Page 65 of Cross Ice

“I’m also just Nico. The guy who leaves hand weights in the corner and can’t be bothered to organize his trophies properly.”

I laughed despite myself. “I noticed that.”

“My mom hates it. She’s threatened to organize everything herself at least a dozen times.”

“Why don’t you let her?”

“Because then I wouldn’t be able to find anything.” He grinned. “This chaos makes sense to me.”

“Good to know you’re human.”

“Very human. And very hungry. Want to order something?”

We ended up getting gourmet burgers delivered, eating them at his kitchen island while he told me about practice and I told him about my terrible client presentation.

“They weren’t happy with my work,” I admitted. “And they had every right not to be. I wasn’t prepared.”

“That’s not like you.”

“I know.” I pushed a fry around in the puddle of ketchup on my plate. “I’ve been distracted lately.”

“By what?”

By you. By wondering if I’m enough. By the fear that being with you could cost me the life I spent three years rebuilding.

“Just… stuff,” I said instead.

Nico studied me for a moment, and I could tell he knew I wasn’t being entirely honest. But he didn’t push.

“I want you to come to a game,” Nico said. “Not now, not if you’re not ready. But I want you there. Someday.”

I looked at him. A game meant the arena, the crowd, the cameras. It meant being in Nico’s world in the most visible way possible.

“After Vegas,” I said. “When you get back.”

Something in his face shifted—surprise, and then warmth. “Yeah?”

“I’m not promising I won’t be terrified.”

“I know.” He paused. “I’ll get you comp tickets. You’ll sit with the other players’ families and partners. You won’t be alone up there.”

I thought about that, sitting in a section full of people who understood exactly what it meant to watch someone they loved play a contact sport for a living. People who had figured out how to do this.

“Okay,” I said. “Yeah.”

His smile was immediate and warm. “Yeah?”

“Don’t make me say it again,” I said. “I already said yes.”

The conversation drifted to smaller things—his Vegas trip, my weekend, nothing significant. Then his phone buzzed on the counter. He glanced at the screen, and something crossed his face. Concern, maybe, or guilt.

“It’s Miguel,” he said. “I should take this.”

“Go ahead.”

He stood and walked into the family room, answering as he went. “Hey, what’s up?”

I couldn’t hear Miguel’s side of the conversation, but I watched Nico’s body language shift—shoulders tensing, hand running through his hair.