Page 147 of Cross Ice

“Road trip next week,” I said. “Wednesday through Saturday. Denver, Utah, Vegas.”

“I know. It’s on the fridge.”

“You okay with that?”

He looked up from his laptop. “Nico. It’s four days. I’ll be fine.”

“I know. Just checking.”

“I have three client presentations next week anyway. I’ll be busy.” He paused. “But I’ll miss you.”

“I’ll miss you too.”

“Text me after the games?”

“Always.”

He went back to his email. After a moment he said, without looking up, “Danny texted this morning. Nothing to report.”

“That’s good.”

“Yeah.” A small smile. “It’s been three weeks of nothing to report.”

“How does that feel?”

“Like I can breathe.” He closed his laptop. “Oh—I ran into a fan while getting my latte this morning. Guy recognized me from a game photo. Asked if I was Nicolás Briggs’s boyfriend.”

I looked at him. “And?”

“I said yes.” He shrugged, easy. “He said you were great against Montreal and walked away.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s it.” He opened his laptop again. “I bought my latte and came home.”

I watched him for a moment, this man who’d once left a grocery store cart in the middle of an aisle and driven home shaking. Saying yes to a stranger and buying his latte and coming home.

“I’m proud of you,” I said.

He looked up. “I know.” Not deflecting. Just receiving it.

His phone alarm went off at three fifty.

“Client call,” he said, closing his laptop. “Ten minutes.”

“Go. I’m going to finish this film and figure out what to make for dinner.”

He stood, stretched his back, then eyed me skeptically. “You’re really cooking?”

“I said I would.”

“Nico, the last time you tried to cook, you set off the smoke alarm making toast.”

“That was one time. And the toaster was broken.”

“The toaster was fine. You put it on the highest setting and forgot about it.”

“Go make your money,” I said, shoving him toward the stairs. “I’ve got this.”