I’d been playing better—marginally, slowly better. But better wasn’t great. It might not be enough to convince Greer I was worth keeping.
What if Marco’s first game back was my last game as a Colorado Glacier?
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Marco
The game against San Jose started well enough.
I felt strong during warm-ups, the foot responding exactly the way it should have. Chuck had cleared me for full contact, full speed, everything. My first game back after nine weeks.
I was back on the ice—on the early side, but not unreasonable. I’d healed quickly. The aggressive physical therapy had paid off. Every workout, every session with Chuck, and the cautious progression from boot to walking to skating. It had all led to this moment.
Skating on the ice in full gear, hearing the roar of the crowd, feeling the cold air in my lungs felt like coming home. I was finally back where I belonged.
But I should have been focused entirely on the ice, on reading plays, on doing my job.
Instead, I kept tracking Étienne.
It was automatic, instinctive. Every time he touched the puck, every time he moved into position, every time hebattled along the boards—my attention followed him. Not just as a teammate. As something more.
I had to stop. Had to focus.
Midway through the first period, San Jose broke out on a rush. I was skating backward, reading the play—or I thought I was. But my eyes drifted to Étienne on the far side of the ice, making a move along the boards.
The San Jose forward cut toward the middle. I should have seen it. Should have stepped up, closed the gap.
Instead, I left a hole wide open.
He walked right through it and roofed a shot past our goalie.
Goal: 1–1.
I skated back toward our zone, my head down, knowing it was my fault.
Boucher skated up beside me. “What the fuck was that, Morelli?”
“My mistake.”
“Your mistake? You left the middle wide fucking open!” His voice was loud enough that the guys around us could hear. “You watching the game or watching Savard?”
My heart stopped.
“What did you say?” My voice came out low and dangerous.
“You heard me.” Boucher’s smile was ugly. “Can’t keep your eyes off him, can you?” He shoved me hard. I shoved back, and then he dropped gloves and his fist flew.
The crowd roared. Whistles blew. Refs skated in.
I got in two solid punches before the linesmen pulled us apart. My knuckles throbbed and my chest heaved.
The ref pointed us both toward the penalty box. Five minutes each for fighting.
As I skated toward the sin bin, I could see Coach Wilson’s face on the bench. Red. Furious.
This was bad.
I sat on the bench in the box, breathing hard, trying not to look at Boucher.
