“You made a schedule.”
“Hospital gave me a schedule. I just wrote it down in a way that makes sense.” I’d set alarms on my phone, but he didn’t need to know that.
The first night and day blurred together. Pain meds every six hours. Ice packs every hour—twenty minutes on, forty minutes off. Keeping his foot elevated. Making sure he ate something before taking pills. Watching him doze fitfully on the couch, jerking awake whenever the pain spiked, then settling back into uneasy sleep.
I moved through the house like I was on a mission, anticipating needs before he could voice them. Water glass empty? Filled. Ice pack melting? Switched out. Pillow slipping? Adjusted.
Taking care of him could have felt like a burden. Instead, it felt… right. Like I had a purpose beyond hockey. Like I mattered to someone in a way that had nothing to do with how many goals I scored.
My hand seemed to find him constantly. Checking his forehead for fever even though the hospital had said infection risk was low. Adjusting the blanket over him. Touching his shoulder when I asked if he needed anything. My fingers lingering on his knee when I repositioned his leg.
“You’re hovering,” Marco said, his voice rough from sleep and pain meds.
“I’m not hovering. I’m being appropriately concerned.”
“You’ve adjusted my pillows four times in the last hour.”
“They keep slipping.”
“Étienne.”
I looked at him. Really looked. He was pale, dark circles under his eyes, but he was watching me with something I couldn’t quite read. Not annoyance. Not quite amusement. Something softer.
“I’m fine,” he said. “You can relax.”
But I couldn’t. The anxiety that had taken root in my chest when I’d seen him go down hadn’t eased. If anything, it had gotten worse. Every time he winced, every time his jaw tightened with pain, every time he shifted uncomfortably, trying to find a position that didn’t hurt, I felt it like a physical blow.
This wasn’t normal. This level of concern, this need to fix everything, this feeling like the world would end if I couldn’t take away his pain.
I pushed the thought away. Not helpful. Not relevant. Marco was hurt; I was helping him. That’s all this was.
By midnight, I’d iced his foot, given him his meds on schedule, made him eat soup for dinner even though he’d protested he wasn’t hungry, and reorganized the command center at least twice to optimize efficiency.
I’d also texted Coach Wilson that I’d be at practice the next morning but might be late. Checked the team group chat to make sure no one needed anything from Marco. Responded to approximately fifteen texts from teammates asking how he was doing. Ignored three calls from my father, who’d probably seen the news about Marco’s injury and wanted to know why I’d left the game.
Marco’s phone buzzed against my hip again—the fourth or fifth call since we’d left the ER. His family, no doubt. His mother would be frantic, his sister worried. They’d wantupdates, reassurance, to hear his voice and know he was okay.
But Marco was exhausted, hurting, barely keeping his eyes open under the pain medication. He didn't need to comfort anyone right now. Didn’t need to field questions or explain what happened or reassure them he’d be fine.
He could call them back later. When he felt up to it.
For now, I was holding his calls.
Marco had been asleep for an hour, pain meds finally pulling him under into something deeper than the fitful dozing he’d been doing. I should go upstairs. Get some actual sleep in an actual bed.
But the thought of leaving him down here alone made my chest tight.
What if he woke up in pain and couldn’t reach his meds? What if he needed water? What if he tried to get up and fell?
I grabbed a blanket from the closet and spread it over the short side of the sectional. The one perpendicular to Marco’s, close enough that I could reach him if needed.
Just for tonight. Just to make sure he was okay.
I settled onto the cushions, arranging pillows, trying to find a comfortable position. From here I could see Marco’s face, peaceful in sleep despite the pain he’d been in earlier.
This was practical. Made sense. Nothing weird about sleeping on the couch to keep an eye on an injured friend.
Except.
