Chapter 26 #2
“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.” But he was smiling. “I’ll report to Dr. Chen. My recommendation will be to continue light skating this week—just skating drills. If the foot continues to hold up, we’ll progress to no-contact practice with the team next week.”
“And full contact?”
“Depends on how the next week goes. But so far, so good. Whatever you’ve been doing for recovery, keep doing it.”
Whatever I’d been doing. Living with étienne. Being happy. Having someone to care for me, to keep me accountable.
“I’ll keep doing it,” I said.
Chuck wrapped the foot, had me test a few more movements, then cleared me to go.
“Same time tomorrow,” he said. “And Marco? Good work today.”
In the locker room, I pulled out my phone and texted étienne:
Marco
First skate done. Went great.
The response came almost immediately.
étienne
That’s amazing! I’m so proud of you
Marco
When will you be home?
étienne
Flight lands 2 p.m. on Wednesday. Can’t come soon enough.
Marco
Miss you.
étienne
Miss you too. So much. Can’t wait to see you skating again.
I showered, changed, and headed home to the house that felt too empty.
Two more days. The game was the next night against Pittsburgh. Then he’d be home Wednesday.
I could do two more days.
Tuesday morning, I woke up sore.
Not injured sore. Good sore. The kind that came from using muscles that had been dormant for too long. My right calf ached. My foot was stiff. Even my core was tight from the balancing work.
But it was all manageable.
I stretched thoroughly and iced the foot even though it wasn’t swollen.
At the rink that afternoon, the ice felt even better than it had the day before. My body knew what to expect now. The movements came easier.
I ran through the drills with more intensity Everything worked.
After thirty minutes, Chuck called me over.
“You’re looking good,” he said, examining the foot again. “Progression from yesterday to today is exactly what we want to see.”
“So, what’s next?”
“Tomorrow’s a rest day for the foot. Let it recover. On Thursday we’ll do another skate. Dr. Chen cleared you for no-contact practice with the team next week.”
I showered, changed, and checked my phone for texts from Pittsburgh.
étienne had texted that morning.
étienne
Last game. Then I’m coming home to you.
At home, I settled on the couch with dinner and turned on the game.
Pittsburgh was tough. Fast, skilled, the kind of team that punished mistakes. The Glaciers would have to play a complete game to win this one.
First period was scoreless, both teams feeling each other out. étienne had a few okay shifts, nothing spectacular. No major mistakes, but no standout plays either.
Second period, Pittsburgh scored first. Power play goal, traffic in front, the puck bouncing in off someone’s skate.
1–0 Pittsburgh.
The Glaciers responded five minutes later. Boucher drove the net, the goalie made the save but couldn’t control the rebound, and Jensen buried it.
Goal: 1–1.
étienne hadn’t been involved in the play.
Third period was tense. Both teams traded chances, neither able to capitalize. étienne had a decent shift midway through, generated some offensive zone time, but couldn’t create anything dangerous. The clock wound down: five minutes, four, three, two.
Looked like it was heading to overtime.
Then, with forty seconds left, Etienne intercepted a pass in the neutral zone and broke in on a two-on-one with Jensen. Quick passing play, Jensen one-timed it past the goalie.
Goal: 2–1 Glaciers.
I jumped off the couch as the team mobbed Jensen.
He’d done it. étienne had gotten an assist for the game-winning goal.
Forty seconds later, the final horn sounded.
I texted after a while.
Marco
Good win. You played solidly.
étienne
I guess. 5 games, 3 assists. That’s it.
I stared at the message. Three assists in five games. Better than the zero points he’d been getting before, but still well below his usual production.
I went to bed that night not knowing what his future in Denver would be but knowing he’d at least be home the next day.
Wednesday afternoon, my phone buzzed.
étienne
Landed. OMW
My heart raced with anticipation.
Forty minutes later, I heard his SUV pull up to the curb.
I stood in the doorway and watched him grab his bag from the back seat. His expression was haggard and his shoulders were slumped—ten days of travel and five games would do that—but when he turned and saw me, his whole face lit up.
“Hey.” He walked up the path.
“Hey.”
We just looked at each other for a moment. Ten days had felt like ten years.
He set his bag down on the porch. “You’re not wearing the boot.”
“It’s just wrapped now for support.”
“That’s—” His voice caught. “That’s fantastic, babe.”
Babe. My gut clenched at the affectionate term, but I simply said, “Yeah. It is.”
“I missed you,” he said quietly and closed the distance between us. I reached for him.
The kiss was soft at first. Gentle. Relief and reunion and coming home.
Then it deepened. Ten days of wanting, of missing, of needing.
“Inside,” I managed, pulling back slightly. “Neighbors.”
“Right.” But his hands were already on my waist, pulling me closer. “Neighbors.”
“étienne—”
“I know. Inside.” He kissed me again anyway. “Just—one more.”
I laughed against his mouth. “Inside. Now. Or I’m going to forget about neighbors entirely.”
