Miss youhad become our most frequent message.
The first game was Monday night against Buffalo. I’d settled on the couch with pizza and beer, watching Étienne take his first shift after talking through our routine.
His skating was a little tentative, his reads half a second slow. He picked up an assist in the second period—a decent pass that Jensen converted—but he also had a turnover in the defensive zone that led to a Buffalo scoring chance.
We won 3–2, but Étienne hadn’t been a major factor.
I texted him after.
Marco
Good to see you get on the board. How are you feeling?
His response came two hours later.
Étienne
Okay. Not great. But better than I was.
Marco
Progress is progress.
Étienne
I guess. Wish you’d been out there with me.
Marco
Me too.
Étienne
Soon.
The rest of the week’s games were tight, but I was more focused on Étienne than the team as a whole. Our pregame calls were helping a little, but he was still playing just adequately—not enough to silence the trade rumors. He had to turn this around, and soon. I couldn’t lose him now. Not after finally telling him how I felt. Not after having him in my home, in my bed. If he got traded, his father would surely cut him off. Who would Étienne have left then? The thought of him alone in Boston or Toronto made my gut twist. He needed me as much as I needed him.
“Marco!” Chuck’s voice cut through my thoughts. “Let’s test some lateral movement. I want quick feet. Heel-to-heel slides across the blue line.”
I skated to the blue line and started the drill—quick lateral movements, pushing off one foot then the other, staying low, keeping my edges sharp. The injured foot had to work hard for this one, the lateral pressure different from forward skating.
First pass across the line was shaky. Second was better. By the third, I’d found the rhythm.
“Good!” Chuck called. “Now add some stick work. I want to see you handling a puck while moving laterally.”
He tossed a puck onto the ice. I scooped it up with my blade and started the drill again, this time stickhandling while sliding laterally. Heel to heel, quick feet, puck on my blade, eyes up.
This was more like real hockey. This was what I’d been missing.
The puck felt good on my stick. The weight of it, the sound of it tapping against the blade, the control of moving it exactly where I wanted it to go.
I was a hockey player. This was who I was. The injury had tried to take that away, but it hadn’t succeeded.
“Last drill!” Chuck called. “Figure skating. I want cleanedges, proper form. Show me that foot can handle the full range of motion.”
I transitioned into figure skating patterns—inside edges, outside edges, smooth curves and tight turns. Skating that looked effortless but required perfect balance and control.
My left foot traced smooth arcs on the ice, the blade holding its edge perfectly. Right foot, same precision. The symmetry was returning.
