Boston. Toronto. Both Eastern Conference teams. We’d see each other maybe twice a year if Étienne got traded there.
And they were talking about it like it was inevitable. Not if, but when. Down on the ice, Étienne skated toward the tunnel with his head down, shoulders hunched. He looked defeated. Broken.
And I couldn’t do anything to help him.
I got home before he did. When I heard his Grand Cherokee out front, I was already at the door.
He dropped his bag by the door and came to me. I pulled him into my arms, and he sagged against me like his legs wouldn’t hold him anymore.
“I can’t do this,” he muttered into my shoulder. “I can’t keep playing like this. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”
I should have told him what I’d overheard. Warned him it was worse than we thought, that management was actively discussing trading him, that he had maybe a week or two before they pulled the trigger.
But looking at his face—the exhaustion, the despair—I couldn’t do it. Couldn’t add to the weight he was already carrying.
“Nothing’s wrong with you.”
“Then why can’t I play? Why can’t I just—” His voice broke. “I’m trying so hard, Marco. I’m trying everything I know how to do, and nothing’s working.”
My chest ached. “I know you are.”
“I’m going to get traded.” He pulled back to look at me, and his eyes were red-rimmed. “I’m going to lose you. We just found each other and I’m going to lose you because I can’t get my shit together.”
“You’re not going to lose me.” I caught his face in my hands. “No matter what happens, we’ll figure it out.”
He closed his eyes, and I saw his throat work as he swallowed hard. “I’m so tired.”
I pressed my forehead to his. “Come on. Let’s go to bed.”
In my room, I helped him out of his sweater, his pants.He moved mechanically, like he was too exhausted to think. I pulled back the covers, and he climbed in without protest.
I got in beside him and pulled him close. He curled into me immediately, his head on my chest, his arm across my waist.
“Thank you,” he whispered.
“For what?”
“For not giving up on me. Everyone else has.”
My heart cracked. “I’m never giving up on you.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Étienne
The drive to Kinnunen’s house was quiet. I kept one hand on the steering wheel, the other resting on the console between us—close to Marco’s hand but not touching. Kept my eyes on the road instead of looking at him the way I wanted to.
“We can leave anytime,” Marco said quietly as I pulled onto Kinnunen’s street. “If it gets too hard. If we need to.”
“We’ll be fine.” I pulled into the driveway behind another car. Took a breath. “We can do this.”
We got out of the Jeep and walked to the front door together—the way we always would have, the way best friends did. The performance had already begun, except now the performance was acting like the friendship was all there was. Roommates. Teammates. Just that. Nothing more.
Kinnunen answered the door with a baby in his arms.
“Étienne! Marco!” Kinnunen stepped back to let us in. “Come in, come in. This is Lilja.”
The baby—not quite a year old—looked at us withserious blue eyes. She had Kinnunen’s coloring but delicate features that must have come from Alyssa.
