Page 144 of Cross Ice

I rolled on a condom and pushed inside slowly, giving him time. His legs wrapped around me and he pulled me in deeper, and the sound he made went straight through me.

I kept the rhythm slow. His hands slid up my back, nails digging in when I hit the right angle. My forehead pressed against his. His breathing matched mine.

“I love you,” I said.

“I love you too.” He said it clearly. Not rough, not wrecked. Like a fact he’d decided on.

He came first, his back arching off the bed, my name tumbling from his lips. I followed him with my face pressed to his neck, holding on.

We stayed like that until our breathing slowed, until the sweat cooled on our skin. Then I shifted and pressed one more kiss to his mouth before carefully pulling out.

“Come on,” I said. “Shower.”

We made our way to the bathroom. I took care of the condom and turned on the water, waiting for it to warm up before pulling him under the spray with me.

I reached for the body wash and worked it into a lather, running my hands over his shoulders, down his back. Washing him slowly and carefully. His eyes closed, and he leaned into my touch. This was just… being here. Taking care of him because I wanted to, not because he needed saving.

When I was done, he took the body wash from me and returned the favor, his hands gentle on my skin, washing away everything that had been sitting on my shoulders for three weeks. No words, just touch. Just presence.

We stood under the spray together after we were clean, his arms around my waist, my chin resting on top of his head. The water running over both of us, washing away the last of the distance between us.

I stayed the night. We fell asleep the way we used to, with his back against my chest, my arm around him, the apartment quiet around us. No phones. No checking. Just sleep.

I slipped out early for morning skate, careful not to wake him.

Practice was good. Focused. My timing was better; my head was clear. Coach didn’t pull me aside or give me warning looks, he just let me play.

In the locker room after practice, André caught me at my stall.

“Saw your post last night.”

“Yeah?”

“Good call. People needed to hear that.”

“I hope it helps. Even a little.”

“It will. You set a boundary. That matters.” He clapped my shoulder. “Glad you’re back, man.”

“Me too.”

The game that night was against Ottawa. I played well—not perfectly, but solidly. Focused. Part of the team. Got an assist in the second period, and the arena cheered.

I could see Evan cheering from my comp seat, back where he belonged.

We won 3–1.

After the game, I found Evan in the family lounge with Naomi and Chloe, the three of them were mid-conversation. He looked up when he saw me and smiled. He was there, he was okay, and that was everything.

We left together through the players’ exit. There were cameras—media, fans, phones out capturing us. I kept my arm around him, and we walked.

It still wasn’t easy. But he was there, and so was I, and we were walking toward something instead of away from it.

EPILOGUE

SIX MONTHS LATER

Nico