Page 69 of Cross Ice

“That acronym needs work.” I shook my head, but my lips curved.

She laughed. “Doesn’t it? But the concept’s the same. People who love hockey players and have no choice but to learn the sport.”

Love. The word hung in the air, but I didn’t correct her.

“No choice is right,” I said, managing a small smile.

“The guys will be out for warmups in a few minutes. You get to see them when they aren’t racing up and down the ice.”

About ten minutes later, the Lasers came onto the ice in their red and black jerseys, skating laps on half the rink, taking practice shots.

I found Nico.

He looked different in person—bigger, more imposing in all his gear. The pads made his shoulders broader and his presence more commanding. On TV, he looked fast and skilled. In person, he looked powerful.

My heart pounded as I watched him skate, and then⁠—

He looked up.

His eyes scanned the comp section, searching, and they found me.

Our gazes locked across the distance, and he smiled. Just for me. A broad, private smile that made my heart flip.

I lifted my hand in a tiny wave, and he nodded before skating away to take a shot on the net.

“He looked for you,” Chloe said, grinning. “That’s so sweet.”

I couldn’t speak. I just watched as Nico moved across the ice with a grace that seemed impossible for someone his size.

When warmups ended, the players skated off the ice and disappeared down the tunnel. The Zamboni came out to resurface the ice, and Chloe used the break to point out other players’ families in nearby seats, explaining what to expect in the family section—when to enter and exit the seats during the game, how the other families looked after each other, how to handle reporters if they approached.

I tried to absorb it all, but my attention kept drifting to the empty ice, to the tunnel where Nico had disappeared.

Then the lights dropped.

The arena plunged into darkness, and the crowd’s roar rose to fill the void. Music blasted from the speakers, something heavy and driving, all bass and percussion. Spotlights swirled across the ice in red and white patterns, and fog rolled out from the tunnel, glowing crimson under the lights.

My heart pounded in time with the music.

The announcer’s voice boomed over the speakers: “Ladies and gentlemen, your San Jose Lasers!”

The team streamed onto the ice through the bank of red-lit fog, and the crowd went wild. The players moved in a line, skating hard, circling the ice before gathering at their bench.

The starting lineup skated to the blue line, and the announcer called each name.

“At center, number eleven, André Cloutier!”

The crowd cheered, and André raised his stick.

“Right wing, number twenty-three, Jonah Walker!”

More cheers, the loudest from Chloe.

“Left wing, number seventeen, Nicolás Briggs!”

The arena erupted.

The noise hit me like a physical force—thousands of people screaming, stomping, chanting his name. Around me, fans were on their feet, some wearing his jersey, some holding signs.