Chapter 10 Nico
nico
The Condors’ practice facility had always been like home, but when I pushed through the doors a few days after Houston, it felt odd. Nothing there was different, but something inside me was. I couldn’t stop thinking about Packy.
Maybe I was overreacting. Two days with him hadn’t changed anything. We did our job, entertained some kids, and went our separate ways. End of story.
Except I kept replaying the one-on-one at the school.
Packy and I fell into sync without trying, reading each other as if we’d never stopped playing together.
I still heard his laugh when he almost went down trying to steal the puck from me.
It was the same high-pitched laugh I hadn’t heard since college.
I went to my stall and started changing. Most of the guys were already on the ice, but Kai, our starting goalie, hung around, pretending to adjust his pads. Obviously, he was waiting to ambush me.
“So,” he said, glancing up. “Atlanta, Houston?”
“What about them?”
“Heard the trip went well.”
I pulled my jersey over my head. “We didn’t kill each other, so I’d call that a success.”
“Not what the internet says.” He grinned and held up his phone. “Social media thinks you two are basically married.”
“Then social media can fuck off.”
“I’m serious. There’s a whole edit set to a love song. You and Paquette doing drills with the kids, laughing, looking at each other like—”
“Like what?” I grabbed the phone from his hand. The video was thirty seconds of carefully chosen moments: Pack and me demonstrating passes, standing with our arms around each other after the one-on-one, whispering during Q and A.
“Like that,” Kai said, taking his phone back. “Chemistry, man. The commenters are losing it.”
“It’s called acting. We were told to play nice for the cameras.”
“Uh-huh.” He didn’t sound convinced. “And the part where you’re staring at his ass while he shows a slapshot?”
“I don’t give a damn about his ass.” True. I hadn’t cared for years. “You’re seeing things.”
“Only what the whole world is seeing.” Kai clapped me on the shoulder. “Relax. I’m giving you shit. But get ready because the boys have questions.”
Great. That’s exactly what I need.
Practice was brutal. Coach ran us through neutral zone drills until my legs throbbed, then threw us into a scrimmage that got physical. I didn’t mind. The harder I worked, the less I thought about everything else.
It worked until Theo hip-checked me into the boards. While I was catching my breath, he leaned in with a grin in tow. “Saw the edits, Romeo. You and Paquette gonna make it official?”
“Eat shit.”
“Just saying, you looked happy. Never seen you smile that much during PR stuff. You usually hate it.”
I shoved past him and skated toward the far end of the rink, the cold air burning my lungs. Good. I needed something to focus on besides the heat crawling up my neck.
After practice, the chirping continued in the locker room. Jace joked about “star-crossed rivals,” and Noah showed me an Insta post calling us “hockey’s cutest enemies.” Even Bennett, who liked to stay out of the bullshit, raised his eyebrows as I walked by.
“You good?” he asked.
“Fine.”
“Really? You seem tense.”
“I’m always tense. It’s called being captain.”
He nodded slowly, gave me a goofy grin, and let it go.
By the time I got home, my jaw ached from clenching. I grabbed a beer from the fridge and collapsed onto the couch.
The apartment was too quiet. I’d lived there for three years and still hadn’t figured out how to make it feel like home.
When I moved in, I hired a decorator who did his best. I had nice furniture and a good view of the city, but the place felt sterile.
My teammates called it the “sad bachelor pad,” and they weren’t wrong.
I checked my phone. No messages from Packy. No messages at all.
What the fuck do I care? Why would he text me? I haven’t considered texting him.
Curiosity got the better of me, and I opened TikTok.
The video Kai had shown me was the third thing in my feed, so I watched it again, then let it run one more time.
We looked comfortable. Happy, even. At one point, Pack turned to say something to me, and the way his face lit up made my chest tighten.
That’s the Pack I remember, the one from before everything went to hell.
I thought about a party early in our second year.
Some guys from the club team had crashed one of our post-game get-togethers.
One of them, a big dude with a red face, was already several beers past his limit.
I’d been out as bi for a while by then. Most people were cool about it, but this asshole hadn’t gotten the memo.
“Hey, Rossi,” he calls across the room. “Which locker room do you use? Boys or girls?”
His buddies laugh like morons, and one of them claps him on the arm. My teammates turn away from their conversations and tune in to what’s happening.
Before I can say anything, Pack comes bounding over. True to his style, he doesn’t shove the guy or make a scene. Instead, he steps between us, gives the guy that easygoing smile he uses to charm everyone, and says, “Sorry, didn’t catch that. Were you talking to my roommate?”
The guy puffs up. “Yeah. I asked him a question.”
“Okay, here’s the thing.” Packy’s smile doesn’t waver, but his eyes have gone cold. “You can leave now, or you can keep talking and find out how many of us took boxing last year. Your call.”
Our teammates close in behind the red-faced idiot, forming a loose semicircle.
