Page 84 of Cross Ice

A photo. Us. Last night. In the restaurant’s parking lot.

Kissing.

The image was clear, shot from across the parking lot on someone’s phone, the two of us lit by headlights. My hands on Evan’s face, his fingers gripping my jacket, our mouths fused together in a way that left absolutely no room for interpretation.

I kept scrolling. Another post: us leaving, my arm around Evan’s waist. A second kiss. A third, taken from a different angle—someone else’s phone.

Sports blogs were already running it.

San Jose Lasers’ Nicolás Briggs photographed in an intimate encounter with an unidentified man.

My hands shook. Not from surprise—not entirely. I’d been in that parking lot. I’d known it wasn’t private enough, and I’d kissed him anyway. Two, three, four times. I’d chosen this. I’d stopped treating every public moment like a threat, and now the photos existed because of exactly that.

I’d done this.

“Nico?”

I found Evan awake, propped up on one elbow, concern in his eyes. “What’s wrong?” he asked.

I couldn’t speak. Just turned the phone toward him.

The color drained from his face. “Oh God,” he whispered. “Where?”

“It’s everywhere. Social media, sports blogs…”

His eyes moved across the screen—the headline, the photos, the comments already multiplying below them.

My phone rang. André.

I answered on speakerphone. “Yeah.”

“You’ve seen it.”

“Yeah.”

“Nico, it went viral overnight. Management’s going to call you. The media…” His voice gentled. “Are you okay?”

I looked at Evan. He hadn’t moved since I’d shown him the phone.

“No,” I said.

“Whatever you need, Naomi and I are here. The team’s got your back.”

“Okay. Thanks, Cap.”

I hung up.

For a moment neither of us spoke. The phone kept buzzing in my hand.

“They don’t know who I am yet,” Evan said. His voice was flat, careful. “The caption says unidentified.”

“Yet,” I said.

He met my eyes, and I could see him understanding the same thing I was—yet was doing a lot of work in that sentence. It was only a matter of time before our controlled circle became irrelevant.

The version of this relationship that had existed twelve hours ago—private, protected, ours—was already gone. Whatever came next would be different. Every choice we made from this moment would be made in public, whether we wanted it to be or not.

“Nico—” he started.