I caught the towel, laughing. “You love me anyway.”
“Unfortunately.” But he was smiling. “Fine. We’ll watch your so-called Christmas movie. But I’m doing it under protest.”
“Your protest is noted.” I grabbed the remote and settled onto the couch. “And completely disregarded.”
Marco sat down beside me, close enough that our shoulders touched. “This is the worst Christmas tradition.”
“You say that now. Wait until the part where he jumps off the building.”
“That’s your favorite Christmas moment? A man jumping off an exploding building?”
“It’s very festive.”
He laughed and leaned into me. “You’re ridiculous.”
“And you’re stuck with me.”
“Wouldn’t want it any other way,” he said softly.
We spent the rest of Christmas Day on the couch, watchingDie Hardand Christmas movies we didn’t pay attention to, trying not to think about me being traded or our families celebrating without us. My phone stayed silent all day—no call from Papa, no message, nothing. Marco got a text from Gia with photos of their family gathering, and one from his mother that just saidMerry Christmas. Praying for you.
Not acceptance. But not total silence either.
It would have to be enough.
Saturday came too fast.
The game against Utah was at seven, which meant morning skate at ten, then the usual pregame routine. Kinnunen caught my eye in the locker room while I was taping my stick at Marco’s stall.
“You guys ready for tomorrow?” he asked quietly.
“No,” I said honestly.
“You’ll do great. Alyssa and I are thinking about you.”
“Thanks.”
The game itself felt surreal. We won 4–2, but I didn’t get on the score sheet.
No goals. No assists. Just good, steady hockey.
I played my offensive assignments. Won battles along the boards. Made the safe plays, the smart plays. Nothing spectacular, but nothing costly either. The kind of game where you do your job and help your team win without showing up in the highlights.
Was it enough? I’d played well—Coach hadn’t benched me. I’d been responsible with the puck. The kind of player any team needed.
But Greer would be looking at the stats line. Zero points. Again.
The roster freeze lifted at midnight. In a few hours, Greer could make a trade if he wanted to.
Especially since Marco and I would be sitting in front of Coach and Greer in less than twenty-four hours, telling them we were romantically involved.
After the game, in the locker room, Boucher was holding court near his stall, talking about the upcoming week. “Big game Monday against Winnipeg. We need to keep this momentum going.”
His eyes flicked to Marco and me for just a second—calculating, suspicious.
By Monday night, he’d know for sure. The thought made my stomach twist.
Sunday morning arrived cold and gray.
