he said.
I shrugged and tossed my bag by the door. “Not good but better.”
“Better is progress.” He smiled. “And Allard did exactly what I said, didn’t he? Planted right, passed left. You read it perfectly.”
“Your scouting report helped.”
“That’s what I’m here for.” He reached for my hand as I sat beside him. “Among other things.”
I laced my fingers through his. “Thank you for calling. For the routine. It… it meant a lot.”
Saturday was a back-to-back against Edmonton.
In the locker room before the game, my phone rang again. Marco.
I put it on speaker without hesitation, and his voice filled the space around my stall.
“White tape?” he asked.
“Heel to toe,” I confirmed, already reaching for the roll.
Around me, I could hear the usual pregame noise—guys talking, music playing, skates being sharpened. But Marco’s voice cut through it all, steady and familiar.
“Edmonton’s defense likes to pinch,” he said as I wrapped the stick. “Watch for the late man back. Their right D especially—he’ll jump up on the rush and leave gaps.”
“Got it.”
“And their goalie’s been struggling with traffic. Get bodies in front, make him work through screens.”
I finished the second layer of tape, tested the grip. Perfect, just like always.
“Thanks, Marco.”
“Anytime. Now go—”
“Talking to your boyfriend again, Savard?” Boucher’s voice cut across the locker room, sharp and mocking.
I froze, my grip tightening on my stick.
“Shut up, Boucher.” Kinnunen’s voice was flat, hard. “It’s working. He’s playing better. So unless you want to volunteer to help him prep, keep your mouth shut.”
Silence. Then Boucher muttered something under his breath and turned away.
“étienne?” Marco’s voice came through the speaker, concerned. “You okay?”
“Yeah. I’m good.” I kept my voice steady. “Gotta go. Warm-ups.”
“Okay. Good luck.”
I hung up and sat there for a moment, Boucher’s words still ringing in my ears. But underneath them was Kinnunen’s defense. It’s working. He’s playing better.
I just had to keep it up.
The game against Edmonton was okay. I made decent plays, kept my positioning mostly solid. No major mistakes, no turnovers that led directly to goals.
We won 3–2.
In the locker room after the game, I sat at my stall and ran the numbers in my head.
Two games. One assist. Solid offensive play. Better than I’d been playing for months.
But still not up to my usual standards. Still not the point-per-game player I’d been last season.
Was this marginal improvement enough to keep Greer from pulling the trigger, though?
I didn’t know. And that uncertainty hung over me as I packed up my gear and drove home.
Sunday was a rest day. We slept late and made breakfast together.
I called the landlord that morning. “I won’t be moving back in,” I told him. “I’ve found other living arrangements.”
“You’re sure? You’ve still got five months left on your lease.”
“I’m sure. Thank you for getting it done so quickly, but I won’t be needing it.”
“What about your lease?”
“I’ll pay the early termination fee. Whatever’s needed. Just send me the paperwork.”
After I hung up, Marco looked at me from the couch. “Done?”
“Done. Officially not moving back.”
“Officially staying here?”
“As long as you’ll have me.” I crossed to him, settled beside him. “This is crazy, right? We’ve only been together as a couple for three weeks. Living together not even seven weeks. And we’re making it permanent.”
“It’s crazy,” he agreed. “But I don’t care.”
That afternoon, I drove to my apartment. The place felt strange—like somewhere I used to live rather than home. Home was Marco’s house. This was just… space.
I spent the next few hours packing up what I wanted to keep. It turned out there wasn’t much.
Most of the furniture was generic. The kitchen stuff was mediocre at best; Marco’s was nicer. The decorations on the walls were things I’d bought because the space felt empty, not because I actually cared about them.
What I kept fit into three boxes and two suitcases.
Clothes, obviously. The rest of my hockey gear that wasn’t already at Marco’s.
A framed photo of my mother from when I was ten, both of us smiling at the camera at one of my games.
A few trophies from juniors and my first year in the NHL—purely sentimental, because Maman had been alive to see me earn them.
My favorite coffee mug, the one with the Montreal logo that was older than I was. A couple of books. My good headphones.