That got him moving. We stumbled through the door together, me pulling him by his shirt, him kicking the door shut behind us with his foot.
His bag was still on the porch. We’d get it later.
“Hi,” he said, backing me against the closed door.
“You already said that.”
“But I’m really happy to see you.” His hands framed my face. “Really happy.”
“Show me.”
He kissed me thoroughly, hands sliding from my face to my shoulders to my chest. I pulled him closer, needing to feel the solid weight of him, the confirmation that he was really here.
“I watched all your games,” I said between kisses. “And not just because I’m on the team.”
“I know. Your texts helped.” He pulled back to look at me. His expression softened. “I love that about you.”
“What?”
“The way you—” He stopped, swallowed. “The way you see me.”
“I see you,” I said quietly. “All of you.”
“I know.” He rested his forehead against mine.
We stood there for a moment, just breathing together, the urgency shifting into something deeper.
Then his stomach growled.
I laughed. “When did you eat last?”
“Plane food doesn’t count.”
“I have leftover lasagna. We could—”
“Later.” His mouth found my neck. “Food can wait.”
“You’re hungry.”
“For you. Not food.”
His hands were already pulling at my T-shirt, tugging it up and over my head. I returned the favor. My fingers found the hem of his sweater and yanked it off, only to discover an undershirt underneath.
“Why do you wear so many layers?” I complained.
“Because you like taking them off.”
He wasn’t wrong.
Sweater off. Undershirt off. His hands on my bare skin finally, and I sucked in a breath at the contact.
“Missed touching you,” he murmured against my shoulder. “Missed this.”
“Upstairs,” I managed. “Bed.”
We moved toward the stairs, still kissing, still touching, shedding more clothing as we went. His belt landed on the floor. My jeans came unbuttoned.
By the time we reached the bedroom, we were mostly undressed, and the urgency was back in full force.
He pushed me onto the bed and followed me down, and the weight of him, the heat of skin on skin, made everything else fade away.
“Ten days is too long,” he said, his mouth trailing down my chest.
“I’ll be playing soon. Won’t happen again.” I arched into his touch.
“Good.”
His hands mapped familiar territory, but he felt new again after so many days apart. Like rediscovering something precious I’d been afraid I’d lost.
When he moved lower, when his mouth found me, I stopped thinking entirely.
There was only this: the wet heat, the suction, his hands gripping my hips.
Every muscle tensed as I fought the urge to fuck his throat.
I came harder than I had in weeks, his name falling from my lips like a curse, my hands tangled in his hair.
When I could breathe again, I pulled him up and kissed him thoroughly, tasting the salty cum on his lips.
“Your turn,” I said, and he sucked in a breath.
“Marco, you don’t have to—”
I guided him onto his knees, and positioned myself behind him, my hands firm on his hips. He glanced back at me, eyes dark with desire, and I kissed the base of his spine.
“What are you doing?” he asked, breathless.
“Something I’ve wanted to do for a while,” I said. “Is that okay?”
“Anything, yes.”
I spread his cheeks with my hands and lowered my mouth to his furled opening. When I teased his hole with my tongue, the noise he made was inhuman—a choked gasp that turned into a low moan. His head dropped to the pillow, his hands fisting in the sheets.
“Marco—putain—”
I took my time, savoring every sound I pulled from him, every tremor that ran through his body. When I finally pulled back, he was panting, his whole body taut with need.
“Please,” he gasped. “I need you. Now.”
I pushed him onto his back and settled between his legs.
I took him into my mouth slowly, relishing the weight of him on my tongue, the way he tasted.
I started with shallow movements, getting used to the feel of him.
His hand found my hair, not pushing, just holding on.
I went deeper, using my tongue, my hand playing with his balls.
When I finally swallowed his length—taking him as far as I could, feeling him hit the back of my throat—he let out a string of curses in French.
When he came, he shouted my name over and over, broken and desperate and perfect.
I pulled off and sat back on my heels, wrapping my hand around myself. A few quick strokes and I was shooting my load across his stomach with a groan.
I collapsed beside him, and we lay there catching our breath, both of us satisfied and exhausted.
“That was…” he started. “I never…”
“Yeah.”
“We should—dinner or something—”
“Later. Just stay here for now.”
“Okay.” He grabbed a few tissues from the nightstand and cleaned his abs. Then he settled against me, his head on my chest, his arm around my waist. “This is better than dinner anyway.”
“Much better.”
We dozed for a while, cuddled around each other, the exhaustion of travel and the days of missing each other catching up with both of us.
When we woke, it was dark outside. étienne’s stomach growled again.
“We really should eat,” I said.
“Probably.” But he didn’t move. Instead, his hand trailed down my chest, over my stomach, lower.
“Again?” I asked, already responding to his touch.
“We have time to make up for.” His mouth found my neck. “Ten days’ worth.”
“Dinner can wait.”
“Absolutely.”