Page 27 of Cross Ice

“One week,” I said, keeping my voice even. “Not a rolling deferral. You come back, and we have the conversation. That’s the deal.”

“That’s the deal,” he agreed without hesitation.

I nodded. I was disappointed—I’d come into tonight ready, and I was leaving without the answers I needed. But I’d made a conscious choice, with a concrete deadline, for a reason I understood. That was different from Ryan. With Ryan there had been no deadline, no choice, just avoidance that I’d called patience until I couldn’t anymore.

I just hoped that whatever Nico was carrying was something I could actually handle hearing.

He pressed a kiss to the top of my head, and I let myself lean into him. But I kept the questions in the notebook in my mind, in order, ready for his return.

Tuesday passed. I worked, checked in with clients, and went to the pool. He texted me at noon with nothing significant, just his name on my screen making me aware of how often I was checking for it.

Wednesday morning, my phone buzzed while I was making coffee.

Nico

At the airport. I’ll text you when I land.

I stared at the message. The familiar anxiety was there—the waiting to see if he’d follow through. But I noticed something alongside it that hadn’t been there with Ryan: I actually expected him to. Not hoped. Expected.

He texted from the terminal before boarding. He texted when he landed, six hours later, a single warm message asking how my day was, like a person who intended to keep doing this.

I texted back and put my phone down.

The relief I felt wasn’t the dizzy, disproportionate kind that meant I’d been bracing for abandonment. It was quieter than that. More like confirmation.

When he got back, we were going to talk. I’d made sure of that.

CHAPTER SIX

Nico

I hated airports.

Specifically, I hated airports when leaving meant not seeing Evan for a week.

I stood in the private terminal at SJC early Wednesday morning, duffel slung over my shoulder, waiting for the rest of the guys to show up. The terminal was quiet—just our group and the staff, the low hum of conversation and the smell of coffee from the small lounge. I pulled out my phone and texted Evan. The response came almost immediately, and something in my chest loosened.

“You’re smiling at your phone like an idiot,” André said.

I shoved it into my pocket. “Shut up.”

“How’s your guy?” He said it quietly enough that the teammates around us couldn’t hear.

“Good.” I shifted to face him. “This week’s going to suck, though.”

He clapped me on the shoulder. “You’ve got it bad, man.”

I couldn’t argue.

Washington on Thursday was a disaster—not for the team, we won 3–2—but I played like shit. Distracted, slow to react, a turnover in the second period that nearly cost us a goal. Coach Dufour pulled me aside at the second intermission.

“Where the hell is your head, Briggs?”

“Sorry, Coach. Won’t happen again.”

I managed an assist in the third and didn’t make any further catastrophic mistakes, but I knew what the game had been. In the locker room after, André found me.

“You okay?”