Page 25 of Cross Ice

What do you actually do? Not “sports.” Specifically.

Hockey. You said it once and caught yourself. Why?

Why do we always meet at my place?

What does your life look like when I’m not in it?

I looked at the list. Four questions. Straightforward, specific, fair. The kind of questions any reasonable person would ask after four dates. I wasn’t demanding anything unreasonable. I was asking for the basic information required to decide whether to keep going.

I closed the notebook and put it back in the drawer.

Monday night, I would ask. Not aggressively, not apologetically. Just directly, because that’s what this situation required and what I should have done a week ago.

On Monday evening, Nico showed up at my door with his usual amiable smile.

“Hey,” he said, leaning in to kiss me.

“Hi yourself.” I stepped back to let him in, and that’s when I noticed it—the way he moved through the doorway. Carefully. Just a fraction slower than normal. “How was your day?”

“Good. Yours?” He shrugged off his jacket, and I caught the tiniest wince. There and gone in a second, but I saw it.

“Fine.” I moved closer. “You okay?”

“Yeah, why?” His smile didn’t waver, but his eyes were tired. Lines of tension around them that hadn’t been there Friday.

“You seem off.”

“Just tired. Long weekend.” He stretched casually, but I noticed he didn’t extend his right side fully. “What’s for dinner?”

“I was thinking pasta.” I studied him. “You’re moving like you’re sore.”

“I’m fine.” A laugh, easy and dismissive. “Just a hard workout. You know how it is.”

I didn’t, actually.

We made dinner together—or rather, I made dinner while he sat at the counter and talked. But when he reached for his beer bottle, I saw him favor his right side. When he laughed at something I said, he cut it short, like the movement hurt.

Small things. Things he was trying to hide.

After we ate, we moved to the couch. He pulled me against him, and I felt him tense when I accidentally pressed against his right side.

“Nico.” I sat up, turning to face him. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong.” Still smiling, still casual.

“You’re hurt.”

“I’m not⁠—”

“Don’t.” I kept my voice gentle. “I can tell. You’ve been moving carefully all night. Every time you shift right, you tense up. You cut your laugh short earlier. Something’s wrong.”

His smile faded slightly. He studied me for a moment, then sighed. “It’s nothing serious. Just got knocked around a bit at work. Happens sometimes.”

“Knocked around.” I frowned. “What kind of work involves getting knocked around?”

“Physical stuff. Sports related.” He said it like it was obvious, like it explained everything. “It’s part of the job. I’m fine, really.”

“Can I see?”