Chapter 7
nico
Pack didn’t look at me. We’d been in the car for ten minutes without a word. He stared out the window, shoulders tense, like he was waiting for me to throw something at him.
We’d spent a long time mastering the art of not talking except to throw insults during games.
But after this morning, the silence was different.
Memories of the few times we’d seen each other through the years, and the horrible things we’d said on the ice, came racing back.
I was crushed by the weight of the hatred we’d shown.
I wanted to say something. Crack a joke, maybe, or acknowledge what had happened at the school. But what would I say? Hey, that was fun. Remember when we used to be friends?
Instead, I looked out the window on my side of the back seat, trying to ignore the tightness in my chest. This morning had been dangerous. For a few hours, I’d forgotten why I hated him.
The one-on-one at the school was the best hockey I’d played in months.
I’d forgotten how we always brought out the best in each other back in college.
Hell, we still did, which was why neither of us ever won a fight.
Pack could read my movements before I made them, and the way we’d fallen into sync without a word was so easy it scared me.
Still, whatever had happened at the school, the Packy from Michigan was long gone. He’d been replaced by this smug asshole who made my blood boil every time the Condors played the Warriors.
I had to remember that. Because if I forgot, I’d start wanting the old version of him back.
All the shit that drove us apart was so real it still hurt.
The fight, the betrayal, and the years of hostility that had calcified into something hard enough to keep me safe.
I couldn’t let it go because he never would.
The car crept along in traffic, and I glanced over, planning to say something about Atlanta drivers. Pack’s expression stopped me cold. He looked tired, and if I hadn’t known better, I’d have wondered if he was as sick of all the animosity as I was.
“You good?” I asked before I could stop myself.
He blinked, then shrugged. “Yeah. Fine.”
“You don’t look fine.”
“Well, I am.” The shields had slammed back into place.
I looked away and swallowed my disappointment.
The warmth from this morning was gone, so apparently friendliness was only a show we put on for fans.
We’d make it through this, smiling for the cameras and doing our jobs.
After Houston, we’d go home and forget each other until the next time.
It would be all right because it had to be.
We still hadn’t said a word when we were pulling up at our next appearance, so I glared at him. “You always this chatty on road trips, or am I special?”
He didn’t crack a smile. “I save my silence for people who piss me off.”
“Lucky me,” I said. “I must be your muse.”
As our car pulled up, the photographers near the entrance came to attention.
Packy gave me such an artificial smile I nearly laughed.
“Remember,” he said. “Cameras love authenticity.”
I huffed. “Great. I’ll try not to look like I’m counting the seconds until I can shove you into traffic.”
“Wow,” he said. “That’s the spirit. Very relatable.”
The ballroom was packed. It was warm and sticky, and the smell of coffee and carpet cleaner was obnoxious. Packy and I took our places on the dais, in front of a single microphone, and did our best to look like friends.
He handled the opening remarks, cracking a few jokes and thanking everyone for being there. When he turned to me and raised his eyebrows, I talked about how Atlanta deserved another hockey team.
He covered the mic with his hand and asked, “Did you get that off a cereal box?”
“Only the parts with words you’d understand,” I shot back.
A few people in the front row laughed. They couldn’t have heard us, but apparently watching hockey players whisper was entertainment.
I’d never enjoyed public speaking, but once we started moving through the room, things got easier.
We shook hands, posed for photos, and signed tons of autographs.
One guy had both our rookie cards and asked us to sign them so he could put them in a frame, side by side.
For a glad-handing session, it wasn’t bad.
A woman grinned after snapping a selfie. “You two have so much chemistry. Have you considered making more videos? The one from the other day was amazing.”
Packy froze, then pasted on a smile. “That’s… terrifying. But thanks.”
“Terrifying for him,” I said. “A nightmare for me. I’d rather have a tooth pulled.”
She laughed. “You just proved my point.”
We moved on, but Packy’s gaze drilled into me. By the time we escaped and slid into the back seat of the car, my smiling muscles were dead.
We ate burgers in the restaurant at our hotel. The silence from the car had followed us inside, and I was about to make an excuse to leave when my phone buzzed. It was Marissa with a schedule update.
