Page 111 of Cross Ice

Three dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again.

Nico

You sure? You can talk to me.

Evan

I’m fine. Have a good practice.

I set my phone down and sat in my desk chair, trying to breathe through the lump in my throat.

They knew where I lived, where I got coffee, what time I left my building. They’d documented my life in enough detail that anyone reading that blog post could find me.

And there was nothing I could do about it.

I stayed where I was for a while. The water got warm. I grabbed another bottle.

By noon I’d had enough of my own company.

Danny was right. Hiding wasn’t the same as being safe. It just felt like it. And I was running out of things in the refrigerator that weren’t past their expiration date.

I needed groceries. Produce and chicken I wanted to select myself, which required leaving my apartment and going to a store like a normal person.

I could do that.

I grabbed my phone and my wallet and left before I could talk myself out of it.

The grocery store was ten minutes away, and I spent the entire drive checking my rearview mirror. No one was following me. The street behind me was the usual, just other people going about their Monday afternoon.

See? Fine.

I parked, got a cart, went inside, and started in produce. Kept my head down. Moved quickly. Nobody looked at me twice.

I was in the cereal aisle when someone asked, “Excuse me?”

I turned.

A woman, maybe late thirties, holding a phone. Smiling.

“You’re Evan Beckett, right? Nicolás Briggs’s boyfriend?”

My throat closed.

“I—no. You have the wrong person.” Even as I said it, I knew she wouldn’t believe me. She’d already recognized me.

“No, I saw your picture online. There was an article about you this morning.” She stepped closer, still smiling. “I’m a huge Lasers fan. My son is gay and seeing Nicolás come out really meant a lot to him. It’s so important to have representation in sports.”

She kept talking. Something about her son, about visibility, about how brave Nico was. I couldn’t process any of it. Couldn’t focus past the rushing in my ears.

“Would you mind taking a quick photo with me?” She held up her phone. “My son would love it. He’s sixteen and he’s such a huge hockey fan, and seeing someone like Nicolás⁠—”

“I can’t. I’m sorry.”

“It’ll just take a second⁠—”

“I can’t.”

I turned and walked away. Left my cart in the middle of the aisle. Heard her say something behind me—confused, maybe disappointed—but I kept moving.