Page 117 of Cross Ice

Except Evan couldn’t be in a room full of press cameras ten days after going viral. He couldn’t smile for photos while sports blogs were publishing his daily routine and clients were dropping him over the association. I knew that. I understood it completely.

That didn’t make it feel any less like I was going to spend three hours being publicly, visibly alone in the first year I didn’t have to be.

I typed a message and deleted it. Typed another.

Nico

Have a team thing tonight. Charity dinner. Probably won’t be done until late.

His response came a minute later.

Evan

Okay. Have fun.

I looked at those two words. Have fun. Fine with more words. That was all.

My phone buzzed again.

Evan

Actually, can you come over after? Even if it’s late?

That was the real answer. Not have fun… that.

Nico

Yeah. I’ll text you when I’m done.

Evan

Thanks.

I put my phone away and started changing out of my practice gear.

I could do this. Show up, be present, get through it.

But the exhaustion had already set in, and I hadn’t even left yet.

The afternoon passed slowly. I went home, tried to nap, and couldn’t.

I texted Evan that I was heading out. Got no response, which was fine. Which was probably fine.

I was at the hotel by six fifty-five in a suit that felt like someone else’s clothes. The dinner was exactly what I’d expected.

Hotel ballroom, round tables with white tablecloths, silent auction items along the walls. Players in suits, most with dates. Donors in black tie, eager to meet the team and write big checks.

I stood during the cocktail hour with a drink I wasn’t drinking, making conversation I didn’t care about.

André appeared at my elbow with Naomi. “You came.”

“Said I would.”

“Where’s Evan?”

The question hit like a hard check—the kind you see coming and still can’t quite brace for. “Home. This isn’t really his thing right now.”

Naomi gave me a look that said she understood more than I’d said. “Well, we’re glad you’re here.”