Page 31 of Cross Ice

“You’ve been different this trip,” he said.

“Different how?”

“Like your head’s somewhere else. That friend you’ve been texting?”

I tensed, then made myself relax. “What about them?”

“Nothing bad. Just… whoever they are, they’ve got you pretty hooked.”

Fortin dropped onto the bench on my other side. “He called someone for an hour on Friday night. Smiled during Coach’s rant on Monday. That’s not normal Briggs behavior.”

“Must be pretty special,” Thompson said.

They weren’t wrong. I looked at André, who gave me the smallest nod.

“His name is Evan,” I said.

A beat of silence. Thompson’s eyebrows went up. Fortin looked surprised but not thrown.

“Oh,” Thompson said. “Cool.”

Just that. Cool.

“Yeah?” I asked.

“Sure. As long as you’re happy, right?”

Fortin nodded. “My cousin’s gay. He’s been married to this guy who teaches middle school for like six years. They’re great together.”

Something in my chest unclenched. Two more people. And it had taken about thirty seconds.

“So, when do we get to meet him?” Fortin asked.

“We’ll see. He’s not really a hockey guy.”

“Bring him anyway. Anyone who’s got you smiling at your phone that much must be something.”

They headed for the showers, and I sat there with my half-unlaced skates, thinking about the math of it. Every teammate I’d told had reacted the same way—easy, unsurprised, already knowing the shape of me before I’d said a word. That was the thing about telling people who already knew you. The information landed in context.

Evan didn’t have that context. With Evan, I was still just Nico. And telling him would change that in ways I couldn’t predict or control.

The flight home on Wednesday morning felt endless.

When we finally landed, I texted Evan from the parking lot and drove the thirteen minutes to his apartment rehearsing what I was going to say.

I need to tell you something. I’m a professional hockey player. I play for the San Jose Lasers. I should have told you before now.

Direct. No hedging.

I haven’t been honest about what I do. I’m in the NHL, and the concealment was a choice I kept making when I should have stopped.

Better.

By the time I pulled into his parking garage, I still hadn’t landed on the exact words. But I’d stopped expecting to. There weren’t going to be perfect words. There was just going to be the conversation.

I punched his apartment number into the keypad.

“Nico?” His voice through the speaker.