Page 63 of Cross Ice

“We should have won that one. Too many mistakes.” He launched into a detailed analysis of missed opportunities and defensive breakdowns, and I just listened.

“Want to come over?” I asked when he’d run out of steam.

“No. I’m exhausted and I have early skate tomorrow. I’d be terrible company.”

“You’re never terrible company.”

“Sweet of you to say, but I’d probably just fall asleep on your couch.” He sighed. “Rain check for Friday?”

“Of course.”

A pause. “Actually… come to my place Friday. I want you to see it.”

I went still. His place. We’d always been at mine. “Okay,” I said. “Yeah.”

“Bring a bag,” he said. “If you want.”

“Okay.”

“Text me tomorrow?”

“Always.”

Thursday was a disaster from start to finish.

I had a client presentation at ten that I should have been prepared for, but when I opened my laptop that morning, I realized I’d barely looked at the material. Too busy thinking about Nico, about the fan at the yogurt shop, about Evan Hunter and everything that name could still cost us.

The presentation went poorly. The client asked questions I couldn’t answer, pointed out inconsistencies I should have caught, and by the end of the call, I could tell they were disappointed.

After they hung up, I sat at my desk and stared at my computer screen.

I was losing focus. Letting my work suffer. And my work wasn’t just a job—it was the thing I’d built when everything else had been taken from me. The consulting firm, the clients, the professional reputation I’d constructed under a new name in a new city specifically so Ryan Pierce’s fallout couldn’t follow me here. If my name ended up in the news again—if someone connected Evan Hunter to Nicolás Briggs and the story got out—these clients would be reading about it. Some of them would leave. I didn’t need to guess. I’d seen what happened when my name went public last time, and that was before I had a business with my reputation attached to it.

I opened my private Instagram account, telling myself I was just taking a break. But somehow I ended up on Nico’s profile.

Seven hundred and fifty-three thousand followers.

The most recent post was from two days ago, with a photo of him on the ice during warmups, stick in hand, looking focused and intense. The caption was simple: Game day.

The comments, though.

Marry me

Hottest player in the NHL hands down

Single? Asking for a friend

I would let this man ruin my life

Hundreds of comments. Thousands of likes. People thirsty for him, flirting openly, treating him like he was available.

To them, he was. He was closeted, and I wasn’t ready for any of this to be public, and so to seven hundred and fifty-three thousand people Nicolás Briggs was single, fair game, and whatever they wanted him to be.

I scrolled through more comments, my stomach twisting tighter with each one.

Can’t believe he’s still single

Whoever ends up with him is the luckiest woman alive