Except it felt like more than practicality. Like this was exactly where I was supposed to be.
I’d slept in the same room as teammates before. Hotel rooms on roadies when I was a rookie, that one time in juniors when the billet housing had gotten mixed up and three of us had ended up sharing a room for a week. It had been fine. Unremarkable.
This didn’t feel unremarkable.
This felt like a bone settling into place that I hadn’t known was out of alignment.
I watched Marco sleep, watched the rise and fall of his chest, watched the way his face relaxed when the pain meds really kicked in. And I felt that too-intense feeling wash over me again—the one that said I would do anything for him, be anything he needed, give up anything if it meant he was okay.
It was too much. Too big. Too complicated to examine in the middle of the night while running on adrenaline and worry and no sleep.
So I pushed it down. Locked it away with all the other things I didn’t have time to think about.
Marco shifted in his sleep, made a small sound of discomfort. I was on my feet before I’d consciously decided to move, adjusting his pillows, checking to make sure the boot wasn’t pressing wrong, brushing the hair back from his forehead because it had fallen into his eyes.
My hand lingered. Just for a second. Just long enough to feel the warmth of his skin, to notice that my heart was beating too fast for someone who was supposedly just helping a friend.
Why did this feel so important? Why did caring for Marco feel like the most crucial thing I’d ever done in my life? More important than hockey, more important than my own comfort, more important than anything?
I didn’t have an answer.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Marco
The pain was worse than I’d expected.
Not just worse, it was a constant, grinding presence that radiated from my foot up through my entire leg. The seventeen pillows elevating my foot, the ice packs Étienne swapped out with military precision, the boot immobilizing everything… nothing helped. It hurt. It hurt when I was still. Shifting position made it worse. Even breathing wrong sent sharp jolts through my foot, which didn’t make any logical sense, but my body didn’t seem to care about logic.
And I was trying very, very hard to hide it.
“How’s the pain?” Étienne asked for maybe the tenth time since he’d gotten me settled on the couch after breakfast. He was getting ready for practice, hair sticking up on one side. My fingers itched to fix it.
“Fine,” I said, which was a lie. “Manageable.”
He gave me a look that said he knew exactly how full of shit I was. “Your pain med is due in twenty minutes.”
“I know.”
“I’m setting an alarm on your phone. Take it.”
“I will.”
“Marco.” He crouched down beside the couch, bringing himself eye-level with me. This close, I could see the flecks of green in his hazel eyes, could smell his body wash—something clean and woodsy that I’d noticed way too many times over the past three years. “Don’t be a hero. Take the fucking pill.”
“I said I will.”
“You say a lot of things.” He reached out and adjusted the pillows under my foot, and even that small movement sent a fresh spike of pain through me. I couldn’t quite hide my wince.
His jaw tightened. “That’s what I thought. Promise me you’ll take it.”
“I promise.”
I didn’t mention that the pain med scared me almost as much as the pain itself.
Yesterday, it had made me loose. Made my thoughts fuzzy and my filter nonexistent. I’d caught myself staring at Étienne more than once, caught myself almost saying things I absolutely could not say.
You’re so good to me. You’re beautiful when you’re worried. I don’t know what I’d do without you.
