Page 52 of Cross Ice

Almost.

Seattle was colder than Portland and considerably louder. The arena held more people, every seat was occupied, and by the second period the noise had reached the kind of level that reverberated through your chest.

I scored in the second.

It wasn’t a complicated goal. It was a rebound off the right post that I was in position for because I’d been watching their goalie favor his left side since the first period. I put it top shelf, the red light lit, and the crowd noise dropped. My teammates were on me before I’d fully processed what had happened.

In the middle of the pile, with Fortin’s arm around my shoulders and Thompson shouting something that got lost in the noise, I thought about Evan. Not in words. Just warmth—the kind that makes you want to share every good thing with one specific person. He was in his apartment watching. I’d just scored, and I wanted him to know it was partly his.

We won 4–1. The locker room was the exact opposite of Portland: loud and loose. Coach allowed himself a grim smile that was as close to celebration as he got.

I was back in my hotel room by eleven thirty.

Nico

4–1. We’re coming home winners.

The response came in thirty seconds.

Evan

I know. I watched. I cheered.

Nico

You cheered?

Evan

Alone in my apartment. I may have frightened my neighbors.

I sat on the edge of the hotel bed and felt my chest soften.

Nico

Evan Beckett. Cheering alone in his apartment.

Evan

Don’t make it weird.

Nico

It’s not weird. It’s the best thing I’ve heard all week.

Evan

You scored. I had to do something.

Nico

I thought about you. When I scored.

A pause. Longer than his usual response time.

Evan

Get some sleep. You have a flight tomorrow.