I’d let him down. That much was obvious. He’d needed help and I’d made it weird, made it uncomfortable, made him feel like he had to find someone else.
But underneath the guilt was relief. Sharp and undeniable.
I wouldn’t have to help him with exercises anymore. To touch him, be that close, feel whatever the hell I’d felt.
“Good luck tonight,” he said.
“Thanks.” I adjusted my bag on my shoulder, suddenly desperate to leave. “I’ll text you after.”
“Yeah. Okay.”
The silence stretched between us, heavy with everything we weren’t saying.
“Étienne—”
“I should go. Don’t want to be late.”
I left before he could finish whatever he’d been about to say. Before I had to acknowledge what had almost happened.
The drive to the arena passed in a blur. My mind wouldn’t stop replaying the moment—the way he’d looked at me, the pull I’d felt, the split second before I’d caught myself.
Had he wanted it too? Or had I imagined that? Was I reading things into his expression that weren’t there?
In the locker room, I went through my pregame ritual on autopilot. Taping my stick at Marco’s stall even though he wasn’t there, checking my equipment, going through the routines I’d done thousands of times.
But my mind was back at the house. Back in that moment when I’d almost crossed a line I couldn’t uncross.
“You good, Savard?” Kinnunen asked, pausing by my cubby.
“Yeah. Fine. Why?”
“You seem off.”
“Just tired. Taking care of Morelli, you know.”
“How’s he doing today?”
“Fine. He’s fine.”
“Let me know if you and Marco need anything. I’m happy to help.” Then he nodded and moved on.
The game started, and I tried to focus. Tried to get into the flow and let my instincts take over.
But I couldn’t find my rhythm.
My passes were off. My positioning was wrong. I kept losing track of the puck, getting caught flat-footed, making reads that were too slow or too late.
Everything I did was a half second behind where itshould be, and in the NHL, a half second might as well be an hour.
Tampa scored on a play I should have intercepted. I’d been in position, had seen the pass coming, but my body hadn’t reacted fast enough. The puck had gone past me like I wasn’t even there.
Coach Wilson benched me for the rest of the first period.
I sat there watching the game, but all I could see was Marco’s face. I should have been worried about my playing, the trade rumors, when all I could feel was that pull, that want, that moment when I’d almost done something that couldn’t be undone.
Second period, Coach put me back in. I tried to shake it off, tried to play through the distraction.
Made it maybe three shifts before I turned the puck over in the neutral zone and Tampa went the other way for a goal.
