I’d watch Griffin Lapierre live the life I wished I could have, and I’d be happy for him.
And I’d never, ever let anyone know that seeing that press conference photo felt like watching someone open a door I’d nailed shut years ago.
“Hey,” Étienne said suddenly. “You want pizza? I’m thinking we order from that place that does the good garlic knots.”
“Yeah,” I said, grateful for the subject change, for the return to everyday life. “Pizza sounds good.”
“Cool. I’m buying since I just destroyed that kid’s will to live.” He grinned at me, easy and unguarded and so completely Étienne that my chest ached.
This was enough, I told myself. Having a best friend who crashed at my place most nights a week, who knew my coffee order and my pregame rituals and could read my moodsbetter than anyone. Having hockey and a career I’d worked my ass off for. Having my family, even if they didn’t really know me. Having enough that no one would ever guess what I was missing.
This was enough. It had to be.
So, I ordered pizza with Étienne, and I watched him play video games, and I pushed Griffin Lapierre’s brave face out of my mind.
And I told myself I was fine with the choice I’d made seventeen years ago, when I’d first realized who I was and decided that no one could ever know.
And I almost believed it.
CHAPTER TWO
Étienne
The locker room hummed with pregame energy—the kind that got under your skin during the hour before puck drop and didn’t let go until you were out on the ice. Guys were moving through their rituals, half dressed in gear, the air thick with the smell of tape adhesive and that particular musk of hockey equipment that never quite went away no matter how thoroughly the equipment managers cleaned it.
I grabbed my stick tape from my stall and headed straight for Marco’s.
He was already there, right leg propped up on the bench, leaning into a hamstring stretch that looked painful even from across the room. His face was calm, focused inward the way it always was before a game. Pregame Marco was quiet Marco, and I’d learned years ago not to take it personally.
“Move over.” I settled onto the bench beside him without waiting for permission.
He shifted his leg without breaking his stretch, making room. Didn’t even look at me. Didn’t need to.
I pulled the first strip of tape and started wrapping mystick blade, the motion automatic after twenty-two years of doing it the exact same way. White tape, overlapping each layer by half, starting from the heel and working toward the toe. My dad had taught me this when I was six, back before everything with him got complicated. It was maybe the only thing he’d taught me I still did his way.
Marco switched legs, dropping into another stretch. His jaw was tight. It always was before Columbus games. They’d beaten us twice last season, and Marco took every loss personally. Especially losses where he’d been on the ice for a goal against.
“You’re tense.” I kept my eyes on my tape job.
“I’m stretching.”
“You’re tense while stretching. Your shoulders are up by your ears.”
He exhaled and deliberately dropped his shoulders. “Better?”
“Slightly less gargoyle-like.”
The corner of his mouth twitched. Not quite a smile, but close enough.
I finished the first layer of tape and started the second. The rhythm was soothing—pull, wrap, smooth, pull, wrap, smooth. I’d tried taping my stick at my own stall once, early in my first season with Colorado. It had felt wrong, like showing up for a family dinner at the wrong house. I’d lasted maybe ten minutes before wandering over to Marco’s and settling in like I belonged there.
Turned out, I did.
“Belov’s doing the thing again.” I nodded toward our goalie, who was standing in front of his stall, having what appeared to be a very serious conversation with his blocker.
Marco glanced over, still in his stretch. “Is he blessing it or threatening it?”
“Hard to say. Could go either way.”
