Page 44 of Cross Ice

“I’m watching the game.”

“You’re watching him.”

“He just scored.”

“You were watching him before he scored.” Danny took a sip of his beer. “I’ve explained the same rule four times tonight and you haven’t retained any of it. But you knew exactly where he was every second of that first period.”

“He’s easy to spot. He’s the biggest one out there.”

“Evan.”

“Danny.”

He smiled into his beer and let it go, which was the other thing I valued about him.

I knew the comments were out there—the same ones I’d read at 2 a.m., multiplying in real time with every goal, every close-up, every replay. I made a deliberate decision not to look. Not tonight. Tonight I was watching a hockey game with my friend. Number seventeen had just scored, and that was enough.

The Lasers won 4–2. My phone chimed eighteen minutes after the final buzzer.

Nico

Did you watch?

I smiled at the screen.

Evan

I watched. Danny had to explain most of it.

Nico

What did you think?

I looked at the question for a moment. There were a lot of honest answers. I picked the one that was most honest.

Evan

You’re remarkable at what you do. I didn’t understand half of it, and I still couldn’t look away.

The three dots appeared immediately.

Nico

That might be the best thing anyone’s ever said to me after a game.

Nico

Can I see you tomorrow?

Evan

Yes.

Nico showed up at noon with two coffees and held one out. “I guessed. Tell me if it’s wrong.”

It wasn’t wrong.

We did nothing in particular. I worked at my desk for a while, the comfortable kind of working where someone else is in the space and it doesn’t feel like an intrusion. He sat on my couch with his iPad, watching what he told me was game film—footage from last night—occasionally making a quiet sound of either satisfaction or frustration that I learned to distinguish within the first hour.