Page 72 of Cross Ice

And then Nico walked through the door.

His gaze found me immediately, and his entire face lit up.

He crossed the room in a few long strides and pulled me into a hug. In my peripheral vision, I caught movement. Players exchanged glances, one guy nudged another, someone grinned. But I didn’t care that people were watching. I wrapped my arms around him and held on tight.

“You came,” he said into my ear.

“Of course I came.”

He pulled back and turned slightly. “There’s someone I want you to meet.”

André was already there. I recognized him from the announcer calling his name, and from interviews on TV. He was taller than I’d expected, with the kind of steady presence that made sense for a captain. He looked at me the way someone looks at a person they’ve heard a lot about and are finally seeing in person.

“André Cloutier,” he said, and stuck out his hand. “I’ve heard good things about you, Evan.”

I shook his hand. “I’m glad to finally meet you.”

Something warm moved across his face—not quite a smile, but close. “Good game to come to. He scored twice.” He glanced at Nico with an expression that was equal parts affection and satisfaction. “Finally.”

“Finally what?” I asked.

André smiled. “Finally someone in that section for him.” He clapped Nico once on the shoulder, the kind of gesture that meant more than it looked like, and moved away to give us privacy.

Nico turned back to me.

“What did you think of the game?”

“I thought you were incredible.”

He grinned. “Did you have fun?”

“So much fun. I was screaming so loud for that second goal.”

“I heard you.”

“Liar. You couldn’t possibly have heard me in that crowd.”

“I felt it, then.” He kissed my forehead. “Come on. Let’s get out of here.”

We said goodbye to Chloe and Jonah, and Chloe whispered, “See you next game!” with a knowing smile. We headed out to the parking lot.

“Where’s your car?” he asked.

“I took an Uber,” I said. “Didn’t want to deal with parking.”

“Smart. I’ll drive you home.”

As we drove to my apartment, Nico patiently explained plays, penalties, and the reasons behind certain calls while I bombarded him with questions about the game. By the time we pulled up to my building, I was still buzzing with adrenaline.

We barely made it through my front door before we were kissing. His mouth was hot and demanding, and I could feel the coiled energy in his body—hours on the ice translated into need. My back hit the wall, and he pressed against me, and I gasped into his mouth.

“You’re exhausted,” I said.

“Don’t care.” His hands slid down my sides. “Need you.”

We made it to the bedroom, barely. He was deliberate even through the urgency, like the game hadn’t quite left his body, all that controlled intensity looking for somewhere to go. And underneath all of it was something else entirely. I’d been in that arena tonight. I’d sat in his section, watched his name light up the scoreboard twice, met André, stood in the family lounge and been introduced as his. This was what it looked like to be let into someone’s real life. Not the careful, managed version, but the actual thing.

Afterward, we lay still for a long moment, both of us breathing hard.