Chapter 28
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Marco
The game against San Jose started well enough.
I felt strong during warm-ups, the foot responding exactly the way it should have. Chuck had cleared me for full contact, full speed, everything. My first game back after nine weeks.
I was back on the ice—on the early side, but not unreasonable. I’d healed quickly. The aggressive physical therapy had paid off. Every workout, every session with Chuck, and the cautious progression from boot to walking to skating. It had all led to this moment.
Skating on the ice in full gear, hearing the roar of the crowd, feeling the cold air in my lungs felt like coming home. I was finally back where I belonged.
But I should have been focused entirely on the ice, on reading plays, on doing my job.
Instead, I kept tracking étienne.
It was automatic, instinctive. Every time he touched the puck, every time he moved into position, every time he battled along the boards—my attention followed him. Not just as a teammate. As something more.
I had to stop. Had to focus.
Midway through the first period, San Jose broke out on a rush. I was skating backward, reading the play—or I thought I was. But my eyes drifted to étienne on the far side of the ice, making a move along the boards.
The San Jose forward cut toward the middle. I should have seen it. Should have stepped up, closed the gap.
Instead, I left a hole wide open.
He walked right through it and roofed a shot past our goalie.
Goal: 1–1.
I skated back toward our zone, my head down, knowing it was my fault.
Boucher skated up beside me. “What the fuck was that, Morelli?”
“My mistake.”
“Your mistake? You left the middle wide fucking open!” His voice was loud enough that the guys around us could hear. “You watching the game or watching Savard?”
My heart stopped.
“What did you say?” My voice came out low and dangerous.
“You heard me.” Boucher’s smile was ugly. “Can’t keep your eyes off him, can you?” He shoved me hard. I shoved back, and then he dropped gloves and his fist flew.
The crowd roared. Whistles blew. Refs skated in.
I got in two solid punches before the linesmen pulled us apart. My knuckles throbbed and my chest heaved.
The ref pointed us both toward the penalty box. Five minutes each for fighting.
As I skated toward the sin bin, I could see Coach Wilson’s face on the bench. Red. Furious.
This was bad.
I sat on the bench in the box, breathing hard, trying not to look at Boucher.
But I could feel him staring at me.
“Touched a nerve, didn’t I?” he asked.
I didn’t respond. Didn’t trust myself to speak.
“You think I don’t notice? The way you look at him? The way you two are always together?”
“Shut up, Boucher.”
“Or what? You’ll fight me again?” He laughed. “Go ahead. Just proves my point.”
I stared straight ahead at the ice, watching the game continue without us. San Jose had a power play—five on three with both of us in the box.
They scored.
2–1 San Jose.
All of it my fault.
When the penalty expired, I skated back to the bench, keeping my head down.
Coach didn’t look at me.
In the locker room during intermission, the silence was deafening.
Coach Wilson stood at the front of the room, arms crossed, jaw tight.
“Morelli. Boucher. What the hell was that?”
Neither of us spoke.
“We’re down a goal because we were playing five-on-three while you two had your little boxing match. Our teammates are fighting each other.” His voice rose. “What could possibly be worth that?”
“He started it,” I said, the words sounding childish even as they left my mouth.
“I don’t care who started it! You don’t take the bait!” Coach’s face was red. “Boucher, you want to run your mouth, take it up with me after the game. Morelli, you want to fight someone, fight the other team.”
“Yes, Coach.”
He turned to the rest of the room. “Second period, I need everyone focused. No more penalties. No more drama. Just hockey. Am I clear?”
A chorus of “Yes, Coach” answered him.
His eyes came back to me. “Morelli. How’s the foot?”
“Fine, Coach.”
“Good. Because I need you thinking with your head, not your fists. That defensive coverage in the first period before the fight—that wasn’t like you.”
“Won’t happen again.”
“It better not. Now everyone, get your heads straight. We’ve got forty minutes to win this game.”
I sat at my stall, my jaw throbbing from Boucher’s right hook.
Across the room, Boucher was getting his knuckles taped by the trainer. He caught my eye and smirked.
He knew he’d gotten to me. And worse—he knew why.
étienne dropped onto the bench beside me, Kinnunen coming up behind him. “You okay?”
“Yeah.”
“What did he say to you?”
I couldn’t tell him. Couldn’t repeat Boucher’s words. “Just running his mouth.”