OUR TORMENTOR: Local TV interview in Room 1602. Reporter and crew already there. Need you both to join them ASAP.
I showed Packy the screen, and he shook his head. “Why the fuck is she doing this at the last minute?”
“Because she can.” I pushed back from the table. “Come on. It’s not like we have a choice.”
When we stepped into an elevator, Packy grimaced and tugged at his tie.
“This thing’s killing me,” he said, shooting me a look. “Why the hell didn’t you tell me you weren’t wearing one?”
“You could—”
The elevator stopped at our floor, and he said, “I have to change. Meet you up there in a few minutes.”
Before I could say a word, he headed down the hall.
On the sixteenth floor, I met the reporter, Dave. He showed me his planned questions and asked if he should change anything. I said what he had was fine.
Packy showed up. Holy fuck. Besides changing his shirt, he’d shaved and fixed his hair.
For once, whatever product he used had actually worked.
A blue shirt was open at the collar, and a tuft of chest hair caught the light at his throat.
His beige pants hugged his ass perfectly, displaying everything he had to offer.
Dave guided us to our chairs, side by side, facing a camera.
He showed Packy his questions, and the sight of Pack hunched over looking at paperwork took me back to college.
Fuck me because it dredged up memories I didn’t want.
Dorms, locker rooms, late nights where we’d looked at each other for too long and pretended we hadn’t.
I shifted in my seat and focused on Dave’s voice, trying to ignore what was happening in my pants. When thinking about ice baths didn’t work, I tried suicide drills and nuclear war. No luck. I despised Packy for making me feel like this, and hated myself even more for letting it happen.
“Ready, guys?” Dave asked.
I nodded, and Packy shot me a look I couldn’t read.
After the sound tech gave us our mics and ran a quick test, he gave a thumbs-up. Dave looked into the camera, delivered a quick intro, and turned to us. “Let’s start simple. How’s the goodwill tour going so far?”
“Smooth as fresh ice,” Packy said. “We met some fantastic kids today, and a few hundred fans gave us a welcome we won’t forget.”
While I tried to think of something to say, he started talking again. “Nico hasn’t started a fistfight yet, so that’s a win.”
I forced a smile. “Only because the league’s watching. Give it time.”
Dave laughed. “Sounds like you’ve found a rhythm. How does it feel, traveling together again after all these years?”
“Familiar,” Packy said. “We’re flying to Houston tomorrow, and I’m sure he’ll steal the window seat like he used to.”
“And I’m positive Packy will talk way too much while I’m trying to nap,” I said.
Dave chuckled and glanced at his notes. “You were roommates in college?”
“Briefly,” I said.
“Two miserable years,” Packy added. “Nico finally got kicked out for never showering.”
I leaned closer, still smiling for the camera. “Lies. You couldn’t handle the competition.”
Narrowing his eyes, he said, “I handled it fine. Stop saying shitty things about me.”
He shifted in his seat, and I jumped when his knee brushed mine. Damn static electricity.
“You’re enjoying this way too much,” I whispered.
“Maybe you’re just rusty.”
Dave laughed and said, “Guys, let us in on the secret. What’s the real story?”
I sat back and looked into the lens. “We shared a dorm room. Mostly studied and trained.”
“Mostly,” Packy echoed, rolling his eyes.
Dave nodded. “You ended up on rival teams after college. Has that been hard?”
“Challenging,” Packy said.
“But good,” I added. “We played a little one-on-one today at the school. It brought back good memories.”
Dave’s expression sharpened. “That’s interesting. Many people think you don’t like each other. This obviously isn’t true, but I’ve seen the scowls and fights. When your teams face off, do things ever go too far?”
“Sure,” Packy said. “Nico still owes me dinner from the last time I stripped the puck off him.”
I shot him a look. “Bull. You wish you could strip anything off me.”
The laughter hit us all at once, and when we quieted, Dave tilted his head. “Sounds like a friendly rivalry.”
“Very friendly,” I said. “The kind where you plot each other’s untimely deaths between periods.”
