“That’s what teammates are for, right? We take care of each other.”
Étienne appeared from the kitchen with plates and utensils. “You talking about me?”
“Just about what a shitty friend you are,” Kinnunen teased.
“Fuck you,” Étienne said without heat. He dropped onto the couch between us and handed out plates.
We spent the next hour eating barbecue and talking. Kinnunen caught me up on team dynamics, walked through the upcoming schedule, and showed me approximately forty pictures of his baby daughter, who was objectively adorable even if I’d never admit how many times he made me look at the same smile from slightly different angles.
Around eight, Kinnunen checked his phone and stood. “I should head out. Alyssa’s got the baby, and I promised I’d be home by nine.”
“Thanks for stopping by,” I said. “Really. And for the food.”
“No problem.” He grabbed his jacket from the back of the couch. “You take care of that foot, okay? Do your exercises, don’t be an idiot and try to do too much too soon. We need you back.”
“I know. I’m following the protocol.”
“Good. Because the team needs you.” He looked at Étienne. “Keep him honest, Savard.”
“I will.”
Kinnunen grinned. “I’m counting on it.” He headed for the door, then paused and looked back at me. “Rest up, Morelli. Get better soon. We’ll see you back on the ice before you know it.”
“Thanks, Kinnunen.”
The door closed behind him, and the house settled into quiet.
The evening dragged on. We tried to watch TV, but neither of us was really paying attention. The relaxed companionship we’d built felt fractured, replaced by an awkward awareness that I didn’t know how to navigate.
Around ten, Étienne stood up and stretched. “I’m going to head to bed.”
Not “we should get some sleep” or “time to crash.” Just him. Going upstairs. To his room.
“Okay,” I said, trying to keep my voice neutral. “Night.”
“Night. Call if you need anything. I’ll leave my door open.”
He disappeared up the stairs.
And I was alone.
This was fine. This was good, even. I needed space.
But lying there in the dark, staring at the ceiling, I couldn’t stop the ache in my chest.
I missed him—his presence on the other section of the couch, knowing he was close by, the comfort of falling asleep near him. And I hated feeling that way. Resented how deeply I’d grown accustomed to having him there. Despised that I couldn’t just accept help without wanting more, that every kind gesture and gentle touch only made me crave what I could never have.
Was he staying away because he’d noticed something? Because he’d seen the way I looked at him in the bathroom, seen the desire I’d tried so hard to hide?
Or was I just being paranoid, reading meaning into a perfectly reasonable decision to sleep in his own bed?
My phone lit up on the coffee table. A text from Étienne.
Étienne
You good down there?
I stared at it for a long moment before responding.
