Page 78 of Cross Ice

“She’s probably right. But if anyone gives you shit⁠—”

“They won’t. And if they do…” I shrugged. “I survived tonight. I can survive that too.”

He glanced at me, something soft in his expression. “Yeah. You can.”

Oncoming headlights caught Nico’s profile as I studied him. He’d been so patient with me—coming to my apartment, staying in when I knew he was the kind of person who liked being out among people, experiencing things. He’d indulged my need for privacy and control.

Meeting his teammates, going to his games, stepping into his public life—those trials had worked. I’d made it through them. Maybe it was time I yielded a little more. “Do you want to do something tomorrow? Get out of the apartment?”

“Yeah.” His face lit up. “What did you have in mind?”

“You choose. Something you want to do.”

“No.” He shook his head. “Your turn. We’ve been doing my world—hiking, games, teammates, all of it. What do you want to do?”

I thought about it. “There’s a museum downtown I like. A museum of modern art. If you’re interested.”

“I’m interested in anything you want to show me.” He reached over and took my hand. “What time?”

“Two o’clock?”

“Perfect. I can’t wait.”

Friday afternoon, I met Nico at the museum, a sleek building with a marble and concrete façade and bright white walls inside.

I’d been to this museum a dozen times, always alone or occasionally with Danny. But bringing Nico here felt different, like I was sharing a part of myself I usually kept private.

Nico arrived wearing a baseball cap, the bill tugged low enough to shadow his face. In deference to my need for privacy, I realized. Even as I was pushing myself to be more public with him, he was trying to make it easier for me.

We wandered through the galleries, and I pointed out pieces I loved, explained techniques and movements, and told the stories behind certain works. Nico listened attentively, asked thoughtful questions, and genuinely engaged.

“I don’t really get abstract stuff,” he admitted, standing in front of a massive canvas covered in color blocks. “But I like hearing you explain it.”

“You don’t have to get it. Art is about how it makes you feel.”

“Then I feel confused.” He grinned. “But I like watching you light up when you talk about it.”

We spent hours there, moving slowly through the exhibits, and when we finally left, the sun was starting to set.

“Dinner?” Nico asked.

A restaurant. In public. Together.

A week ago, I would have suggested takeout in my apartment. But today, after hours of Nico listening to me talk about art, wearing a baseball cap he clearly found annoying, being patient with my need for privacy, I wanted to say yes.

“I know a place,” I said. “Seafood. “Small, quiet. We could try it.”

“You sure?”

“No. But let’s go anyway.”

The restaurant was small and dim, tucked into a side street most people walked past without noticing. We sat in a corner booth, and Nico kept the cap on through dinner. No one recognized him. No one stared. We ordered grilled scallops, shared a bottle of wine, and talked about art, hockey, and Nico’s upcoming road trip. When we left two hours later, I felt something I hadn’t felt in a long time: like I could actually breathe.

Like this could actually work.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Nico