Chapter 31
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
étienne
The days between telling our families and telling the team felt like both an eternity and no time at all.
Tuesday, we had practice in the morning—a light skate before the break.
I taped my stick at Marco’s stall like always, and we joked with Kinnunen about his plans for Lilja’s first Christmas morning.
Nothing different. Except Kinnunen’s eyes held something extra when he looked at us—knowledge, support, solidarity.
It felt strange, carrying this secret that was about to explode, while everyone else worried about holiday travel plans and whether their families would like their gifts.
That afternoon, Marco and I went to the big box hardware store to buy a Christmas tree. It seemed ridiculous—we were about to blow up our lives, our families had just rejected us, and we were picking out a Douglas fir like we were normal roommates preparing for a normal holiday.
But maybe that was the point.
“This one,” Marco said, pointing to a six-footer with full branches and a mostly straight trunk.
“You sure? That one’s taller.” I gestured to a seven-footer nearby.
“Our ceiling’s not that high. And this one’s perfect.”
Perfect. I looked at him standing there in his winter coat, snowflakes just starting to fall, picking out our first Christmas tree together, and my shoulders suddenly relaxed. We’d lost our families. We were about to lose our privacy and possibly my place on the team.
But we had this. We had each other.
“Yeah,” I said. “It’s perfect.”
We brought it home, spent the evening setting it up in the corner by the window. We didn’t have many ornaments—I’d grabbed a box of assorted decorations and lights from the store, and Marco contributed a few things Gia had given him over the years. It looked a little sparse, a little makeshift.
It looked like ours.
We ordered Chinese food and ate it on the couch, watching the tree lights blink in the dimness, not talking about Monday’s family calls or Sunday’s looming revelations. Just being together in the quiet.
“I’m glad we did this,” Marco said eventually, his head on my shoulder.
“The tree?”
“All of it. Coming out to our families. Deciding to go public. Choosing this.” He gestured vaguely at the room, at us, at everything. “I’m terrified. But I’m glad.”
I kissed the top of his head. “Me too.”
Christmas Day, we slept in late—no practice, no game, nothing pulling us out of bed. The sex was sensual, unhurried, like the snow drifting down outside. When we finally got up, I made coffee while Marco scrambled eggs and dropped bread in the toaster
We’d put our gifts for each other under the tree the night before. Nothing big—we’d agreed on that, knowing what the next few weeks would bring. But something meaningful.
I went first, handing Marco a small, wrapped box.
He opened it carefully, peeling back the paper, and pulled out a leather bracelet—simple, dark brown, with a small silver plate engraved with coordinates.
“What are these?” he asked, running his thumb over the numbers.
“The rink where we met. Our first practice with the Glaciers.”
He stared at it for a long moment, his jaw working. Then he snapped it onto his wrist, the leather fitting perfectly. “I love it.”
“You can safely wear it under your glove.”
“Good, I won’t take it off.” He held up his wrist, admiring it. “Your turn.”
He handed me a flat package, heavier than it looked.
I unwrapped it to find a framed photograph—the two of us on the ice during warm-ups, taken from ice-level.
We faced each other, just talking, but the way we stood, the way we looked at each other, even in hockey gear, even in a public space, the spark was there, unmistakable.
“When was this taken?” I asked.
“October. Before my injury. I found it on the team photographer’s website—they post hundreds of shots. This was just one among many, but I saw it and…” He trailed off. “I saw us. Really saw us. Even when we were trying to hide it.”
I traced the edge of the frame. “It’s perfect.”
I stood and carried it to the bookshelf. Marco’s trophies were arranged there—mini Stanley Cup, All-Star appearances, team awards. I moved them slightly to make room and placed our photo right at eye level.
Front and center. Where everyone could see it.
Marco cooked a delicious ham, with enough leftovers for days. I cleaned up after dinner, and Marco came through behind me, giving the counters one final wipe.
“Want to watch a Christmas movie?” Marco asked as he washed his hands.
“Yeah. Let’s do Die Hard.”
He fumbled the hand towel. “Die Hard is not a Christmas movie.”
“Of course it is. It takes place at Christmas.”
“That doesn’t make it a Christmas movie, étienne. By that logic, Batman Returns is a Christmas movie.”
“Batman Returns is debatable. Die Hard is definitive.” I put the last plate away and turned to face him. “Christmas party. Christmas music. Christmas decorations. The whole thing happens because it’s Christmas.”
“The whole thing happens because Hans Gruber wants to steal bearer bonds from a vault.”
