Page 70 of Cross Ice

And there he was, on the blue line in his red, black, and white uniform, name and number on his back, looking completely at home in front of eighteen thousand people.

Goosebumps rose on my arms, and pride swelled in my chest so fiercely it almost hurt.

That was my boyfriend. Mine. The one they were all cheering for.

Chloe leaned over. “Pretty amazing, isn’t it?”

I couldn’t find words, so I just nodded.

Because it was. It was overwhelming, terrifying, and completely amazing.

And for the first time, I understood what it meant to be part of Nico’s world.

Then the national anthem, everyone standing, and finally⁠—

Puck drop.

The game started fast and hard. The first period was all speed and hits and the sound of bodies crashing into the boards. I winced every time someone checked Nico, but he always got right back into the game.

“You get used to it,” Chloe said, seeing my expression. “The hitting is part of the game.”

“How do you not have a heart attack every time?”

“Oh, I do. You just learn to hide it better.”

By the second period, I’d found my footing a little. The hardest part wasn’t the rules—I knew enough of those—it was tracking the puck across the full ice without a camera doing it for me, and reading the play before it developed rather than watching a replay tell me what had just happened. Chloe had stopped explaining the basics and started pointing out things I couldn’t see yet: where to look when the play was developing in the corner, how to read the referee’s body language before the whistle blew, which player to watch when San Jose had possession.

It was different from TV in ways I hadn’t expected. Louder, faster, more disorienting, and more immediate. When Nico took a hit in the first period, I’d felt it in my chest before I’d fully processed what had happened.

Midway through the second period, a San Jose player went down, and the referee’s arm shot up.

“Tripping,” Chloe said before I’d even looked for the signal. “Power play for San Jose. Montreal’s down a player. Watch—Coach is putting in the first line.”

Nico, André, and Jonah skated out for the faceoff.

André won it, passed to Jonah, who got it to Nico at the point.

Nico wound up and fired.

The puck flew past Montreal’s goalie so fast I almost didn’t see it, and the red light lit behind the net.

Goal.

The arena exploded. The goal horn blared, music thumped, and everyone around me jumped to their feet, screaming.

I was on my feet too, cheering so loudly my throat hurt, watching as Nico’s teammates mobbed him on the ice.

“He scored!” I shouted to Chloe over the noise.

“I know! That was beautiful!”

The game stayed close. Montreal tied it in the third period, and the tension in the arena was suffocating. Back and forth, both teams fought for the lead.

With three minutes left, Nico got the puck again.

I was on the edge of my seat, gripping the armrests as he skated toward Montreal’s net. A defenseman came at him hard, but Nico dodged around him and snapped a shot past the goalie.

Goal.