Page 95 of Cross Ice

Four years. Eight cities’ worth of billboards. A signature shoe we’d been developing for six months with my name literally on it, my input on every design element.

Gone.

I set the phone down and poured a mug of coffee.

Yesterday’s family calls were behind me. Miguel was hurt. My parents were shaken. But they were still there, and that mattered more than the mess of how we’d gotten to it.

This—the professional fallout, the public scrutiny, figuring out how to move forward—this was different. And my instinct, the one that had gotten me through eight years in professional hockey, was the same as it always was: make a plan, work the plan, don’t look at what you can’t control.

So. First things first.

I called Neil.

He picked up on the first ring. “Tell me you’re not looking at social media.”

“I’m okay.”

“I’ll take that as a yes.” A pause, and I could hear him shifting into gear. “The response has been better than expected overall. Lapierre posted something positive. Morelli and Savard went on record. Half your teammates jumped in without being asked.”

“And VortexStride?”

Silence.

“Neil.”

“They terminated the deal this morning. Morality clause. Legal team moved fast.”

I’d known the second I saw VortexStride’s email in my inbox. Knowing hadn’t made it easier to hear.

“What else?” I asked.

“That’s the worst of it. For now.” His tone shifted to the one he used when he was managing me. “The market’s changing. Brands that wouldn’t touch queer athletes a year ago are actively looking for them now. There will be other deals.”

“I don’t want to talk about replacement deals.”

“Fair enough. Rachel wants a meeting at noon. I’ll be on the call. She’s got a draft statement ready, but nothing goes out without your approval. Your job in the next few days… don’t go to ground, don’t say anything unscripted, and don’t look like a man who has something to be ashamed of. Everything else is mine.”

“Okay.”

“Good.”

I hung up and stood there with my coffee, taking inventory. Angry? Yes. Disappointed? Yes. Surprised? Not really. I’d known coming out would carry risks. I’d just never let myself think too specifically about which ones, or how fast they’d arrive, or what it would feel like to lose something I’d worked for because I’d kissed my boyfriend in a parking lot.

I made a plan. Call André. Get through morning skate. Meet with Rachel. Handle the statement. Play the game tonight. Figure out the rest later.

I could do this part—the action part, the making-a-plan-and-working-it part. I knew how to do that.

Evan’s bedroom door opened. He appeared in the doorway, rumpled and uncertain.

“Good morning,” I said, reaching for a mug. I poured his coffee and added cream and sugar without asking. I’d watched him make it enough times to know.

He took the mug and wrapped both hands around it like he needed the warmth. “How bad is it?”

“Manageable.”

“Nico.”

I looked at him. “VortexStride dropped the endorsement deal. Neil says the overall response is better than expected. Rachel wants a meeting at noon to go over a statement.”