“At a Christmas party.”
Marco threw up his hands. “Setting doesn’t determine genre! It’s an action movie that happens to be set during Christmas. There’s a difference.”
“Name one element of a Christmas movie that Die Hard doesn’t have.”
He opened his mouth, closed it, then said, “Santa Claus.”
“The guy dressed as Santa who gets shot in the elevator.”
“That doesn’t count!”
“It absolutely counts. Santa: check. Christmas tree: check. ‘Jingle Bells’ on the soundtrack: check. Man trying to reunite with his family for the holidays: check.” I ticked them off on my fingers. “Face it, Marco. Die Hard is a Christmas movie.”
“It’s a movie about terrorism.”
“Christmas terrorism.”
He stared at me for a long moment, then snapped the towel in my direction. “You’re infuriating.”
I caught the towel, laughing. “You love me anyway.”
“Unfortunately.” But he was smiling. “Fine. We’ll watch your so-called Christmas movie. But I’m doing it under protest.”
“Your protest is noted.” I grabbed the remote and settled onto the couch. “And completely disregarded.”
Marco sat down beside me, close enough that our shoulders touched. “This is the worst Christmas tradition.”
“You say that now. Wait until the part where he jumps off the building.”
“That’s your favorite Christmas moment? A man jumping off an exploding building?”
“It’s very festive.”
He laughed and leaned into me. “You’re ridiculous.”
“And you’re stuck with me.”
“Wouldn’t want it any other way,” he said softly.
We spent the rest of Christmas Day on the couch, watching Die Hard and Christmas movies we didn’t pay attention to, trying not to think about me being traded or our families celebrating without us.
My phone stayed silent all day—no call from Papa, no message, nothing.
Marco got a text from Gia with photos of their family gathering, and one from his mother that just said Merry Christmas. Praying for you.
Not acceptance. But not total silence either.
It would have to be enough.
Saturday came too fast.
The game against Utah was at seven, which meant morning skate at ten, then the usual pregame routine. Kinnunen caught my eye in the locker room while I was taping my stick at Marco’s stall.
“You guys ready for tomorrow?” he asked quietly.
“No,” I said honestly.
“You’ll do great. Alyssa and I are thinking about you.”
“Thanks.”
The game itself felt surreal. We won 4–2, but I didn’t get on the score sheet.
No goals. No assists. Just good, steady hockey.
I played my offensive assignments. Won battles along the boards. Made the safe plays, the smart plays. Nothing spectacular, but nothing costly either. The kind of game where you do your job and help your team win without showing up in the highlights.
Was it enough? I’d played well—Coach hadn’t benched me. I’d been responsible with the puck. The kind of player any team needed.
But Greer would be looking at the stats line. Zero points. Again.
The roster freeze lifted at midnight. In a few hours, Greer could make a trade if he wanted to.
Especially since Marco and I would be sitting in front of Coach and Greer in less than twenty-four hours, telling them we were romantically involved.
After the game, in the locker room, Boucher was holding court near his stall, talking about the upcoming week. “Big game Monday against Winnipeg. We need to keep this momentum going.”
His eyes flicked to Marco and me for just a second—calculating, suspicious.
By Monday night, he’d know for sure. The thought made my stomach twist.
Sunday morning arrived cold and gray.
I’d barely slept. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw Coach’s face, imagined his rejection. I imagined Greer’s neutral expression as he told me I was being traded to Toronto.
Marco was already awake when the alarm went off at six. We got ready in silence, moving through our morning routine on autopilot. Made coffee. Showered. Dressed in business casual clothing appropriate for meeting with the GM.
We’d set up the meeting with Coach Wilson and Douglas Greer for eight—before the team arrived for practice, before anyone else was around. Private. Controlled.
The drive to the facility was quiet. Marco drove this time, his hands tight on the wheel, his jaw set.
The practice facility was nearly empty at 7:40 a.m. A few staff members, the trainers, but only a couple of players. We made our way to Coach Wilson’s office, our footsteps muffled by the rubber in the empty locker room.
The door stood open. Coach Wilson sat behind his desk, and Greer occupied a chair across from him. Both looked up when we appeared in the doorway.
“étienne. Marco.” Coach gestured to the two empty chairs. “Come in. Close the door.”
I did, the click of the latch sounding unnaturally loud in the quiet office.
We sat. Marco’s knee pressed against mine, a contact so brief to be hardly noticeable, but I felt it.
“So,” Coach Wilson said, his expression neutral but not unkind. “What’s this about?”