“Now we wait thirty minutes,” I said.
“What do we do for thirty minutes?”
I pulled him closer and kissed him. “I’m sure we’ll think of something.”
We ruined the pasta dough.
Wednesday’s game against LA was tight, a 2–1 win despite Étienne’s lackluster performance. Solid game, not spectacular, but a win.
I watched from the team’s suite, but I wanted to be on the ice. Part of the team.
Thursday afternoon, Étienne came home with a new deck of cards.
“Poker.” He raised a pack of poker chips. “I’m teaching you.”
“We’ve played poker before. Many times.”
“And that’s why I need to teach you.”
“Oh, it’s on.”
We settled at the kitchen table, and he dealt. Within three hands, it became clear we were both extremely competitive pro athletes, making the game more aggressive than it should have been.
“You’re bluffing.” I studied his face.
“Am I?”
“Your tell is obvious.”
“I don’t have a tell.”
“You absolutely have a tell.” I called his bluff and won the hand. “See?”
“Lucky guess.” But he was grinning. “Again.”
We played for hours, trash-talking, laughing, the easy back-and-forth feeling natural in a way I’d never experienced with anyone else. Even on the plane, our games weren’t this fun or carefree. This wasn’t performing. Wasn’t carefully monitoring my words or expressions.
This was just… being myself. At home, where I was safe. With someone who wanted that and who was safe here too.
“You know what’s funny?” Étienne said, shuffling for another hand.
“What?”
“I’m happy.” He said it simply, like it surprised him. “Like, actually happy. I don’t think I’ve been this happy in years. Maybe ever.”
The admission made my gut light. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” He looked at me across the table. “Because of you.”
I took his hand. “Me too. The happy thing. Because of you.”
It wasn’t “I love you.” We weren’t there yet. But it felt important anyway. Like acknowledging something that mattered, even if we couldn’t name it yet.
Friday’s game against Washington was another tight win, 3–2. But Étienne had a terrible night. Zero points. Minus-one rating. In the team suite, my chest tightened with worry.
He was getting worse, not better. And if this continued, Douglas Greer, the GM, would pull the trigger on a trade. Boston or Toronto would make their offer, and Étienne would be gone.
We’d be separated. Different cities, different conferences. This thing between us was barely two weeks old, and it would be over before it really began.
