Page 64 of Cross Ice

He could have anyone he wanted

That last one stuck.

He could have anyone he wanted. Someone who could walk into a frozen yogurt shop without their hands shaking when a fan walked over. Someone whose past didn’t make them a liability. Someone who wasn’t carrying three years of Ryan Pierce’s damage into every public moment.

Someone who wasn’t me.

I closed the app and tried to get back to work, but I kept thinking about the fan in the yogurt shop. The way his eyes had flicked to me, quick and assessing, before he went back to his table and started typing. I knew what that look meant. I’d been on the receiving end of it enough times to recognize it. One curious glance, one search, one connection, and the whole thing unraveled.

And when it did—not if, when, because I’d stopped believing in if a long time ago—it wouldn’t just be my life it dismantled. It would be Nico’s too. His career, his coming out on his own terms, everything he’d been protecting for fourteen years. One person who recognized Evan Hunter standing next to Nicolás Briggs, and all of it would be gone.

I forced myself to focus on work for the rest of the afternoon.

But the fear didn’t go away. My past wouldn’t stay in the past; it was just waiting to be found. And when it was, I already knew what it would cost.

Friday evening, I stood outside Nico’s house with an overnight bag and a knot in my stomach.

The house was a two-story Craftsman, newer construction with clean lines and expansive windows glowing with warm light. The front yard was landscaped simply with low-maintenance plants and a wide walkway leading to the front door. Everything about it said, “someone with money but not much time to maintain a house.”

I knocked, and Nico opened the door almost immediately.

“Hey,” he said, smiling. “Come in.”

I stepped inside and took in the formal living room: hardwood floors, modern furniture that looked barely used, everything clean and impersonal. Like a showroom.

“I never use this room,” Nico said, following my gaze. “Come on back.”

He led me past the formal dining room—same energy, nice furniture that clearly never saw actual meals—and into the open-concept kitchen and family room at the back of the house.

This was different.

The family room had a large leather sectional, a massive TV mounted on the wall, and windows overlooking a small back yard and a park beyond the fence. But what caught my attention was the walls.

Jerseys.

Everywhere.

Signed jerseys in frames, carefully mounted. Players I’d never heard of, though the signatures and the way they were displayed suggested they were important.

“Let me take your bag,” Nico said, reaching for my duffel.

While he disappeared up the stairs, I walked around the family room, examining everything more closely.

Trophies on shelves, lined up haphazardly—some small, some larger, all gathering a thin layer of dust. A pair of hand weights abandoned in the corner of the room, like he’d been using them and hadn’t bothered putting them away. A signed hockey stick leaning against the wall by the fireplace.

And one framed jersey that stood out from the rest: BRIGGS 17. The frame was nicer. This one clearly meant something personal.

“That’s from my first All-Star game,” Nico said from behind me. “My mom insisted I frame it.”

I turned to look at him. “This is your life.”

“What do you mean?”

“This.” I gestured around the room. “The jerseys, the trophies, the weights in the corner. Hockey isn’t just what you do. It’s who you are. It’s everywhere.”

“Does that bother you?”

“No. It’s just… seeing it like this makes it real.” I took in the wall of signed jerseys, names that clearly mattered to him. “You’re not just a guy who plays hockey. You’re Nicolás Briggs. Number seventeen. An All-Star. Part of this whole world I don’t understand.”