Page 104 of Cross Ice

It wasn’t a question.

“No.”

André nodded. “How are you handling that?”

“I’m fine.”

André picked up his water bottle. “You’re carrying a lot right now. The statement, VortexStride, his situation. All of it landing at once.”

“I’m handling it.”

He gave me a look that said he’d heard that enough times to know what it covered. “The guys want to take you out after the game tonight. Show you they’re with you. Nothing big. Just Cap’s.”

“Yeah,” I said. “Okay.”

He nodded and moved on, and I sat there with my half-unlaced skates thinking about Evan alone in his apartment again, browser tabs open, and me agreeing to go out with the team like that was something I was allowed to do.

I was allowed to do it. I knew that. It didn’t feel like it, though.

The game against Nashville was the best I’d played since the photos.

I don’t know why Wednesday worked when Sunday hadn’t. Maybe it was the ice time that morning, or André’s quiet steadiness in the locker room, but something clicked. Whatever it was, I felt like myself from the opening faceoff—present, sharp, reading the play before it developed.

I scored in the second period. A power play goal from the left circle, clean and decisive. When the lamp lit and the horn sounded, I felt the uncomplicated joy of it—the one part of my life that didn’t require managing or explaining or worrying about who was watching.

The camera found me. I knew it would. I let it.

We won 4–2, and in the locker room after, the mood was easy and loud. Coach Dufour actually smiled. I showered and changed and let the commotion carry me for a while.

Then I checked my phone.

Evan

YOU SCORED. I was on my feet for the whole second period. That power play goal was clean!

My chest felt too full.

Evan

The way you celebrated, I could see how much it meant.

I sat there in the locker room with my phone in my hand, reading his texts, feeling the gap between what he’d seen on the screen and what it had actually felt like. He’d watched. And he’d seen something real—the joy was real—and I wanted him to have been there for it in a way that a screen couldn’t replicate.

Nico

I wish you’d been here.

I sent it before I could decide whether I should.

His response took four minutes.

Evan

Me too.

I sat with that for a moment. Me too meant he wanted to be there. It also meant he wasn’t.

Nico