That set Pack and me off again, making us laugh louder than before. His eyes were bright under the lights, and the air shifted like it had at the school.
After a few more questions, Dave wrapped things up and thanked us. “It’s clear why the league is having you travel together. Your chemistry is palpable.”
Packy winked at me. “Looks like we fooled another one.”
“Yeah.” I nodded slowly. “Almost fooled myself.”
We returned to the twelfth floor, where our rooms were. On the way down the hall, my phone chirped, and we both stopped in front of Packy’s door.
KAI: If you and Paquette haven’t murdered each other yet, have you checked TikTok?
What the hell?
NICO: We’ve been busy all day. And I only open TikTok about once a year.
KAI: You might want to make an exception. Check the comments.
“Something wrong?” Packy asked.
“It’s Kai Mercer,” I said. “He’s talking about Tik—”
Kai sent a link, and more curious than concerned, I clicked it. TikTok opened, and the video started with Packy and me sitting shoulder to shoulder at the afternoon reception. The banter started instantly, and I smiled at the jokes and easy rhythm.
“I hear us.” Packy stepped closer. “What the hell is that?”
“Looks like a clipped video. Someone pulled it from today’s reception.”
He leaned in and froze. “Holy fuck. Look at that.”
“What?”
“Over a thousand likes, and… Jesus, almost four hundred comments.”
“Kai said to read some of them.”
Packy gestured at his door. “Let’s get out of the hall and take a look.”
Inside, I sat on an armchair, and he perched on the arm so he could see the phone. The first comment nearly made me choke.
@puckbunny1094: Tell me again how these two hate each other. I’ll wait… No takers? They’re boyfriends, clearly. #Packo #TwoMinutesForFlirting
“The fuck?” I stared at the screen. “What is TwoMinutesForFlirting supposed to mean?”
“Dunno,” Pack said. “She likes us?”
I kept scrolling.
@powerplayprincess2: The chemistry is unreal. Like enemies-to-lovers real.
@princeofdix2: They’re hot as sin and don’t even know it.
Packy snorted. “Okay, that’s too much.”
“Keep reading,” I said.
@hockeymomentsiluv: I’d pay money to be third-wheel energy here. #PackoForever
@hat_tricx_mom: I don’t even care about hockey but I’d watch the hell out of this rom-com. #bromance #rivalrygoals
@mytaleaseven2: Tell me this isn’t foreplay with microphones.
@fanficfever7: Someone write this slow burn already!!!!!!!
“Jesus Christ,” I muttered. “These people have lost their minds.”
Packy took the phone. “They’re all joking.” He scrolled a bit, then frowned. “Okay, here’s a voice of reason. I don’t get the hype. They look like two dumb jocks.”
“Finally,” I said.
He groaned. “Goddammit. The next one says Two idiots in love.”
I got up and moved to the edge of the bed. “Come over here so we can read them together. Then we call Marissa, because this is not cool.”
Over the next few minutes, our voices grew weaker as we read out loud.
@chetsweeniefever: I was today years old when I realized Packo is my new OTP.
@lockerroomlurker37: Put them on a reality show please.
I’d had enough. “Fucking hell. They can’t think we’re…”
Packy put a hand on my shoulder. “No. This is just fan stuff, and I say we don’t worry about it. Social media’s fickle. They’ll go on to something else tomorrow.”
“Should we call Marissa anyway?” I asked.
“I don’t feel like talking to her. If there’s more stuff tomorrow, we’ll call then.”
I nodded, and he made the fatal mistake of yawning. That set me off, and after a minute, I stood and stretched. He did the same.
“I should go,” I said. “We have to be up early to fly to Houston.”
Pack rubbed the back of his neck. “Yeah. Then we’ve got two weeks before the next one.”
“Back to the real world.” I started across the room, and he followed.
“We’ll need to eat before we leave for the airport,” he said. “Seven work?”
“I’ll come by.”
The hallway was bright after the dim lighting of his room, and I was halfway to my door when I looked back. He was still there, leaning against the doorframe, watching.
Our eyes met and held for too long before I turned away. Time for bed.