At one hundred miles per hour.
The pain was immediate and absolute. White-hot agony shot up from my skate through my entire leg, stole my breath, and wiped out every thought exceptoh God, oh God, that’s bad.
I heard the crack. Felt something give way inside my skate that shouldn’t have given way.
Broken. I knew it instantly, with a certainty that came from thirteen years in the NHL and enough injuries to recognize the difference between pain that would fade and pain that meant something was fundamentally wrong.
I couldn’t get up. Couldn’t even think about getting up because my entire world had narrowed to my right foot and the fire radiating from it.
The whistle blew. Somewhere far away, I heard the ref’s voice, heard skates cutting ice as players converged.
Then Étienne was there.
I didn’t see him coming. One second, I was alone on the ice, trying to breathe through the pain, trying not to black out. The next second he was on his knees beside me, helmet off, his face pale and terrified in a way I’d never seen before.
“Marco. Marco, talk to me. Where?—”
“Foot,” I managed through gritted teeth. “Right foot.”
He reached for my skate, and I couldn't stop the sound that came out of me—halfway between a gasp and a scream, a pure animal reaction to even the thought of someone touching it.
Étienne snatched his hand back like I’d burned him. “Putain! Get the fucking trainer! Now!”
His hand found mine instead, squeezing hard enough to hurt. I squeezed back because I needed something to focus on besides the pain, something to anchor me.
“You’re okay.” His voice shook. “You’re okay, just breathe. Trainer’s coming. You’re okay.”
I wasn’t okay. My foot was broken. And broken meant possible surgery, meant recovery time, meant weeks—maybe months—on the sidelines watching the team play without me.
The failure of it hit almost as hard as the pain. I’d been playing well this season. Really well. Best plus-minus on the team, leading defenseman in blocked shots, finally feeling like I’d found my rhythm in Colorado after years of working for it.
And now this.
All because I’d committed to the slide, because I’d done my job, made the right play at the wrong cost.
Chuck, our head trainer, was on the ice now. He was talking to me, asking questions—“Can you move it? From one to ten, how bad is the pain? Did you hear anything break?”—but I couldn’t focus on him. All my attention was on Étienne, still kneeling beside me, still holding my hand like letting go would mean I’d disappear.
“Broken.” I turned my gaze to Chuck. “I heard and felt it crack, even over the noise of the crowd.”
Chuck’s mouth flattened into a grim line. “Okay. We’re going to get you off the ice. Don’t move it.”
Chuck and Étienne got on either side of me, carefully helping me onto my one good foot. The movement sent fresh pain shooting through my broken foot, and I couldn’t stop the hiss that escaped through my teeth.
“Easy,” Chuck said. “We’ve got you. Don’t put any weight on it.”
They lifted me, taking my weight between them, and started gliding me toward the tunnel on my left skate. Étienne’s arm was solid under my shoulder, his grip firm and steady around my back.
The arena erupted. Eighteen thousand people were on their feet, applauding, cheering. The sound washed over me—supportive, encouraging. Sticks tapped against the ice and the boards as both teams showed their respect.
I hated needing the help, hated the weakness of being unable to skate off under my own power. But the crowd’s response—their understanding that I’d sacrificed my body making the right play—made my tight chest loosen slightly. Étienne squeezed me as we reached the tunnel, his presence the only thing keeping me grounded through the pain and the noise and the crushing disappointment.
“Savard, get back to the bench,” Coach Wilson called.
“I’m not leaving him.”
“Savard—” Coach Wilson started, sharp with authority.
“I’m not leaving him,” Étienne repeated, and there was something fierce in his voice that I’d never heard before. It said he’d fight anyone who tried to make him.
