Page 142 of Cross Ice

“Terrifying.” A small smile. “But also kind of freeing.”

“That’s smart,” I said. “The Danny part especially.” I pulled him back against me. Having someone in Evan’s corner who could filter the noise without Evan having to absorb it… that was better than willpower alone, and more sustainable. Evan had built a system. Not a perfect one, but a real one.

That was different from where we’d been three weeks ago.

We stayed like that, just being together. No crisis to manage. No problems to solve.

Around midnight, Evan shifted in my arms. “I should go.”

I looked at him.

“Or I could stay,” he said quietly. “If that’s okay.”

“It’s okay.”

He settled back against me. And stayed.

Saturday morning, I woke up with Evan beside me and felt like I could breathe.

“I’ve got optional skate at ten,” I said. “Then team lunch. See you tonight?”

He was still half asleep. “Have fun with the guys,” he murmured. “Come over to my place.”

No hesitation. Just have fun and come over. Something in my chest unlocked.

That was what I’d needed. Not Evan trying to be okay with things that made him miserable. Evan actually being okay with me having a life that didn’t revolve around managing his anxiety.

The optional skate was exactly that—optional, low-stakes. No pressure, just guys working on specific things or getting extra conditioning in. I skated with Thompson and Fortin, worked on my shot, felt my legs remember what it was like to just play.

At lunch, André slid into the chair next to me. “Good to have you back.”

“Good to be back.”

“You’ve been MIA for weeks,” Fortin said from across the table. “We missed you.”

“I know. I’m sorry. I’ve been… figuring some things out.”

“Evan good?” André asked.

“Yeah. We’re good now.”

“He coming to games again?”

“Yeah. He was there last night.”

André grinned. “I saw. That’s great, man.”

We talked about the previous night’s game, about the upcoming road trip, and about whether we’d make the playoffs. Normal team stuff. The kind of conversation I’d been missing without realizing how much.

That evening I went to Evan’s. The apartment looked better than it had on Wednesday—cleaner, blinds open, like he’d been taking care of himself instead of just surviving.

“The apartment looks great,” I said when he let me in.

“I straightened and cleaned. I did a lot of normal things today.” He said it simply, without making it a thing. Just a fact about a day that had gone differently than the days before it.

I followed him to the couch, and we sat close enough that our shoulders touched.

Then I pulled out my phone.