Chapter 27
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
étienne
Saturday morning, we arrived at the practice facility and grabbed our gear bags from the back. We walked in together, the way we’d done a hundred times before.
“Morning,” Kinnunen called out as we passed him in the hallway.
“Morning,” I replied. Marco nodded.
“Good to have you back, Morelli,” Kinnunen added. “How’s the foot?”
“Strong,” Marco said. “Ready to get out there.”
“Looking forward to it. We’ve missed you.”
We continued to the locker room. The usual pre-practice energy filled the space—guys taping sticks, adjusting gear, the comfortable banter of a team getting ready.
“Morelli!” Jensen called out immediately. “Welcome back!”
Others chimed in with genuine welcomes.
No one looked at us strangely. No one seemed to notice anything different between us.
The relief that washed through me was immediate and intense. I headed straight for Marco’s stall, like I always did. Grabbed my stick tape and settled onto the bench beside him.
He was already stretching, right leg propped up, leaning into his hamstring in that way that looked painful.
“Move over,” I said, even though he’d already made room for me.
He shifted slightly without breaking his stretch. Didn’t even look at me. Didn’t need to.
I pulled the first strip of tape and started wrapping my stick blade. White tape, overlapping by half, heel to toe. The motion was automatic, soothing.
The difference was that now, sitting this close to him, my arm occasionally brushing his as I worked, I had to make sure it looked casual. Friendly.
I started wrapping the next line and glanced up at Marco. “You’re tense,” I said quietly. Merde—the tape was spaced wrong. I unwound it and started over.
“I’m stretching.”
“Yeah, but you’re gripping the bench like you’re trying to strangle it.”
He glanced down at his white-knuckled hand and deliberately loosened his grip. “Better?”
“Marginally. Still look like you’re about to face a firing squad.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re many things, Morelli. Fine isn’t currently one of them.”
The corner of his mouth twitched. Not quite a smile, but close enough.
I lowered my voice, leaning in slightly. “Relax. No one’s treating us any differently. Look around—it’s the same locker room chaos it always is.”
Marco’s eyes swept the room. Jensen was arguing with Harris about something.
Kuzmin was examining his skate blades with intense focus.
Kinnunen was laughing at something on his phone.
But across the locker room, Boucher’s eyes were on us.
He leaned against his stall, arms crossed, watching.
Always watching. Though there was nothing suspicious about me taping my stick at Marco’s stall—I’d been doing it since my first year with the Glaciers.
I focused on my tape job, refusing to let Boucher’s scrutiny make me nervous.
Marco started pulling on his shin pads. He fumbled with the left strap—pre-practice nerves making him clumsy.
Without thinking, I leaned over. “Here.”
He didn’t argue, just let me take over. I’d done this a hundred times for him—untwisted the strap, threaded it through properly, tightened it to exactly the tension he liked.
My fingers brushed his leg as I worked, and I felt him go still for just a second.
Anyone watching would see a teammate helping another with his gear.
They wouldn’t see the way my pulse jumped at the contact. Wouldn’t see the way Marco’s jaw tightened, the way his eyes darkened slightly when I pulled my hands away.
“Thanks,” he said quietly.
“No problem.”
I settled back and grabbed my stick again, starting on the knob tape. Exactly twelve wraps, the way I always did it. Marco continued gearing up beside me, and we fell into the rhythm we’d perfected over three years.
This was fine.
This was also killing me.
Because sitting this close to him—close enough to smell his body wash, to feel the warmth of him, to hear his breathing—and having to pretend he was just my friend and roommate?
When all I wanted was to lean into him, to touch him properly, to let my hand rest on his shoulder and mean something more than casual contact?
It was suffocating.
On the ice, it was worse.
The moment Marco stepped onto the rink in his yellow NO CONTACT jersey, my chest pulled tight. He looked good—strong and confident, with no hesitation in his movements.
I wanted to skate over to him, check in, make sure the foot felt okay. But that would draw attention—we didn’t usually hover over each other during practice. We were professionals. We trusted each other.
So, I took my position for warm-ups and watched him from across the ice, tracking every movement, looking for any sign of hesitation.