That was it. Three years of living in Denver, and everything that mattered fit in the back of my SUV.
I called the building manager about donating the rest—furniture, kitchen utensils, bedding. He said he’d coordinate with a local charity.
By early afternoon, I was pulling into Marco’s garage—our garage, I corrected myself—with everything I owned.
Marco opened the door as I was hauling the first suitcase inside. “That’s it?”
“That’s it.” I dropped the suitcase in the living room and went back for a box. “Turns out I don’t need much.”
“Apparently not.” He held the door as I made three more trips, dumping boxes and suitcases in a haphazard pile in the middle of his living room.
When I finished, I collapsed onto the couch with a satisfied sigh. “Done.”
Marco stared at the chaos I’d created in his previously organized living room. “You’re just… leaving it there?”
“For now. I’m tired.”
He shook his head, but I caught the fond smile. “You can’t just leave boxes in the middle of the living room, étienne.”
“Why not? I’ll deal with it later.”
“Later when? You’re leaving for a roadie tomorrow.” He gestured at the pile. “This is going to drive me crazy.”
I grinned. “You want to put it away now, don’t you?”
“Yes.” He didn’t even try to deny it. “I can’t bear looking at this mess for the rest of the day, let alone for ten days.”
“You know most people would wait—”
“I’m not most people. Come on.” He grabbed one of the boxes. “Let’s find places for everything.”
I groaned but got up to help. “You’re very particular, you know that?”
“And you’re very messy. It’s a good thing I like you.”
We spent the next few hours finding homes for everything.
Clothes in the closet—Marco insisted I take half the space, reorganizing his own things to make room.
Trophies on the bookshelf in the living room, next to his.
The photo of my mother on the dresser in the bedroom, where I’d see it every morning.
My favorite chipped coffee mug in the cabinet next to his NYC one. Boxer briefs in the dresser drawer with his. My first pair of hockey skates in the closet.
“Where do you want this?” Marco held up a hockey stick signed by one of my early hockey heroes.
“I don’t know. Closet?”
“We should hang it somewhere.”
I looked at him. “You want to hang my childhood idol’s stick in your house?”
“Our house,” he corrected. “And yeah. Why not? It’s part of who you are.”
My chest went warm. “Okay. Yeah. Let’s hang it.”
By the time we finished, the living room was clear, the boxes were broken down and stacked by the recycling bin, and every suitcase was empty and stored in the hall closet.
Marco surveyed the living room with satisfaction. “Much better.”
I pulled him down onto the couch beside me. “Happy now?”
“Very.” He leaned into me. “Your stuff looks good here.”
“Yeah?” I looked around. My trophies mixed with his on the shelves. My newer PlayStation sat below the TV. The puck from my first NHL goal rested on the coffee table. “It does, doesn’t it?” I tilted my head to kiss him. “Now can we please order dinner? I’m exhausted.”
He laughed. “Yeah. Let’s order dinner.”
Monday morning came too early.
I had to be at the airport by noon for the flight. Ten-day roadie: Buffalo, Carolina, Detroit, New Jersey, and Pittsburgh. Five games in ten grueling days.
The longest I’d been away from Marco since we’d gotten together.
I packed my bag slowly, Marco watching from the bed.
“I’m going to miss you,” I said.
“You’ll be busy. Games, practices, travel. It’ll go fast.”
“For me maybe. What about you?”
“I’ll start skating in a week. Getting ready to come back.” He smiled. “And I’ll be here when you get back. In our house.”
Our house. I still wasn’t used to saying it.
“Text me,” I said. “Every day. Tell me how skating goes. Tell me everything.”
“I will. You focus on playing.”
I finished packing and checked I had everything. Came back to the bed where Marco was still sitting.
He stood, and I pulled him close, kissed him thoroughly, tried to memorize the feeling of him in my arms.
“Ten days,” I said against his mouth.
“You can do ten days.”
“I did seven last time. Barely.”
“This time is different.”
“How?”
“Because you’re not coming back to a guest room. You’re coming home.” He pulled back to look at me. “To our home. That’s worth ten days.”
He was right. It was worth it.