Marco
Me neither. But try anyway.
I did try. Eventually succeeded. But the bed still felt wrong.
Thursday we flew to Florida. The plane ride was long and boring. I texted Marco photos of cloud formations. He sent back photos of his workout, his diet, the gradual progression toward his return to the ice.
Étienne
Looking good.
Marco
Feeling better. Still slow.
Étienne
You’ll get there
Marco
Just impatient.
I understood that. I was impatient too. Impatient for this trip to be over, to get home, for the moment when I could touch him again instead of just texting.
My phone rang that evening.Papa.
If I didn’t answer, he’d just keep calling.
“Hey, Papa.”
“Étienne. I watched your game last night.”
Of course he had. Papa never missed a game, his eyes sharp for every error, every flaw in my performance. The thought came unbidden: would it really be so bad if he disowned me?
If I came out and he told me I was dead to him the way he’d threatened when I was thirteen, would my life actually be worse? No more criticism. No more disappointment. Nomore phone calls where I braced myself for whatever fault he’d found in my performance, in me.
The relief that washed over me at the thought was immediately followed by crushing guilt.
He was my father. The only parent I had left. Maman had died when I was fifteen, and there were no siblings to share the burden, no extended family who stayed close enough to matter. Just the two of us.
And I was all he had too. His only living family after Maman’s death.
We were bound to each other by blood and loss and the simple fact that there was no one else. Even if he made me miserable half the time. Even if his love felt conditional and his approval impossible to earn, he was still my father.
After we hung up, I sat in my hotel room staring at nothing.
I’d been trying to make him happy my entire life. Trying to be the son he wanted. The perfect hockey player, the perfect Savard. Pushing myself harder, playing better, sacrificing everything for the game.
And it had never been enough. Would never be enough.
Even when I’d been playing well—last season, the season before—he’d still found flaws. Still called after games to point out mistakes, missed opportunities, moments where I could have been better. There was always something wrong, always room for improvement, always a reason I fell short of his expectations.
I’d thought if I just played well enough, worked hard enough, achieved enough, he’d finally be proud of me. But he never said “well done” without the “but” that always followed.
Because the problem wasn’t my hockey. The problem was that nothing I did would ever satisfy him.
And if I came out? If I told him I was bisexual, that I was with Marco?
