This was what I wanted, I realized. Not just the physical intimacy we’d shared last night, though that had been incredible. But this everyday closeness. The casual touches. The comfort of being near him without needing a reason.
I wanted mornings like this. Wanted to wake up next to him every day. Wanted to make coffee together and share breakfast and navigate the mundane routines of life as a team.
I wanted forever.
The thought should have terrified me. A week ago, it would have. But now, standing in his kitchen with him in my arms, it just felt inevitable.
“I have practice in an hour,” I said eventually, not moving.
“I know.”
“And you have that doctor’s appointment afterward. The follow-up.”
“I know.” He turned in my arms to face me. “Will you come with me? To the appointment?”
“Of course.” I kissed him, unable to help myself. “Wouldn’t miss it.”
Practice that morning was fine. Nothing special, just a standard game-day skate to keep loose before that night’s matchup with Nashville.
But I was distracted.
Not badly—I hit my marks, made my passes, didn’t embarrass myself. But my mind kept drifting back to Marco. To last night. To the appointment that afternoon and what the doctor might say about his recovery timeline.
To the possibility of being traded and losing the happiness I had just found.
That afternoon, the orthopedist’s office was busy—other injured athletes, post-surgery patients, people in various stages of recovery. We checked in and settled in the waiting room, Marco’s leg stretched out in front of him.
“Nervous?” I asked.
“A little. Hoping for good news.”
“You’ve been doing all the PT exercises. Following all the rules. You’ll be fine.”
“Maybe.” He glanced at me. “Thanks for coming.”
“Where else would I be?”
His expression softened, and he reached for my hand. Then he seemed to remember where we were and pulled back. The rejection stung, but I understood. We couldn’t risk it here, in public, where anyone might see and wonder.
“Marco Morelli?” a medical assistant called from the doorway.
Marco stood immediately, and I rose with him on instinct before my brain caught up. Wait—was I supposed to go back? I’d driven him here, sure, but that didn’t mean I should follow him into the exam room. We weren’t family. Weren’t boyfriends in any way that medical staff would recognize.
The medical assistant looked at Marco, her expressionprofessionally neutral. “Do you want your friend to come back with you?”
Friend. The word landed heavy in my chest. I froze halfway out of my chair, suddenly hyperaware of how this must look. Two teammates. Two friends. Nothing more. Marco could easily say no, could tell me to wait here, and I’d have to sit back down and pretend that didn’t hurt.
“Yes,” Marco said without a second’s hesitation.
Relief crashed through me so hard my knees almost gave out. I straightened fully and followed him toward the medical assistant.
She smiled at us—warmer now, knowing. “Right this way.”
Dr. Chen examined Marco and was pleased with his progress. “You’re doing great.” She reviewed Marco’s recent X-rays on her computer. “Ahead of schedule, actually.”
“So, what does that mean?” Marco asked. “For a timeline?”
“We can transition you to a walking boot today. No more crutches, though you should still be careful about bearing too much weight. Start with short periods of walking, gradually increase as tolerated.”
