“No?” Boucher looked between us. “Because from the outside, it looks pretty… committed. Savard leaving games early for you, Morelli. Taking care of you full-time. Now living together for over a month. Some people might read into that.”
There it was. The threat barely veiled at all.
“Some people should mind their own business,” I said, sharper than I meant to.
Boucher’s smile widened. “Oh, I am minding my business. As captain, it’s my business to know what’s going on with my team. To make sure everyone’s focused on hockey, not… distracted by other things.”
I stood. “I think you should leave.”
“What?”
“You heard me. I won’t let you come into my home and disrespect us. I don’t care if you’re captain or not—this is my house, and you’re not welcome here.”
Boucher’s smile faded. He stood slowly, his expression hardening. “Careful, Morelli. You might not like where this goes.”
“Neither will you if I report this to Coach,” I said evenly. “The door’s behind you.”
He stared at me for a long moment, then glanced at Étienne. “Interesting.” He headed for the door but pausedwith his hand on the knob. “You know what they say—keep your friends close and your secrets closer. Hope yours stay that way.”
The door closed behind him with a soft click.
I locked the door with a vicious twist.
I turned around to find Étienne standing, sweat dotting his hairline, his hands clenched into fists.
“He knows,” Étienne said.
“He suspects.”
“That’s the same thing.”
“No, it’s not. Suspicion isn’t proof.” But my voice shook saying it.
“Marco, he just—” Étienne gestured helplessly. “He came into your house, snooped around, made cutting comments. That wasn’t subtle. That was a threat.”
“It was.”
“He’s watching us. Looking for proof. And when he finds it?—”
“He won’t find it.” I limped toward Étienne to touch him, to ground myself. “Because we’ve been cautious. We haven’t done anything in public. There’s nothing for him to find.”
“He was just here. In our—in your house. Saw how we live together.”
“He saw two teammates sharing space during a recovery period. That’s all.”
“You don’t believe that.” Étienne’s eyes were dark with fear. “I can see it in your face. You’re terrified.”
Fuck, Iwasterrified.
“It doesn’t matter what I believe,” I said. “What matters is what he can prove. And he can’t prove anything.”
“Yet.”
The word hung between us, heavy with implication.
I rubbed my face. “If Boucher outs us publicly—if he says something to the media or posts something online—our families would find out. Not from us. From strangers. From reporters calling them for comment.”
His face paled. “Merde.”
