Page 92 of Cross Ice

Miguel made a short sound, not quite a laugh. “Straight with me.”

“Poor word choice.”

“Little bit.” But some of the tightness had gone out of his voice. A few seconds passed. “So, Evan. Is he the real thing?”

“Yeah.” No hesitation. “It’s serious.”

“Serious like it’s going well, or serious like you’re already gone?”

“Both.”

“Good.” He meant it. I could hear it, plain and uncomplicated. “I want to meet him. When things calm down.”

“You will.”

A longer pause. When Miguel spoke again, his voice had settled into something quieter.

“I’m not going to stay mad about this,” he said. “I want you to know that. But I am hurt. And I need you to actually hear that, not just say you get it and move on.”

“I hear it.”

“Because you do that. You acknowledge things and then you accelerate past them.”

He wasn’t wrong about that either. “I hear it,” I said again. “And I’m not moving past it. You deserved better from me. I’m going to do better.”

Another silence. Comfortable this time, or closer to it.

“Call Mom and Dad,” Miguel said. “Now, Nico. Don’t let it sit another day.”

The thought of that call sat heavy in my gut. “I know.”

“They’re not going to be angry. But they’re going to be hurt. Mom especially.” He paused. “She’s been waiting a long time for you to come to her with this.”

I hadn’t let myself think about that clearly, but I knew he was right.

“And Nico?” His voice went quieter. “I’m glad it’s out. I know it’s a disaster right now, but I’m glad you don’t have to carry it anymore.”

I exhaled for what felt like the first time all day. “Thanks, Miguel.”

“Call them.”

He hung up.

I sat on the edge of Evan’s bed for a while after that, the phone loose in my hands.

Miguel had known. Or at least suspected.

I thought about what he’d said about the locker room changing. About all the moments I could have chosen differently and hadn’t—not because anyone had given me a reason to stay silent, but because I’d convinced myself it was easier.

That was on me. Just me. Nobody else.

I pulled up my parents’ number and called before I could talk myself out of it. My mother answered before the second ring.

“Nicolás.”

Just my name. The full version, the one she used when something mattered. It landed like a punch to my sternum.

“Hey, Mom.”