“Damn right,” one of our D-men says.
The idiot looks around and does the math.
Apparently, he decides his joke isn’t worth a broken nose.
“Whatever,” he says, and stomps out.
Later, walking back to the dorm, I ask Pack why he did it.
“Did what?”
“Stepped in. I can handle assholes.”
Pack gives me a shy grin. “I know, but you shouldn’t have to. And you won’t when I’m there.”
That was it. Typical Packy with no big speech and no expectation of gratitude. It was an example of his quiet loyalty, taking care of his best friend.
I’d thought about that night a lot over the years.
Sometimes it came back in the middle of the night when I couldn’t sleep, or when I read about him in the news.
Every time we fought during a game, I’d remember how he’d stood up for me with no hesitation.
It made the betrayal so much worse. How could the same man who’d defended me without blinking turn around and destroy everything?
Except now, instead of meeting in a game where we were both determined to come out on top no matter the price, we’d spent two days together. Instead of wanting to kill him, I’d wanted that morning at the school to go on. We could have kept laughing, standing close enough for me to feel his warmth.
“Fuck,” I told my empty apartment.
I finished my beer and got another. The smart thing would have been to go to bed early and wake up fresh for tomorrow’s game, but I needed to drink enough to stop thinking about Kirby goddamn Paquette.
Despite turning on the TV, I ended up on Instagram, scrolling through my feed. Right after an ad for underwear that said, “boost your booty,” there was a post from the Atlanta event. Pack and I were grinning like idiots. The caption read:
When rivals become teammates, magic happens. Thanks @NicoRossi19 and @PackyPaquette for an amazing day with our students.
It was magic, for sure. Until we got in the car to leave.
The comments were a mix of hockey fans gushing about how good it was to see us getting along, and people using hashtags I refused to acknowledge. I scrolled past without reading them.
I went back to the top of the post, and my finger hovered over Pack’s handle. One tap, and I’d be on his profile. I could see his posts and learn more about his life now.
Bad idea. Very bad.
I closed the app and tossed my phone onto the coffee table.
We’d have more events in Denver and Kansas City next week. That meant smiling for cameras, pretending we didn’t hate each other, and acting like life since college hadn’t happened.
My phone buzzed, and I grabbed it. Marissa had sent a message to Packy and me.
OUR TORMENTOR: Look for the Denver details in the next couple of days. I also want to thank you again for the great job in Atlanta and Houston. The engagement numbers are through the roof, so keep up the good work.
I stared at the message until the screen went dark, then woke it again. Pack didn’t reply, so neither did I.
Keep up the good work, she’d said, as if it were that simple. I couldn’t flip a switch and go back to hating him, but I could avoid getting pulled into that kind of moment again. I had to remember it was only pretend.
Except I didn’t hate Pack. I’d spent years convinced I did, but a few days together had blown that apart. It wasn’t hate I felt; it was the ghost of what I’d wanted back in college.
I’d wanted him. Not just sex, but him. The feelings crept up on me before I knew what they were.
Pack had been the person I trusted more than anyone.
Somewhere in the middle of all our shenanigans, I fell for him.
There was a big problem, though. Packy was straight, and the more I wanted something else, the more girls he dated.
Then I met Kayla. She was beautiful and funny, and even though I already knew deep down that I was gay, I dated her anyway. She wasn’t the person I wanted, and the sex was more like a chore than physical relief. We lasted a few months before she dumped me, saying I obviously wanted something else.
I was terrified of losing the distraction. Without her, who knew what I might say to Pack? Trying to save face, I told him I’d broken up with her.
A few weeks later, he slept with her. I hadn’t just lost her; I’d been betrayed by the person I actually loved.
Furious, I started the fight in the locker room, and we were both jerks for the rest of the year.
After we left for the HFNA—him to the Warriors, me to the Condors—we never talked about it again.
Now we were supposed to smile for the cameras while I pretended I didn’t remember every almost-moment we’d shared. Fuck it. I picked up my phone, typed a message, and deleted it. Tried again. Deleted that too. Finally, I settled on something safe.
NICO: Marissa’s a trip, huh? See you next week.
His reply came faster than I expected.
PACKY: Can’t wait. Try not to miss me too much before then.
The sarcasm was as subtle as a slap to the face, but was there something else underneath it? Sometimes people tell you what they really think when they don’t realize what they’re doing.
Fuck that, and fuck me. Was I losing it again? I couldn’t let him have the last word, so I typed a reply.
NICO: Am I what you dream about, Paquette?
Three dots appeared, and another message came through.
PACKY: Wouldn’t you like to know?
I stared at the words too long, trying to figure out what they meant. No luck. Thinking about him had worn me out so much I was incapable of higher thought, so I went to bed.
Sleep didn’t come easily. How the fuck had life gotten so complicated just as things were looking good?