“Because you’re acting weird. And you played like shit against Tampa. Even worse than the off games you’ve been having lately, and that’s saying something.” He lowered his voice.“Is it the trade rumors? All the speculation about Boston and Toronto, is that what’s got you so fucked up?”
I hesitated, then shrugged. “Yeah. Probably.”
The lie came easily.
Because the truth was so much worse than trade rumors. Instead, I was having some kind of crisis about being attracted to my best friend. Which made no sense because I wasn’t?—
“Look, I get it,” Kinnunen said, misreading my silence as confirmation. “Trade talk is brutal, especially when you’re struggling. But you can’t let it get in your head like this, or you’ll play yourself right out of Colorado.”
“I know.”
“Do you? Because right now you’re playing like someone who’s already given up. Like you’ve accepted you’re getting traded.” He paused. “Stop thinking about the rumors and just play. That’s the only way to make them go away.”
I nodded, letting him believe the problem was trade anxiety and not the complete upheaval of everything I thought I knew about myself.
“Thanks, Kinnunen.”
“Anytime. Now, get ready to actually play hockey.”
I geared up, grateful he’d given me an excuse I could use with everyone else.Trade rumors. That’s why I’m distracted.
So much easier than the truth.
The morning skate was light—game day protocol, justkeeping loose. But I couldn’t focus. Kept missing passes, losing track of plays, my mind somewhere else entirely.
Boucher skated by during a water break, close enough that only I could hear him.
“Nice of you to join us today, Savard. Thought maybe you’d be too busy playing nurse.”
I stiffened. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing. Just interesting how dedicated you’ve been to Morelli’s recovery.” His smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Very… devoted.”
The emphasis on that last word felt deliberate. Like he was implying something.
“He’s my teammate. And my friend.”
“Right. It’s just fucking weird how close you two are.” Boucher skated away, leaving me standing there with ice in my veins.
He knew. Or suspected. Or was fishing for confirmation.
Either way, it was a threat.
Back home, I headed straight for my room while Marco was on a call with his physical therapist. I needed space. Needed to think.
My phone rang. My father. Of course.
I almost didn’t answer. But ignoring him just made things worse.
“Hey, Papa.”
“Étienne. Finally. I’ve been trying to reach you for days.”
“I’ve been busy. Marco’s recovery?—”
“Yes, I’ve heard.” His voice was sharp with disapproval. “Seems like everyone’s talking about how you left the game for him.”
“He needed help. That’s what teammates do.”
