Chapter 8 Packy
packy
My phone had been buzzing nonstop since breakfast. I’d ignored it then, and I kept ignoring it through the hotel checkout and all the way to the airport.
Finally, while we waited to go through security, I caved and looked.
RILEY: Congrats, man. You broke the internet. #PackoForever
I stared at the screen. #PackoForever?
The Warriors’ group chat was a nightmare with far too many heart-eye emojis and screenshots of posts on X. There was also a gif of two stick figures making out, and Holky had sent three separate texts, each more unhinged than the last.
“Fuck,” I muttered, shoving the phone back in my pocket.
The terminal was packed, and someone had cranked the AC so high I could see my breath. By the time Nico and I reached our gate, we were both shivering. We dropped into chairs next to each other and huddled close for warmth.
Nico pulled out his phone. “Want to go over Houston?”
“Sure.” Anything to avoid thinking about PackoForever.
Before we could look at the day’s schedule, Nico’s phone chimed. He frowned when he checked it.
“Something wrong?” I asked.
“Kai again.” He sighed. “And Jace. And Theo. And Noah.”
“How bad?” I asked.
Before he could answer, my phone buzzed twice.
“The fuck?” I checked, and it was the damn group chat again.
Nico looked over. “What?”
“Dog and Brody.” I read the messages out loud.
DOG: Hey, loverboy. Saw the Insta.
brODY: #Packo’s trending today. Got something to tell us?
PACKY: Shut up. It’s all over now.
Nico’s phone dinged, and he scowled. Before I could ask if it was Marissa, mine went off again.
LOGAN: Nothing’s over. You should check TikTok.
He sent a link, but before I could click, Nico groaned and said, “Fuck me.”
“Huh?”
“More people have posted videos of us on Insta. And that post we looked at last night has almost seven thousand likes now.”
I clicked Logan’s link, and the TikTok started playing. It was a video from the first press conference we did in New York. It had 3,072 likes and 812 comments. I scrolled to read the comments, and goddammit, they were exactly like the ones from last night. Maybe worse.
Nico shifted in his chair. “What are we going to do?”
“Don’t know.”
My phone vibrated again, a call this time. I glanced at Nico. “It’s Marissa.”
I answered and told her to wait while I got Nico on the line.
“This isn’t cool,” he told her. “It’s time for us to go home and call this off.”
She laughed while Nico and I exchanged bewildered glances.
I started to agree with him, but before I got two words out, she started talking.
“Don’t panic. Just because something trends on social media doesn’t mean it’s true.
It will fade eventually, but for now, the commissioner loves the engagement numbers.
Everything is up at least three hundred percent.
All you have to do is smile more and keep leaning into it. The public loves your hate comedy.”
Despite our protests, she wouldn’t budge. It was a relief to disconnect when they called our flight.
“This is fucking stupid,” I said as we walked down the jetway. “We’re not a damn rom-com.”
Nico put on his infuriating smirk. “Speak for yourself. I look great in a montage.”
Our seats were midway through the first-class cabin, and Nico told me to go first.
“No,” I said. “After you.”
He shook his head. “I don’t like window seats. Let me sit on the aisle.”
“I don’t like them either. You take it.”
“No. I’ll get claustrophobic.”
I scoffed so hard the woman in the seat behind us looked up.
“That’s bullshit,” I said. “You always need to be in control.”
“You always need snacks.”
“Do not.”
He grinned, and for some reason, I forgot why I didn’t want to sit by the window. “I’ll go first, but there’s a condition.”
“Of course there is. What?”
“No talking about stupid social media on the flight.”
“Best idea I’ve heard in a while.”
The flight attendant brought us glasses of juice, and after she left, Nico leaned over to dig in his bag. Without looking up, he asked, “You have a Switch?”
“Yeah,” I said.
We scooted toward each other as we settled in to play. Safety in numbers, I guess.
Two hours later, the plane touched down at Bush Intercontinental Airport. A driver in the baggage area had a sign with our names on it, and he helped us get our luggage to the car.
On our way to The Woodlands, a Houston suburb, Nico fell asleep.
His soft, buzzing snore hadn’t changed over the years, and since he was more interesting than the highway, I studied him.
Without a scowl or smirk on his face, he appeared innocent.
For once, his hair was messy, and he reminded me of the kid I’d connected with all those years before.
As if on cue, he slumped sideways and leaned against me.
When he put his hand on my chest, I almost shoved it off, but didn’t.
I may not have liked having Nico Rossi all over me, but we were in this together.
Since he was as upset as I was by our “lean into it” instructions, I was glad he could rest.
Arctic Ice was the home rink for The Woodlands’ youth hockey teams, and we were leading a workshop on hockey basics. The parking lot was packed with people, including way too many reporters. Cameras began flashing the moment our feet touched the pavement.
At the same time, the chanting started. “Packo! Packo! Packo!”
Nico and I froze. I considered diving back into the car and telling the driver to head for the airport. Before I could do it, he opened the trunk.