Kinnunen studied me for a moment, then nodded. “Well, you got in some good shots. But maybe don’t fight Boucher, yeah?” He clapped my shoulder and moved away.
I sat there, trying to steady my breathing, trying to focus on the game ahead.
But all I could think about was Boucher’s taunt.
How long before he said it again? How long before he said it to someone who mattered—Coach, management, the media?
The hit came early in the second period.
I was moving the puck out of our zone, skating backward, when their forward came in hard and fast. Legal check, nothing dirty, but the impact sent me into the boards harder than I’d been hit since before the injury.
My first instinct was to get up, keep playing, like I’d done thousands of times before.
But for a split second—just a fraction of a moment—I tested the foot. Put weight on it carefully, feeling for pain, for weakness, for any sign that something had gone wrong.
Nothing. The foot was fine.
But that split second of hesitation? That was new. That was fear.
I shook it off, rejoining the play, but the mental mark had been made. I wasn’t playing fearlessly anymore. I was playing scared.
We lost 2–3. That hesitation after the hit had thrown me off for the rest of the game and made me a split second slower on every decision.
In the dressing room, I changed mechanically, responding when spoken to but not really engaging.
étienne collapsed onto the bench beside me at my stall, like he always did after games. “That hit in the second looked rough.”
“It was fine.” I kept my tone neutral, professional. I pulled off my skates, aware that anyone could be watching. What I wanted to do was squeeze his hand, let him see I was really fine. But Kinnunen was three stalls down, and Boucher was right behind us.
“Good.” étienne nodded, his jaw tight. He looked exhausted—I could see the strain in his eyes from the weight of the trade on his back.
“Good game,” I said. “Coach should be satisfied with that.”
“You think so?”
“Yeah.” I paused, watching him move gingerly. “You okay? That was a hard check in the third.”
“Just got the wind knocked out of me.” He rolled his shoulder, testing it. “Nothing serious.” He gave me a small smile. “But thanks for asking.”
I wanted to press my hand to his shoulder, to check for myself. But we were surrounded by teammates.
Instead, I grabbed my towel. “Heading for the shower.”
In the shower, I was hyperaware of him three shower heads down.
The water running, the familiar sounds of his routine.
I’d memorized every detail of his body over the past month—every scar, every muscle, the exact pattern of freckles on his shoulders.
But here, I had to keep my eyes forward, my expression neutral, like he was just another teammate.
Like I didn’t know exactly how his skin felt under my hands.
The hotel was nice—one of the better ones we stayed at during the season.
After a post-game team meal in the dining room, I made my way to my room on the fourth floor, a standard double with two beds even though I was alone.
The veterans got single rooms on road trips. One of the perks of seniority.
I unpacked methodically, hanging up my clothes for the next day, setting out my toiletries.
The room was too quiet. At home, étienne would be there—helping me make a post-game dinner, playing a video game, or just existing in the same space.
Here, there was nothing but silence and the hum of the heater.
I took my time getting ready for bed. The foot felt fine. No swelling, no pain, nothing to show I’d made a mistake coming back when I did. Physically, I was ready.
Mentally? That was a different question.
I thought about that split second of hesitation.
The way I’d tested my weight, checked for damage, let fear dictate my reaction.
Professional hockey players couldn’t play like that.
Couldn’t second-guess every hit, every movement.
The game was too fast. I pulled on sweatpants and a T-shirt and climbed into bed.
The room felt cavernous, empty. I closed my eyes, willing sleep to come.
My phone buzzed.
étienne
What’s your room number?
My heart rate picked up immediately.
Marco
Why?
étienne
I need to see you.
Everything in me went still. We couldn’t do this.
It was after midnight. Most of the team would be settled for the night.
If someone saw him coming to my room late at night, it would raise questions.
Best friends or not, showing up at each other’s hotel rooms that late looked suspicious.
Like we couldn’t even spend one night apart.
Which, to be fair, we apparently couldn’t.
But Christ, I wanted to see him.
Marco
étienne, no.
étienne
Please. Just for a few minutes. I have to see you.
I stared at the message. The hallways would be mostly empty. Risky, but not impossible.
Marco
What room are you in?
étienne
538.
I pulled on a hoodie, grabbed my key card, and slipped out into the hallway.
The hotel was quiet. I took the stairs instead of the elevator—less chance of running into anyone—and emerged on the fifth floor. Room 538 was in the middle of the hall. I checked both directions, saw no one, and knocked quietly.