Afterward, we lay side by side, completely wrecked, the only sound our ragged breathing slowly evening out. Marco sat up first, reached for a water bottle on the nightstand, and cracked it open. He passed it to me without a word, and I propped myself up on one elbow to take a long drink, the cool water soothing my raw throat. When I handed it back, our eyes met, and something passed between us—acknowledgment, maybe, of what we’d just shared.
“That was…” I couldn’t find words.
“Yeah.” He settled back against me, head on my chest. “It was.”
I stroked his hair, feeling the weight of what we’d just experienced. The vulnerability of it. The trust required to be that open with another person.
“I’ve never…” I started, then stopped.
“Never what?”
“Never felt this way with anyone before.” The admission felt huge. “With women, it was good. Really good sometimes. But this—with you—it’s more… vulnerable. More exposed. Like you see all of me, not just the parts I choose to show.” I tightened my arm around him. “Is that weird?”
“No.” His hand traced patterns on my chest. “I feel it too. This thing between us—it’s not just physical.”
“No. It’s not.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
Marco
Tuesday morning, I woke up to Étienne propped on one elbow, watching me with an expression I couldn’t quite read.
“Creepy,” I muttered, voice rough with sleep.
“You snore.”
“I do not.”
“You absolutely do. It’s cute.” He leaned down and kissed me, morning breath and all. “Come on. We’re making breakfast together, now that you’re in a walking boot.”
Twenty minutes later, we were both in the kitchen, navigating the space with the kind of choreography that came from weeks of cohabitation, but which still had room for improvement.
“I’m making French toast.” Étienne pulled out eggs and bread. “The real kind. With actual Canadian maple syrup, not that fake stuff you have in your pantry.”
“My pantry has perfectly good syrup.”
“It’s corn syrup with maple flavoring. That’s an abomination.” He grabbed the bottle he’d bought last weekand held it up like a trophy. “This is the real thing. Grade A. From Quebec.”
“Fine. I’ll make the bacon.” I opened the fridge and pulled out the package.
“Canadian bacon?” Étienne looked over and immediately protested. “That’s not Canadian bacon. That’s just American ham.”
I pointed. “The package literally says Canadian bacon.”
“It’s a lie. We don’t call it that in Canada. That’s an American thing.” He cracked eggs into a bowl, whisking aggressively. “You want real Canadian bacon, you need peameal bacon. Back bacon. Not these sad little ham circles.”
“These sad little ham circles are delicious.”
“They’re impostors.”
I started heating the pan anyway, unable to stop smiling at his indignation. “You’re very passionate about breakfast meats.”
“I’m passionate about accurately representing my country’s cuisine.”
We worked side by side, occasionally getting in each other’s way—him reaching for the spatula while I was using it, me opening the fridge while he was trying to get to the stove, both of us navigating around each other with varying degrees of success.
The thought struck me suddenly: if I couldn’t coordinate making breakfast, what did that mean for my game? I’d always anticipated passes, covered gaps, worked as a unit with my team—especially Étienne. But I’d been out for weeks now. Had I lost that? Would I have to rebuild my chemistry from scratch when I finally got back out there?
