In the locker room after practice, I headed straight for Marco’s stall and dropped onto the bench beside him, just like always.
“Good to be back?” I asked.
“Yeah.” He unlaced his skates. “Foot held up well.”
“You looked strong out there.”
“Thanks.”
I wanted to touch his shoulder, to check the foot myself, to ask him how he really felt instead of keeping everything surface-level and safe.
“Hey, Morelli, Savard,” Kinnunen called from across the room. “Some of us are grabbing lunch at that pub down the street. You guys want to come?”
I looked at Marco. He looked back at me. A silent conversation.Do we risk it? Can we handle being in public together right now?
“I need to ice the foot,” Marco said. “Chuck’s orders.”
“Next time,” I added. “I’m going to drive Marco home.”
That night, we played Nashville at home.
Marco was watching from the team’s suite for the last time. He’d been cleared for full contact and would be backon the ice against San Jose in five days. I knew without looking that he’d be on the edge of his seat up there, barely able to sit still. He had to be itching to play.
We won 3–1. I got an assist. Skating off the ice, I caught myself looking up toward the suite, searching for him among the silhouettes.
I found him. Just a shadow, but I knew the shape of him, the way he stood.
I felt our connection for one brief second before I forced myself to look away.
Even that felt dangerous. Too revealing in front of eighteen thousand fans.
Mais tabarnak, I’d needed it.
We packed Wednesday night, moving through the routine mechanically. Road trips were normal—we did them constantly. But this was the first one since we’d committed to each other, since this had become our home. It was the first road trip where leaving felt like leaving everything that mattered.
“Separate rooms at the hotel,” Marco said from the doorway.
I crossed to him. “Doesn’t mean I have to like it.”
We went to bed early, needing the nearness, the reassurance of each other’s bodies. Afterward, we lay wrapped around each other like we could store up contact for the days ahead, skin to skin, hearts still racing.
Thursday morning, we boarded together and found our seats. I took the window, Marco took the aisle, as usual.
“You guys ready for San Jose?” Kinnunen asked from behind us as we settled in.
“Always,” I said easily. “Should be a good game.”
“First one back for Marco. Big night.”
“Yeah.” Marco pulled out his phone. “Looking forward to it.”
I tried to smile, but anxiety was already coiling in my gut.
Greer was on this plane. I’d seen him sitting in the forward section of the plane with the coaching staff. He didn’t travel with the team often.
He’d be watching tonight. Evaluating.
Marco’s first game back was supposed to be a celebration.
