Page 145 of Cross Ice

I pulled into the driveway just after two on a Wednesday afternoon in September, windows down, the late summer sun warm on my arm. Lunch with André and the guys had run long, Thompson telling some story about his girlfriend’s cat that had everyone laughing. But I’d needed it. Preseason was wrapping up, the regular season started next week, and Wednesday lunches with the team had become routine again.

Something I’d almost lost.

Something I’d gotten back.

Evan’s Model 3 was in the garage when I pulled in, next to my Range Rover, both of them fitting like they’d always belonged there. I smiled at that. Three months of him living here, and it still caught me sometimes. The evidence of him. The permanence of us.

Inside, the house was quiet but not empty. I could feel him there even before I heard his voice drifting down from upstairs.

I dropped my keys on the table beside the entry—Evan’s system, not mine, but I’d learned—and looked around. The house had changed in small ways since he’d moved in over the summer. Not dramatically, just… better.

The family room was tidy, couch pillows actually arranged instead of thrown wherever I’d left them. My framed jerseys still hung on the walls, but there was new artwork too. Stuff we’d picked out together at a gallery Evan had dragged me to. The bookshelf that used to hold dusty trophies was now clean and had Evan’s books mixed in. The coffee table actually had coasters on it.

Everything had its place. That was Evan’s influence. Not obsessive about it, just… organized in a way I’d never been.

But my hockey bag was still by the door where I’d dropped it this morning, my sneakers next to it. Evan hadn’t tried to change that. Just made space for it.

Made space for me while carving out space for himself.

That was the trick. Not one person bending to fit the other. Both of us making room.

I walked into the kitchen and stopped.

Mail sorted on the counter—bills in one pile, junk in another, personal stuff in a third. Evan’s doing. The fridge had our schedules posted side by side—my practice and game times, his client calls and project deadlines. A grocery list in his handwriting. A sticky note I’d left this morning: Dinner tonight? I’ll cook.

And a photo held up by a Lasers logo magnet—the Briggs family plus Evan, taken at my parents’ house in July. All of us lined up on their back deck, arms around each other, everyone smiling at the camera. My mom had insisted on it, and I’d watched Evan relax into my dad’s side hug, Miguel slinging an arm over his shoulders, my family pulling him in like he’d always been there.

He had that photo on his phone. Looked at it sometimes when he thought I wasn’t paying attention.

But I was always paying attention.

I heard his voice from upstairs—professional tone, confident. “Let me walk you through the Q-four strategy. I think if we focus on engagement metrics first…”

I smiled and started the coffeemaker. While the coffee brewed, I leaned against the counter and just… took it in. The house. Our house. The life we’d built here.

Six months ago, I’d been sitting in an empty locker room after getting ejected from a game, suspended, wondering if we’d survive.

Now I was standing in our kitchen, listening to Evan close a business deal upstairs, making coffee for both of us, and thinking about what to cook for dinner.

Normal. Easy.

Everything I’d almost thrown away.

The coffee finished. I poured both mugs and added cream and sugar to Evan’s—two sugars, a splash of cream, exactly how he liked it. I carried them upstairs, careful not to spill any on the carpet Evan had insisted we get cleaned.

His office was the second bedroom on the right, the one I’d been using for storage before he moved in. He’d transformed it with a proper desk, dual monitors, an ergonomic chair, and plants on the windowsill that he actually kept alive. One monitor showed a client call in progress. The other had his project database open, calendar beside it, both full.

Booked solid through December, he’d told me last week. Turning down projects because he didn’t have capacity.

He’d rebuilt everything. Not just survived the crisis—thrived through it.

I waited in the doorway, not interrupting, just watching him work.

“Absolutely, I can have that to you by Friday,” he said, making notes on a pad. “I’ll send over the revised deck by end of day tomorrow.” Pause. “Perfect. Talk then.”

He ended the call and turned, saw me standing there with coffee.

His entire face lit up. “Hey. Come in.”