Saturday was a back-to-back against Edmonton.
In the locker room before the game, my phone rang again. Marco.
I put it on speaker without hesitation, and his voice filled the space around my stall.
“White tape?” he asked.
“Heel to toe,” I confirmed, already reaching for the roll.
Around me, I could hear the usual pregame noise—guys talking, music playing, skates being sharpened. But Marco’s voice cut through it all, steady and familiar.
“Edmonton’s defense likes to pinch,” he said as I wrapped the stick. “Watch for the late man back. Their right D especially—he’ll jump up on the rush and leave gaps.”
“Got it.”
“And their goalie’s been struggling with traffic. Get bodies in front, make him work through screens.”
I finished the second layer of tape, tested the grip. Perfect, just like always.
“Thanks, Marco.”
“Anytime. Now go?—”
“Talking to your boyfriend again, Savard?” Boucher’s voice cut across the locker room, sharp and mocking.
I froze, my grip tightening on my stick.
“Shut up, Boucher.” Kinnunen’s voice was flat, hard. “It’s working. He’s playing better. So unless you want to volunteer to help him prep, keep your mouth shut.”
Silence. Then Boucher muttered something under his breath and turned away.
“Étienne?” Marco’s voice came through the speaker, concerned. “You okay?”
“Yeah. I’m good.” I kept my voice steady. “Gotta go. Warm-ups.”
“Okay. Good luck.”
I hung up and sat there for a moment, Boucher’s words still ringing in my ears. But underneath them was Kinnunen’s defense.It’s working. He’s playing better.
I just had to keep it up.
The game against Edmonton was okay. I made decent plays, kept my positioning mostly solid. No major mistakes, no turnovers that led directly to goals.
We won 3–2.
In the locker room after the game, I sat at my stall and ran the numbers in my head.
Two games. One assist. Solid offensive play. Better than I’d been playing for months.
But still not up to my usual standards. Still not the point-per-game player I’d been last season.
Was this marginal improvement enough to keep Greer from pulling the trigger, though?
I didn’t know. And that uncertainty hung over me as I packed up my gear and drove home.
Sunday was a rest day. We slept late and made breakfast together.
I called the landlord that morning. “I won’t be moving back in,” I told him. “I’ve found other living arrangements.”
