“We really should eat,” I said.
“Probably.” But he didn’t move. Instead, his hand trailed down my chest, over my stomach, lower.
“Again?” I asked, already responding to his touch.
“We have time to make up for.” His mouth found my neck. “Ten days’ worth.”
“Dinner can wait.”
“Absolutely.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Étienne
Saturday morning, we arrived at the practice facility and grabbed our gear bags from the back. We walked in together, the way we’d done a hundred times before.
“Morning,” Kinnunen called out as we passed him in the hallway.
“Morning,” I replied. Marco nodded.
“Good to have you back, Morelli,” Kinnunen added. “How’s the foot?”
“Strong,” Marco said. “Ready to get out there.”
“Looking forward to it. We’ve missed you.”
We continued to the locker room. The usual pre-practice energy filled the space—guys taping sticks, adjusting gear, the comfortable banter of a team getting ready.
“Morelli!” Jensen called out immediately. “Welcome back!”
Others chimed in with genuine welcomes.
No one looked at us strangely. No one seemed to notice anything different between us.
The relief that washed through me was immediate andintense. I headed straight for Marco’s stall, like I always did. Grabbed my stick tape and settled onto the bench beside him.
He was already stretching, right leg propped up, leaning into his hamstring in that way that looked painful.
“Move over,” I said, even though he’d already made room for me.
He shifted slightly without breaking his stretch. Didn’t even look at me. Didn’t need to.
I pulled the first strip of tape and started wrapping my stick blade. White tape, overlapping by half, heel to toe. The motion was automatic, soothing.
The difference was that now, sitting this close to him, my arm occasionally brushing his as I worked, I had to make sure it looked casual. Friendly.
I started wrapping the next line and glanced up at Marco. “You’re tense,” I said quietly.Merde—the tape was spaced wrong. I unwound it and started over.
“I’m stretching.”
“Yeah, but you’re gripping the bench like you’re trying to strangle it.”
He glanced down at his white-knuckled hand and deliberately loosened his grip. “Better?”
“Marginally. Still look like you’re about to face a firing squad.”
“I’m fine.”
