Page 30 of Cross Ice

“Two weeks.”

André looked at me. Not angry, but something more considered than that. “And he’s never pushed?”

“He’s pushed. I’ve deflected.” I picked up my burger. “He knows something’s off. He’s been patient about it.”

“Patient,” André repeated, like he was turning the word over. “Okay.” He set down his drink. “Then I need to say something.” André’s expression didn’t soften the way I’d expected it to. “Because Nico… you’re not keeping a secret. You’re lying to him. Every day you don’t tell him, every time he asks about your life and you give him half an answer… that’s a lie. Not an omission.”

I felt a flash of irritation. “There’s a difference between⁠—”

“Is there?” He looked at me steadily. “You’re asking him to trust you with his feelings while you’re withholding the basic facts of your life. If he did that to you, what would you call it?”

I didn’t answer.

“He already knows something’s wrong,” André said. “He’s been patient. But patience has a limit, and when he hits it, the lie is going to be the problem, not the hockey.”

I stared at my burger. “I know.”

“Then get home, tell him, and stop giving yourself credit for planning to do the right thing.”

We ate in silence for a minute.

“You’re kind of brutal,” I said.

“You need brutal right now.”

He wasn’t wrong.

Two days later, Monday night in Florida was when things got ugly.

The Flash were physical from the opening faceoff—aggressive defense, chirping forwards, an atmosphere that felt hostile in the way of a team that had something to prove. In the second period, their big defenseman, Svoboda, started targeting me. Little slashes when the ref wasn’t watching, an elbow to the ribs in the corner, escalating chirps I absorbed and skated away from.

Third period, he cross-checked me from behind along the boards.

I spun around and we dropped gloves.

The crowd erupted. Svoboda threw first, catching my shoulder. I connected with his jaw, and then we were going at it—grabbing jerseys, trading punches, his fist catching my face and mine catching his. The ref stood back. The linesmen waited. When I finally yanked Svoboda down and he hit the ice, they moved in.

Five minutes each. We sat in adjacent penalty boxes, both bleeding, his nose gushing, me tasting copper where I’d bitten my cheek.

He was still chirping through the glass. I couldn’t hear him clearly, but I could read his lips.

Fucking faggot.

He didn’t know. There was no way he knew. He’d just reached for the ugliest thing available and used it.

But it landed anyway.

I sat there in the penalty box with my knuckles throbbing and tried to think clearly. This was what it would look like if I came out publicly. Not everyone would be André. Not every opponent would leave it on the ice. Some of them would use it exactly the way Svoboda just had, as a weapon calculated to destabilize.

And if I was with Evan publicly—if there were photos, if his name was attached to mine—he’d be adjacent to all of it.

He hadn’t signed up for that. He didn’t even know it existed.

We won 4–3. I barely registered it.

Tampa was our last game, and I played well enough—an assist, solid offense, a win—but the whole time I was counting down.

In the locker room after, Thompson sat down while I unlaced my skates.