Page 45 of Cross Ice

Around one, I made lunch—sandwiches, nothing elaborate—and we ate at the kitchen island and talked about small things.

“André, my captain, keeps telling us to stop watching so much game film.” He caught my expression. “He thinks we obsess over it instead of sleeping.”

“Does he have a point?”

“Probably.” Nico shrugged. “I watch it anyway.”

We talked about a book I’d started that I couldn’t decide if I liked. About the plant on my coffee table that he’d been eyeing since his first visit and had finally asked about.

“It’s a pothos,” I said. “They’re hard to kill.”

“Is that why you got it?”

“That’s exactly why I got it.”

He smiled. “Practical.”

“Always.”

After lunch, he grew quieter in a way I’d learned to read—not withdrawal, just something on his mind working its way to the surface. I waited.

“I leave Tuesday morning,” he said eventually. We’d moved to the couch, his feet on the coffee table, mine tucked under me. “Portland Tuesday night, Seattle Wednesday, back Thursday afternoon.”

“Okay.” I kept my voice easy.

“I’ll text you when we land, even if it’s late. Afternoons are mine both days—rest period. I’ll have my phone.” He turned to look at me. “I know what I put you through. The vagueness, the waiting. I’m not doing that again.”

Ryan had never once given me a schedule. I’d learned his whereabouts from his publicist’s Instagram.

And here was Nico, handing me his itinerary on my couch like he’d decided this was how it was going to be.

He reached over and traced the line of my jaw. “Two days. Two games. Then I’m back.”

Portland. Seattle. Thursday.

I could do Thursday.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Nico

The private terminal at SJC was quiet at six in the morning—just our group and the ground crew, the low hum of the catering cart, and the smell of jet fuel cutting through the cold morning air. I had my duffel over one shoulder and my coffee in my hand, and I was already thinking about Evan.

That was new.

Every other road trip of my career, I’d walked through this terminal thinking about hockey. Line combinations, the opposing team’s defensive pairings, whatever André and I had been arguing about in the group chat. The leaving had always been easy because there’d been nothing to leave behind.

That morning I’d woken up in my own bed, back at my house to pack and sleep, and the first thing I’d thought about was him. Whether he was still asleep. Whether I should send a text this early. Whether Thursday felt as far away to him as it did to me.

It felt very far away.

Thompson was already on the plane when I boarded, sprawled across two seats with his Nintendo Switch, the tinny sound of a game leaking from his earbuds. Fortin was behind him, scrolling on his phone with the glazed expression of someone who’d gotten up too early. I found André near the back and dropped into the seat beside him.

The jet was comfortable, with wide leather seats, cup holders, and enough legroom that I could stretch out. I’d stopped noticing the luxury years ago. Today it registered because I was thinking about what Evan would think of it.

André looked at me over his coffee. “You look different.”

“It’s six in the morning.”