“Savard!” Coach’s voice snapped across the ice. “Focus on your own drills!”
Heat flooded my face. “Sorry, Coach.”
I forced myself to stop watching him so obviously. But it was impossible not to track him in my peripheral vision, not to notice every stride, every turn.
The drills progressed—passing sequences, positioning work, defensive zone coverage.
Marco integrated back into the lineup seamlessly, his hockey sense as sharp as ever even after weeks off the ice.
When Coach set up a two-on-two drill in the offensive zone, I found myself on the wing with Jensen, facing Marco and Kinnunen on defense.
“Let’s see some chemistry out there,” Coach called. “Make the D work.”
I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from smiling.
Marco coughed slightly, his shoulders shaking just enough that I knew he’d caught it too.
The puck dropped, and the drill began. Jensen controlled it, carrying it into the zone.
Kinnunen stepped up to challenge him, and Jensen slipped a pass across to me on the wing.
I took possession, looked for an opening, saw Marco closing the gap from his position on the blue line.
I tried to cut inside, but Marco read it perfectly—just like he always did.
He angled me toward the boards, stick positioning perfect, forcing me to make a desperation pass back to Jensen.
His defensive coverage was textbook, and even though I was the one getting shut down, my gut unclenched.
We’d just connected, reading each other’s movements the way we always had.
The way we’d connected in previous seasons. Before my game went to shit.
And I couldn’t show any reaction beyond what any forward would show when facing a solid defenseman.
In the locker room after practice, I headed straight for Marco’s stall and dropped onto the bench beside him, just like always.
“Good to be back?” I asked.
“Yeah.” He unlaced his skates. “Foot held up well.”
“You looked strong out there.”
“Thanks.”
I wanted to touch his shoulder, to check the foot myself, to ask him how he really felt instead of keeping everything surface-level and safe.
“Hey, Morelli, Savard,” Kinnunen called from across the room. “Some of us are grabbing lunch at that pub down the street. You guys want to come?”
I looked at Marco. He looked back at me. A silent conversation. Do we risk it? Can we handle being in public together right now?
“I need to ice the foot,” Marco said. “Chuck’s orders.”
“Next time,” I added. “I’m going to drive Marco home.”
That night, we played Nashville at home.
Marco was watching from the team’s suite for the last time. He’d been cleared for full contact and would be back on the ice against San Jose in five days. I knew without looking that he’d be on the edge of his seat up there, barely able to sit still. He had to be itching to play.
We won 3–1. I got an assist. Skating off the ice, I caught myself looking up toward the suite, searching for him among the silhouettes.
I found him. Just a shadow, but I knew the shape of him, the way he stood.
I felt our connection for one brief second before I forced myself to look away.
Even that felt dangerous. Too revealing in front of eighteen thousand fans.
Mais tabarnak, I’d needed it.
We packed Wednesday night, moving through the routine mechanically. Road trips were normal—we did them constantly. But this was the first one since we’d committed to each other, since this had become our home. It was the first road trip where leaving felt like leaving everything that mattered.
“Separate rooms at the hotel,” Marco said from the doorway.
I crossed to him. “Doesn’t mean I have to like it.”
We went to bed early, needing the nearness, the reassurance of each other’s bodies. Afterward, we lay wrapped around each other like we could store up contact for the days ahead, skin to skin, hearts still racing.
Thursday morning, we boarded together and found our seats. I took the window, Marco took the aisle, as usual.
“You guys ready for San Jose?” Kinnunen asked from behind us as we settled in.
“Always,” I said easily. “Should be a good game.”
“First one back for Marco. Big night.”
“Yeah.” Marco pulled out his phone. “Looking forward to it.”
I tried to smile, but anxiety was already coiling in my gut.
Greer was on this plane. I’d seen him sitting in the forward section of the plane with the coaching staff. He didn’t travel with the team often.
He’d be watching tonight. Evaluating.
Marco’s first game back was supposed to be a celebration.
I’d been playing better—marginally, slowly better. But better wasn’t great. It might not be enough to convince Greer I was worth keeping.
What if Marco’s first game back was my last game as a Colorado Glacier?