Page 29 of Cross Ice

I know. I’m going to. I just don’t know how. What if he can’t handle it?

Griffin

Then you deal with it. But keeping it from him isn’t fair to either of you. He can’t make an informed choice about being with you if he doesn’t know what he’s signing up for. Every day you don’t tell him, the lie gets heavier. And when it comes out—and it will come out—he won’t just be hurt by the secret. He’ll be hurt by every day you chose to keep it.

I stared at that last line for a long time.

Nico

I’ll tell him when I get home from this roadie.

Griffin

Don’t wait for perfect conditions. There aren’t any. Just tell him.

Griffin

And Nicolás? Welcome to the club.

I set my phone down and looked at the ceiling. Griffin was right. I knew Griffin was right. I’d known it before I sent the message.

What I wasn’t examining was why I kept finding reasons to wait.

In Detroit on Friday, I played like myself.

Two goals in the first—once on the power play, once on a beautiful feed from André that I buried top shelf. The familiar rush flooded back. We won 5–2, and Coach Dufour actually nodded at me afterward.

“That’s more like it, Briggs.”

On the bus, I texted Evan about the night without calling it what it was. He called me, and I lay back on my hotel bed with the phone pressed to my ear, talking to him for over an hour about nothing in particular—a recipe he’d tried, a show he’d started, the terrible gym in the Detroit hotel. It felt domestic and easy in a way that should have made me want to bolt. But it didn’t. It never did with Evan.

When we hung up, I lay there thinking about Griffin’s message. He’ll be hurt by every day you chose to keep it.

I’d now had clear, direct advice from someone who understood what it cost to keep hiding. Griffin’s situation hadn’t been identical—his fight had been about going public, not about concealing himself from the person he was with. But the advice landed the same way regardless: the longer you wait, the worse it gets. I’d received it, agreed with it, and was lying in a hotel bed in Detroit having spent an hour on the phone with Evan without telling him anything.

That wasn’t waiting for the right moment. That was choosing not to tell him. There was a difference, and I was done pretending I didn’t know which one I was doing.

I’d tell him when I got home. In person.

The next afternoon, André and I found a retro diner in Detroit with excellent ratings. He ordered a sandwich bigger than his head and studied me over it.

“You’re doing better,” he said.

“Had a good game.”

“Not just the game.” He set the sandwich down. “You seem more settled. Like you made a decision about something.”

“I’m telling Evan I play for the Lasers when I get back.”

André was quiet for a moment after I finished. “So he doesn’t know?”

“No.”

“He doesn’t know you play hockey. Doesn’t know you’re Nicolás Briggs. Doesn’t know any of it.”

“No.”

“How long has this been going on?”