“Exactly. My mother would hear it from someone at church. Your father would see it on the news.” The thought made me sick. “We can’t let that happen. We have to control when and how they find out.”
“If we tell them at all.”
“Right. If.” I started pacing. “But until we decide that, we have to be more circumspect. Nothing Boucher can point to.”
“Make sure nothing looks like the couple we are.” Étienne’s laugh was bitter. “Make sure we hide better. Is this what the last seventeen years has been like for you?”
“Yes.” I reached for him, pulled him close despite knowing we should be more guarded even now, even in our own house.
He buried his face in my neck, and I held him as he shook. With fear or anger, or both.
“I hate this,” he whispered. “I hate hiding. I hate that he can just walk in here and threaten us. Why don’t we go to Coach? Tell him what Boucher’s doing?”
I shook my head. “And say what? That Boucher came over and made vague insinuations? There’s nothing actionable there. He didn’t explicitly threaten us.”
“He basically accused us of being together?—”
“Basically isn’t proof. And to explain why his comments were threatening, we’d have to admit the relationship.” I looked at him. “We’d be outing ourselves to Coach. Is that what you want?”
Étienne was quiet.
“Plus, Boucher’s the captain. If it comes down to hisword against ours, who do you think management would believe?”
“So we do nothing?”
“We don’t give him ammunition. And we wait.”
“Wait for what?”
“For him to make a mistake. Or for us to be ready to tell our families on our own terms.” I squeezed his hand. “But we don’t let him force our hand.”
We stood there holding each other in my living room, the peaceful afternoon we’d been having completely shattered.
This was what I’d been afraid of. What I’d known was coming.
The bubble was thinning. And I had no idea how to stop it.
Tuesday morning came too quickly.
Étienne had to leave by nine for the team flight. They had a week-long roadie—Washington, Florida, Tampa Bay. The longest we’d been separated since we’d gotten together.
The thought hollowed my stomach.
We didn’t talk much over breakfast. Around eight, he packed his travel bag. I watched from the bed, feeling useless and anxious.
“You have everything?” I asked.
“Yeah. Just the usual.” He zipped the bag and set it by the door. Then he came back to the bed and settled beside me. “You’re going to be okay here?”
“I’m fine. I can manage.”
“I know you can. But that’s not what I asked.” He touched my face and made me look at him. “Are you going to spiral while I’m gone?”
“Probably.”
A small smile. “At least you’re honest.”
“I’ll try not to,” I amended. “But I can’t promise anything.”
