We moved around the kitchen with the easy familiarity we’d developed over the past year. I cooked the noodles, browned the beef, and started layering the lasagna—noodles, beef and sauce, ricotta, mozzarella. He minced garlic for the bread and washed lettuce for the salad.
New Year’s Eve. Buffalo. One year exactly since we’d kissed on the ice in front of eighteen thousand people.
It felt fitting to mark the anniversary with the same opponent on the same date. And we’d won again. I’d even gotten an assist, feeding Jensen for an empty-netter in the final minute.
“Boucher looked terrible out there today,” Étienne sliced the baguette for the garlic bread. “Did you see that turnover in the second period?”
“Hard to miss.” I laid another layer of noodles over the mozzarella. “He’s been struggling all season.”
“Third line doesn’t suit him.”
“Nothing suits him lately.” I spread beef and sauce over the noodles. “The trade rumors are getting louder.”
“Think they’ll move him?”
“Eventually. He’s not producing, and I think the locker room would be better without his attitude.” I glanced at Étienne. “I don’t think about him much anymore.”
“Me neither.” He mixed the butter and garlic. “Strange how that works. A year ago he was this huge presence. Now he’s just… background noise.”
“That’s what happens when you stop giving someone power over you.”
Étienne smiled. “When did you get so wise, Captain?”
The word still sent a jolt through me. Captain. Four months into wearing the C, and I still wasn’t entirely used to it.
Management had given the captaincy to me after they stripped Boucher of it in April. His performance had tanked, his attitude had poisoned the locker room, and Coach had finally had enough.
“Not wise.” I spooned ricotta onto the beef mixture. “Just tired of letting him take up space in my head.”
“Fair.” Étienne slathered the bread with garlic butter. “What time are people coming?”
I slid the lasagna into the oven and set the timer. “Seven. That gives us time to finish cooking and make this place look less like a disaster.”
I looked around. The living room was cluttered with our everyday chaos—my gear bag by the door, Étienne’s tablet on the coffee table, both our coats draped over the back of the couch. The Christmas tree still stood in the corner, and the photos on the walls caught the twinkling lights.
The photo Étienne had given me last Christmas—the two of us on the ice during warm-ups, looking at each other with an unmistakable connection—hung near the kitchen. Next to it, the photo from last year’s New Year’s Eve game: us kissing on the ice, surrounded by stick taps and a standing ovation.
Both moments frozen in time. Both proof of how far we’d come.
“It’s not that bad.” I shrugged. “And they’re our friends. They’ve seen worse.”
“True.” Étienne started slicing tomatoes for the salad. “How are you feeling about today? The anniversary and everything?”
A year ago, I’d been terrified. Terrified of going public, terrified of playing that first game, terrified of what the kiss would mean. Now?
“Good,” I said honestly. “It’s been a hell of a year.”
“Understatement.”
“But we made it. We’re here. We’re happy.” I tore the romaine into a bowl. “That’s more than I thought we’d have.”
Étienne set down his knife, crossed to me, wrapped his arms around me from behind. “I’m proud of us. For doing this. For surviving it.”
I turned in his arms and kissed him properly. “Me too.”
Kinnunen and Alyssa arrived first at exactly seven o’clock, carrying a bottle of wine and a bakery box.
“Cap.” Kinnunen greeted me with a grin and clapped my shoulder. “Hell of a game today.”
