“No. But we should do it anyway. It’ll be good practice.”
He pressed a kiss to the top of my head. “Okay. We’ll go. Together.”
The word “together” felt both comforting and terrifying. Because we’d have to pretend we weren’t. Would have torepack all the emotions we’d let spill out and shove them back into a box where no one could see.
“Light skate in the morning?” I asked.
“Yeah. At nine.” He yawned. “God, I’m exhausted. The travel, the games, missing you—all of it.”
“Sleep. You need rest.”
“Will you stay?” His arms tightened around me. “Don’t want to wake up alone.”
“I’m not going anywhere.”
Wednesday evening, I caught a ride to the arena with Belov’s wife and headed up to the suite, settling in to watch the game from above instead of on the bench where I belonged. The arena filled and the energy built. The fans streamed in, their voices growing louder as they found their seats. The smell of concessions food—popcorn, hot dogs, beer—wafted in on the cold air coming through the vents. Music pulsed from the speakers between announcements. Below, the ice shimmered under the lights as players moved through drills, the crack of sticks against pucks sharp even from this height. I watched Étienne during warm-ups and tracked his movements, noting that he looked sharp, focused.
Good. He needed to be sharp for the game.
Vegas was a tough team. Fast, skilled, the kind of opponent that would exploit any weakness.
The game started at seven. From the first shift, I was on the edge of my seat with every pass, every shot, every defensive play. Watching with the eye of a player but the heart of someone who cared desperately about the outcome for Étienne’s sake.
First period, Étienne turned the puck over at the blue line. Vegas scored fifteen seconds later.
My hands gripped the armrests.
Second period, he missed an open pass that would’ve been a clear scoring chance. Lost a puck battle in the cornerhe should’ve won. Made a defensive read that was half a second too slow.
I watched Coach Wilson’s face on the bench—jaw tight, expression darkening with each mistake.
Third period, Étienne barely played. Just a handful of shifts, and even those looked tentative, uncertain. Like he was afraid to make a mistake, which only made him make more mistakes.
We lost 4–2.
I sat back in my chair, feeling like I’d been punched in the gut.
Behind me, two men were talking—low voices, but not quite low enough. I recognized one: Mike Peterson, assistant GM.
“Savard’s having a rough year,” Peterson said.
“Rough is generous,” the other voice replied. Someone from scouting, maybe. “He’s been a liability for weeks. Stats are down forty percent from last season.”
“Boston’s still interested. Toronto too.”
My stomach dropped.
“For what return?”
“Second rounder, maybe a prospect. Not what we would’ve gotten two months ago, but better than nothing.” Peterson paused. “Douglas is getting calls daily. He’s listening.”
Douglas.Douglas Greer, the general manager.
“Think he’ll move him before the freeze?”
“Depends on the next few games. If Savard doesn’t turn it around…” A meaningful silence. “We’ve got roster decisions to make.”
I sat frozen, pretending I couldn’t hear them. Pretending my heart wasn’t racing, my chest wasn’t tight with panic.
