Étienne dropped onto the bench beside me, Kinnunen coming up behind him. “You okay?”
“Yeah.”
“What did he say to you?”
I couldn’t tell him. Couldn’t repeat Boucher’s words. “Just running his mouth.”
Kinnunen studied me for a moment, then nodded. “Well, you got in some good shots. But maybe don’t fight Boucher, yeah?” He clapped my shoulder and moved away.
I sat there, trying to steady my breathing, trying to focus on the game ahead.
But all I could think about was Boucher’s taunt.
How long before he said it again? How long before hesaid it to someone who mattered—Coach, management, the media?
The hit came early in the second period.
I was moving the puck out of our zone, skating backward, when their forward came in hard and fast. Legal check, nothing dirty, but the impact sent me into the boards harder than I’d been hit since before the injury.
My first instinct was to get up, keep playing, like I’d done thousands of times before.
But for a split second—just a fraction of a moment—I tested the foot. Put weight on it carefully, feeling for pain, for weakness, for any sign that something had gone wrong.
Nothing. The foot was fine.
But that split second of hesitation? That was new. That was fear.
I shook it off, rejoining the play, but the mental mark had been made. I wasn’t playing fearlessly anymore. I was playing scared.
We lost 2–3. That hesitation after the hit had thrown me off for the rest of the game and made me a split second slower on every decision.
In the dressing room, I changed mechanically, responding when spoken to but not really engaging.
Étienne collapsed onto the bench beside me at my stall, like he always did after games. “That hit in the second looked rough.”
“It was fine.” I kept my tone neutral, professional. I pulled off my skates, aware that anyone could be watching. What I wanted to do was squeeze his hand, let him see I was really fine. But Kinnunen was three stalls down, and Boucher was right behind us.
“Good.” Étienne nodded, his jaw tight. He looked exhausted—I could see the strain in his eyes from the weight of the trade on his back.
“Good game,” I said. “Coach should be satisfied with that.”
“You think so?”
“Yeah.” I paused, watching him move gingerly. “You okay? That was a hard check in the third.”
“Just got the wind knocked out of me.” He rolled his shoulder, testing it. “Nothing serious.” He gave me a small smile. “But thanks for asking.”
I wanted to press my hand to his shoulder, to check for myself. But we were surrounded by teammates.
Instead, I grabbed my towel. “Heading for the shower.”
In the shower, I was hyperaware of him three shower heads down. The water running, the familiar sounds of his routine. I’d memorized every detail of his body over the past month—every scar, every muscle, the exact pattern of freckles on his shoulders. But here, I had to keep my eyes forward, my expression neutral, like he was just another teammate.
Like I didn’t know exactly how his skin felt under my hands.
The hotel was nice—one of the better ones we stayed at during the season. After a post-game team meal in the dining room, I made my way to my room on the fourth floor, a standard double with two beds even though I was alone. The veterans got single rooms on road trips. One of the perks of seniority.
I unpacked methodically, hanging up my clothes for the next day, setting out my toiletries. The room was too quiet. At home, Étienne would be there—helping me make a post-game dinner, playing a video game, or just existing in the same space. Here, there was nothing but silence and the hum of the heater.
