The longing in his voice made my gut tighten. “I know.”
“It’s been almost two weeks. I should be there. On the ice. With the team.” He looked up at me. “With you. Getting ready at my stall.”
I sat on the edge of the coffee table and faced him. “You will be. Soon. Your foot’s healing well. The physical therapist says you’re ahead of schedule.”
“Not soon enough. What if I can’t come back from this?”
“You will?—”
“But what if I don’t?” He looked up at me, and his expression was raw. “What if this is it? What if I never play again?”
“Marco, that’s not going to happen. It’s a broken foot, not?—”
“I’m thirty-two, Étienne. I’m not young anymore. One bad injury, one complication, and it’s over.”
“Hey.” I caught his chin, made him look at me. “You’re going to come back from this. Stronger than before. And when you do, you’re going to be unstoppable on that ice. Like always.”
A small smile tugged at his mouth. “You’re very optimistic for someone who’s about to play Carolina.”
My shoulders dropped. The warmth from moments ago evaporated, replaced by cold dread settling in my stomach.
A small frown crossed his face. “You’re worried about the game.”
“Yeah.” I couldn’t lie to him. “I've been playing like shit. What if tonight’s just more of the same?”
“It won’t be.”
“You don’t know that?—”
“I know you.” Marco’s voice was firm. “You’re in your head right now, overthinking everything. But when you geton that ice, let your body take over. That’s when you’re at your best.”
“What if I can’t?”
“You can.” He reached up and cupped my face. “Stop thinking so much. Just play.”
I leaned into his touch. “Easier said than done.”
“I know. But I’ll be watching, and I know what you’re capable of. So go out there and show them.” He pulled me down for a kiss. “You’ve got this.”
I wanted to believe him. “Thanks.”
“Text me after the game.”
“I will.” I grabbed my keys, trying to hold onto his confidence even as doubt gnawed at me.
The drive to the arena was familiar, routine. But my mind kept drifting back to Marco on that couch, to the way he’d straightened my sweater, to the fact that I’d come home to him that night.
To his bed.
We hadn’t talked explicitly about what might happen that night. But the implication had been there in every kiss all day, in every touch. We’d sleep in his actual bed. Together. And whatever happened, happened.
The thought made my pulse quicken.
In the locker room, I went through my routine. The energy was good—guys were focused, ready, chirping about Carolina’s defense.
I was pulling on my jersey when Boucher’s voice cut through the chatter.
“Savard. Your better half not making it to watch the game tonight?”
