I stripped out of my gear, showered, and drove home in a daze.
Marco was in the living room when I came in, exercising with hand weights. He looked up immediately, and his expression shifted when he saw my face.
“What happened?”
I dropped my bag by the door. “Coach called me into his office.”
Marco stopped mid-exercise. “And?”
“Greer’s losing patience. He’s getting calls.” The words felt thick in my mouth. “Coach said if I don’t turn it around before the roster freeze, Greer’s going to trade me after Christmas.”
Marco’s face paled. “Fuck.”
“I have three weeks to prove I’m worth keeping.”
Marco set down the hand weights and crossed to me. “You can do it.”
“Can I?” I looked at him. “I’ve been trying for months, Marco. Trying to get my father’s voice out of my head. But it hasn’t worked. It’s only gotten worse since you went down.” My voice cracked slightly. “You were always there before games—our routines, the way you’d walk me through plays, keep me centered. Without that, without you on the ice with me, I fell apart.”
I took a shaky breath.
“And now I’m hiding my sexuality on top of everything else. Figuring out I’m bisexual, being attracted to you, terrified someone will find out. It’s all in my head every game. I can’t focus on hockey when I’m constantly trying to keep everything else buried.”
“Étienne—”
“I’ve been trying to fix it, to play better. Push through it. But I’m still playing like shit, and I don’t know if three weeks is enough time to turn it around.”
“You’ve been playing better recently?—”
“Better isn’t good enough! That’s what Coach said. Better isn’t enough.” My voice rose. “They want consistent production. They want the player I used to be. And I don’t know if I can be that player anymore.”
My father’s voice had a way of finding me on the ice. Every missed pass, every botched play… I could hear him before the puck even stopped sliding.Too slow. Too soft. Never good enough.I’d spent my whole career trying to out-skate that voice, and lately it felt like it was finally winning.
Marco pulled me into his arms, and I sagged against him. The fear sat heavy in my belly. “I have an idea,” he said into my hair.
In the locker room that night before the game against Dallas, my phone rang as I was gearing up.
Marco.
I answered immediately, putting it on speaker so I could continue my preparations. “Hey. You’re on speaker.”
“Hey.” His voice was warm, familiar. “Getting ready?”
“Yeah. Just about to tape my stick.”
“White tape?”
I smiled despite myself. “Yeah.”
“Heel to toe. Overlap by half.”
I hadn’t realized how much I’d missed it, our routine.
“I know how to tape my stick, Marco,” I said, but there was no heat in it.
“I know you do. But humor me.” A pause. “Second layer after the first, right?”
“Right.” I started wrapping, and the familiar motion was soothing. “You didn’t have to call.”
