Page 98 of Cross Ice

He set down his sandwich. “I’m not going tonight.”

I stopped chewing.

“I know I should⁠—”

“You don’t have to explain.”

“Nico, I want to explain. Every camera in that building is going to be looking for me. Everyone will know who I am now. And I can’t…” He shook his head. “I’m not ready.”

I made myself swallow past the lump in my throat. “I get it. The arena tonight is different from what it was last week.”

Relief flickered across his face, followed immediately by guilt.

I understood the logic. Forty-eight hours after the photos went viral, walking into a packed arena was a huge ask.

But I was also acutely aware—sitting there in his kitchen on game day, my endorsement deal gone, a carefully managed statement going out tomorrow—that I’d just come out publicly and my boyfriend wasn’t going to be at my first game since it happened.

“Okay,” I said. “I’ll text you after.”

“Thank you.” His voice was quiet. “For not making this harder.”

I stood and started clearing the table. “It’s one game.” It came out sharper than I’d meant it to.

Evan heard it. I saw him register the edge in my tone.

I averted my eyes and kept clearing plates.

“Nico—”

“I need to get to the rink early.” I picked up my bag. “Pre-game routine.”

“Right. Of course.”

I kissed him at the door—quick, not enough—and left.

The arena had that pre-game energy it always had. The hum of preparation, the smell of the ice. I let it settle over me the moment I walked through the players’ entrance.

This, at least, was simple.

I found the trainer and got my right wrist taped because it had been tightening up mid-motion all week. Then the usual progression: stretching, resistance work, the low burn of muscles waking up. André fell into step beside me mid-routine without a word.

Team meeting. Tactical. Something to think about besides what was going on in my own head.

Pre-game meal. Someone produced a soccer ball, and we played two-touch on the loading dock in the cold air, music from somebody’s Bluetooth speaker rattling off the concrete. Fortin caught Thompson flat-footed and didn’t let him forget it. I laughed without meaning to.

By the time we went back inside, I felt almost human.

But when I pulled my jersey over my head before warmups, I thought about the VortexStride deal. The signature shoe. Six months of meetings and mock-ups I’d actually liked.

And Evan not in the stands.

I knew how to handle the professional fallout. I had people for that. What I didn’t have was a plan for the fact that my boyfriend was alone in his apartment tonight because walking into my arena felt like too much.

I pulled on my gloves and headed for the tunnel.

The ice would make sense.

It did that night too.