But it felt like it meant the same thing.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Marco
After lunch on Sunday, we ended up on the couch. I was reviewing game tape on my tablet, analyzing plays from the games I’d missed. Étienne had his own tablet and was reading something—articles, probably, based on how often he scrolled.
His feet rested in my lap, a position we’d settled into naturally over the past week. My hand rested on his ankle, thumb absently rubbing circles against his skin.
This was what a Sunday afternoon should look like.
It felt like everything I’d ever wanted and never thought I could have.
The knock on the door shattered the peace like a slapshot.
Étienne and I looked at each other across the couch. Neither of us was expecting anyone. Nobody ever just dropped by unannounced.
The knock came again. Louder. More insistent.
“I’ll get it.” Étienne swung his legs off the couch.
“No. I will.” My gut told me this wasn’t going to be good. “You stay here.”
I made my way to the front door and looked through the peephole.
My heart stopped.
Cory Boucher stood on my porch, holding a shopping bag. He looked directly at the peephole like he knew I was watching.
Every instinct screamed at me to not answer. To pretend I wasn’t home. To keep that door closed and the threat on the other side.
But not answering would be suspicious. He’d wonder even more what I was hiding.
“Who is it?” Étienne called from the sofa.
“Boucher,” I whispered, keeping my voice level despite the ice flooding my veins.
I heard movement—Étienne getting up, probably adding distance from where we’d been sitting together. Making it look casual, like roommates and nothing more.
I took a breath and opened the door.
“Hey, Cap.” I forced my expression into something neutral. “This is a surprise.”
“Morelli.” Boucher’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Hope I’m not interrupting anything.”
“Not at all. What’s up?”
“Thought I’d drop by, see how you’re doing. Been a while since I checked in.” He held up the bag. “Brought you some protein bars. The ones Chuck recommends for injury recovery.”
He’d never checked on me before. Never brought supplies. Never shown any interest in my recovery beyond the obligatory “How’s the foot?” in a text.
“That’s nice of you.” I didn’t move from the doorway. “Thanks.”
“How’s it healing?” He peered past me into the house, eyes scanning what he could see. “Getting around okay?”
“Better. Walking boot now. Should be skating in a few weeks.”
“Good, good. We need you back.” His attention shifted past me. “Savard still staying with you?”
