Page 16 of Cross Ice

We talked while we waited for the food. I also loved that I was just Nico to him. No expectations, no public persona. I could just be myself. He hadn’t shifted the way people shifted when they found out I was a famous hockey player, with that subtle recalibration, like they were suddenly talking to a different person.

Guilt flickered, but I pushed it down. I’d tell him eventually, just… not yet.

When the food arrived, we ate at his small dining table, and I discovered Evan was apparently incapable of eating without using his napkin approximately every thirty seconds. It was kind of endearing.

I swallowed a mouthful of burrito. “This restaurant is good.” I scooped up guac with a chip. “But my mom makes better Mexican. She’d probably be offended I’m eating this.”

“Your mom’s a good cook?”

“Yeah. She’s Mexican American and grew up with all the traditional recipes. My dad can’t cook to save his life, but my mom…” I shook my head. “She could open a restaurant if she wanted to.”

“That’s cool. My parents are more the ‘throw ingredients in a casserole dish and hope for the best’ types.”

I laughed. “Where are they?”

“LA area. We’re not super close.” He shrugged and said it casually, but I caught something underneath—not resentment exactly, but distance. “What about yours?”

“San Diego. I see them pretty regularly, whenever I’m in Southern California for work.” True enough. “I have a younger brother too. Miguel. He’s also in sports.”

“Oh yeah? What’s he do?”

I hesitated. “Similar to me. We’re… competitive.”

Evan smiled. “I can imagine. Do you get along?”

“Yeah. We’re close.” As close as we could be when I’d spent fourteen years keeping him at arm’s length, hiding who I was. Miguel probably didn’t see it that way. He’d never given me a reason to think he would judge me. But I’d built the wall anyway.

I changed the subject before he could ask more questions. “So, consulting. How did you get into that?”

“Was working corporate in LA for a while. Had a nasty breakup and needed to start over somewhere new.” He said it matter-of-factly, like he was reciting a resume. “San Jose seemed far enough away.”

Far enough from what, he didn’t say, and I knew better than to push. I was hardly in a position to demand full transparency.

He relaxed as he talked about his work, the guardedness easing from his shoulders, his hands moving to emphasize points, the intelligence sharp in his eyes.

He was hot, and he was smart. I wanted him so badly that my skin felt too tight.

When we finished eating, we cleaned up together, with him rinsing plates and me loading the dishwasher. Our hands brushed when we transferred a plate, and the contact sent a spark up my arm.

I turned to face him, and he let me back him against the counter. “I’ve been thinking about you.” My voice came out husky.

“Have you?” He looked up at me through his lashes. Jesus Christ.

I leaned in and kissed him, slower than Friday night, deeper, more intentional. He tasted spicy, and when I slid my tongue past his lips, he made a small sound that went straight through me.

His hands came up to grip my shoulders, pulling me closer, and I went willingly, pressing him back against the counter with my full weight. Our hips met, and I ground against him, slow and deliberate. He was already hard, and so was I. The friction through our jeans made us both groan into the kiss.

When I finally pulled back, we were both panting.

“Bedroom?” I asked, my voice rough.

“Definitely.”

He took my hand and led me to the living room. Two doors opened off the space—one led to a home office with a desk and dual monitors, and the other led to the bedroom.

The bedroom was just as organized as the rest of the apartment. Bed made neatly with a stuffed duvet, nightstand with a lamp and a couple of books, abstract art on the walls. A closed door concealed what I assumed was a walk-in closet, and a short hallway led to the attached bathroom.

Everything was intentional. Everything in its place. And still, no photographs. Not on the nightstand, not on the dresser, not anywhere. Whoever Evan had been before San Jose, he’d built this space to contain none of it.