Nico leaned in, pulled out our skates, and held mine up like a trophy. “Got them, Pack.”
Two men introduced themselves as coaches and hurried us across the parking lot. Leaning close to Nico, I snapped, “I can carry my own skates.”
He jerked as if I’d hit him. “Jesus. What crawled up your ass?”
My voice had been harsher than I intended, so I exhaled and scrubbed a hand over my face. “Sorry. I’m… This is out of control.”
He bumped his shoulder against mine. “Try not to let it get to you. Nothing trends forever.”
I didn’t believe him.
One of the coaches opened the rink door, and we stepped inside. The chants from outside faded to scattered cheers. They were still loud, but manageable.
A grinning teenage boy wearing a Condors jersey led us to the locker room. The tension from outside still thick between us, Nico and I changed into practice gear without talking.
When we stood to head out to the ice, he met my eyes. “I’m not happy about this either, but we’re here. Let’s make the best of it.”
His warm smile, and the patience in his voice, made guilt twist in my chest.
I nodded. “Yeah. Let’s do this.”
We pasted on professional grins and skated out. After introductions, we explained the first drill. Nico made a crack about my skating form, I sniped about his haircut, and the crowd ate it up.
We split the kids into groups. One would work on passing with me, while the other practiced shooting with Nico. The ten-year-olds in my group were lively, but they let me help correct their stick positioning and show them how to follow through after a shot.
Across the ice, Nico crouched down to a little boy’s level, demonstrating wrist movement in slow motion. The kid tried it, failed, and tried again. When he finally got it right, Nico high-fived him so hard he nearly knocked him over. I couldn’t help smiling.
A girl in an oversized Barracudas jersey skated up to me. “Can you show me how to do a slapshot?”
“Absolutely.” I demonstrated before talking her through each step. “Bring your stick back, weight on your back foot, swing forward, and be sure you hit the ice behind the puck so the stick can flex. Shift your weight forward, and follow through toward the target.”
She tried it, and the puck barely moved.
“Not bad for a first try,” I said. “Want to see what happens when you really commit to it?”
Her eyes lit up. “Yeah.”
This time she wound up like she meant it. The puck flew across the ice, and she shrieked with delight when it sailed into the goal.
She turned to her friend. “Did you see that? I did a slapshot!”
Nico caught my eye from across the rink and grinned.
When the kids begged us to play one-on-one for them, we couldn’t say no. It stopped feeling like PR as soon as my stick touched the puck. Nico and I moved on instinct and read each other without looking as our rhythm clicked into place.
I cut wide, and Nico slipped past me, grinning as he lifted the puck off my stick.
“You’re getting old, Pack,” he called over his shoulder. “Let me handle it.”
“Handle your wheelchair, grandpa.” I stole the puck back and took off in the other direction.
The crowd exploded with laughter. Even the shouts of “Packo!” didn’t mar my enjoyment.
Nico and I went back and forth, stealing, chirping, and showing off for the kids. As soon as one of us would put the puck in the net, so did the other. Once, Nico deked so smoothly I nearly face-planted trying to keep up. He laughed, and when I flipped him off, the kids went wild.
It reminded me of sneaking into the rink late at night in Michigan. No one else would be there, so it was just us and the ice. We usually played until we couldn’t feel our legs, then stumbled back to the dorm and slept through our early classes.
Now, in Houston, we called it a tie after fifteen minutes. We were breathless and grinning, and when he slung an arm around my shoulders, I did the same.
During Q and A, a small girl stood up. “My daddy said you used to be best friends, but then started hating each other. Are you friends again?”
The rink went quiet as I glanced at Nico. He shrugged like it didn’t matter, but his eyes stayed on mine.
“Something like that,” I said.
She beamed. “I knew it. PackoForever!”
Nico and I laughed along with everyone else.
Afterward, while we changed in the locker room, one of the coaches came in. “More reporters showed up, so we have all the press outside now.”
Nico groaned and slumped against his locker. “I wanted to chill.”
“We’ll handle it,” I said. “Quick answers, and we’ll be done.”
Outside, it was chaos. Cameras flashed, the crowd raised their phones over their heads, and all the reporters shouted at once.
“Packy! Nico! Over here!”
“Quick interview?”
“How does it feel to be trending as a couple?”
My stomach tightened, and Nico went stiff beside me.
“The internet likes us,” he said lightly. “We’re grateful for the support.”
“Are you two together?” someone shouted.
“We’re partners for this tour,” I said through gritted teeth.
“Is your rivalry fake?”
“Has it always been an act?”
“What do you think of the name Packo?”
“It’s a pain in the ass,” I said under my breath.
Nico leaned close, still smiling for the cameras. “Easy. They’ll hear you.”
“Good. Maybe they’ll fuck off.”
He gave me a look he’d used in college when I was being an idiot, a mix of patience, amusement, and exasperation. “Pretty sure that’s not how this works.”
Judging by the shouting and flashing cameras, he was right.