Page 46 of Cross Ice

“No, you look like someone who had a good week.” He studied me and cocked his head. “You told him.”

It wasn’t a question. André had always been able to read me better than I read myself, which was both useful and occasionally irritating.

“I told him.” I nodded.

André set his coffee down. The relief on his face was immediate and genuine. Not the reaction of someone who’d been waiting to say I told you so, but of someone who’d been genuinely worried. “How’d it go?”

“Better than I deserved.” I looked out the window at the tarmac. “He already knew something was off. He’d been watching, waiting. When I finally told him the truth, I understood he’d been waiting a long time for answers.” I paused. “He’s a smart guy. Noticed everything.”

“And he’s still there.”

“He’s still there.”

André was quiet for a moment. Then he reached over and gripped my shoulder once, hard, the way he did when words weren’t the right tool. “I’m proud of you. Took you long enough, but I’m proud of you.”

“Don’t make it a thing.”

“I’m not making it a thing. I’m just saying.” He let go. “How’d he take it? The whole thing. Who you are, the fame, all of it.”

“He’d heard of the Lasers. Didn’t know much beyond that.” I sipped my coffee. “He googled me. Called his friend Danny at two in the morning.”

André winced sympathetically. “The Instagram comments.”

“The Instagram comments.”

“But he’s still there,” André said again, like that was the only part that mattered. Because it was.

“He watched the game Saturday night,” I said. “We texted after. He said I was remarkable at what I do.” I heard how it sounded and didn’t care. “Nobody’s ever said that to me after a game. Not like that.”

André smiled, slow and warm, the smile he saved for things that actually mattered. “You’re going to see him Thursday.”

“The second we land.”

“Good.” He picked up his coffee. “Then let’s go win some hockey games so you can get back to him faster.”

I was quiet for a moment, looking out at the runway. The engines were winding up, the ground crew finishing their checks. In less than two hours we’d be in Portland and I’d be thinking about line combinations, Fortin’s tendency to pinch at the wrong moment, and whether our starting goalie had fully recovered from the hip flexor strain he’d been nursing for two weeks.

But right now I was thinking about Evan sitting on his couch last Thursday evening, cautious and still saying he was willing to try. About the way he’d told me his real name, like it was something he hadn’t given anyone in a long time. About the note I’d left against the coffee maker Saturday morning. I’d almost not left it. Then I’d thought about him waking up alone and left it anyway.

“He’s been through something,” I said. “With someone famous, before me. It cost him a lot.” I told André the broad shape of it, just enough that he understood why Evan had built his life the way he had. Why everything was so private, so carefully constructed. Ryan Pierce’s name came up.

André was quiet for a moment. “I’m never watching a Ryan Pierce movie again.”

I laughed, the first real one of the morning. “That’s exactly what I said.”

“Great minds.” André’s lips curved.

The plane started moving.

I pulled out my phone.

Nico

Taxiing. Wheels up in five. Talk to you when we land.

The response came before we reached the runway.

Evan