Marco’s whole face lit up, his eyes widening. “Really?”
“Really. And if you continue on this trajectory, I’d say you could start light skating in about four weeks. Full return to play, maybe two weeks after that.”
The medical assistant fitted Marco with the walking boot—a bulkier, more supportive version of what he’d been wearing. He stood up carefully, testing his weight, and broke into a grin.
“No crutches,” he said, looking at me. “I can actually walk.”
“Don’t overdo it,” the assistant warned. “Still healing. But yes, you can walk.”
In the parking lot, Marco walked to my Grand Cherokee on his own. Slower than usual, cautious, but independent. Free.
That night, Marco watched the game against Nashville from the team suite.
The game was a disaster from the opening faceoff.
I’d told myself I could do this. Told Marco I just needed to play better, focus harder, block everything else out. One good game would quiet the trade rumors and show Coach I was worth keeping.
Except I couldn’t get out of my own head long enough to play.
First period, I fumbled a pass at the blue line. Nashville recovered and scored on the rush. My fault.
Second period, I had a clear shot at the net, but I shot wide. I wanted to disappear into the ice.
My mind kept drifting to the team’s suite, where Marco was watching me fail.
I spent most of the third period on the bench and watched the game happen without me.
We lost 3–2.
The silence was heavy in the locker room after the game. Guys stripped out of their gear without looking at me. They didn’t need to say anything. We all knew I’d cost us the game.
Coach Wilson walked past my stall. Didn’t stop. Didn’t speak. That was somehow worse than if he’d yelled.
Kinnunen paused on his way to the showers. “We need you, Étienne. Figure out whatever this is and fix it.”
“I’m trying?—”
“Try harder.” He walked away.
I’d been so sure determination would be enough. That wanting it badly enough would make the difference.
But it hadn’t. I’d wanted to play well more than I’dwanted almost anything, and I’d still fallen apart the moment the stakes were real.
I didn’t want to face Marco. Didn’t want to see the concern in his eyes, the worry that I was going to get traded and we’d lose each other.
But I couldn’t avoid him forever.
I finally stripped out of my gear, showered, dressed, and headed home. He was waiting in the living room.
“Bad game,” he said quietly. Not a question.
“Yeah.”
“The open net?—”
“I know.” My voice came out sharper than I meant. “I missed. I played like shit. I don’t need you to tell me.”
He was quiet for a moment. “I wasn’t going to criticize. I was going to say that happens to everyone sometimes.”
