Page 45 of Cross Check
"Don't thank me. Thank your lawyer." He uncrossed his arms. "And thank your boyfriend for having the worst fighting technique I've ever seen from a professional athlete. Thompson's still telling people he got jumped by a six-four accountant."
The locker room erupted. Even Nico laughed, real and unguarded.
Park called me to his office an hour later. He sat behind his desk with his hands folded, the courtroom voice in full effect.
"The monitoring arrangement is officially terminated," he said. "Varis is cleared. The league has confirmed it. There's no further need for oversight."
"Understood."
"The personal relationship." Park's eyes were steady. "I'm told it predates the clearance."
"It does."
"And your reports throughout that period were accurate?"
"Every word."
Park studied me for a long moment. The GM's assessment, the same calculating patience he brought to trades and contract negotiations. "I should be angry," he said. "You compromised the arrangement."
"I reported accurately. Nico's behavior was exemplary. The relationship didn't change that."
"No," Park said. "It didn't." He leaned back. "Varis is an adult. He can live where he chooses. And as for the personal relationship—"
"That's my business."
Park's mouth twitched. "It became everyone's business when you fought Ryan Thompson on national television."
"Fair point."
"Don't make me regret trusting you, Walsh."
"You won't."
He dismissed me. I walked out of his office and down the corridor toward the locker room. The weight I'd been carrying since the night Park first called me on a Tuesday evening, the weight of obligation, of monitoring, of the professional distance that had defined and then constrained everything between Nico and me, lifted.
That night, we stood in our kitchen. The monitoring was over. The investigation was over. The hiding was over.
"So this is just... us now," Nico said.
"Just us."
"No reports. No arrangement. No obligation."
"Just two men who choose to be here." I looked at him. "When did this start for you? The real thing. Not the monitoring."
He considered the question with the seriousness it deserved. "The mugs," he said. "Week one. You looked at me rearranging your kitchen at four in the morning and saidby size works,and I knew."
"That was the first week."
"I know. I'm Finnish. We're efficient about these things."
I laughed, the sound filling the kitchen.
"Come with me," he said.
The words were quiet. His eyes were dark and certain. He took my hand and led me down the hallway into our room.
What followed was different from every time before. The first time had been a revelation, desperate and graceless, two men discovering each other. The second time had been healing, tender and slow. This time was a claiming.
