Chapter 12 Nico
nico
I spotted Packy before he saw me. He was leaning against a pillar near baggage claim at Denver International, scrolling through his phone with a suitcase by his side. It had been two weeks since Houston, and he looked lighter somehow, a little less like he was bracing for a hit.
When he glanced up and caught my eye, he broke into an actual smile. It wasn’t the fake PR grin or sharp-edged smirk I was used to, but something approaching friendly.
“Rossi,” he said. “You look like shit. Did your flight get delayed?”
“Nah, just a lot of turbulence. Your flight okay?”
“A little bouncing around, but nothing bad.” He pointed at the exit. “Car’s waiting. You ready?”
In the limo heading downtown, Packy was surprisingly chatty. He almost seemed relaxed.
“Anybody yell Packo at you in the last two weeks?” he asked.
“Ugh. Like a battle cry.” I shook my head. “My teammates got bored with needling me, but there were Packo signs at all our games. In Toronto, it seemed like half the arena was chanting it.”
“Same,” he said, grinning. “The noise in Buffalo was bad enough, but Detroit was the worst. They threw octopuses and practically raised the roof yelling Packo.”
We laughed, and I threw my hands in the air. “Fucking league. They call it an outreach tour, but it’s more like a traveling circus.”
He snickered. “Why aren’t the other outreach ambassadors getting any heat? They do their appearances and move on without any grief at all.”
I waggled my eyebrows. “That’s obvious. We’re the hot ones.”
“Hell yes.” His phone dinged, and he frowned at the screen. “It’s Harpy. Team stuff, so I have to answer. Excuse me.”
While he texted, I stared out the window at the Rockies.
We were headed to a fan event for the Boulders, Colorado’s perpetually rebuilding franchise that seemed stuck in an endless cycle of new faces.
Apparently, Packy and I were supposed to drum up some excitement.
Good luck to us. I wasn’t quite convinced we’d figured out how not to kill each other.
I must have drifted off, because I nearly jumped out of my skin when Packy yelled, “Goddamn fucking hell. I’m going to kill somebody.”
“Jesus!” I said. “What the fuck?”
His eyes were blazing. “I hate that son of a bitch Gasser for starting this whole goddamn thing. And Marissa? You know this has her fingerprints all over it.”
“What has her fingerprints?” My panic drained into annoyance. “What the hell is going on, Pack?”
He thrust his phone at me. “Look.”
I took it. “Look at what?”
“Don’t play dumb.”
“I’m not dumb. You’re the one who can’t remember how to tie his skates.”
“Fuck off.”
I started reading. Five seconds later, I was swearing along with him.
TAKING HOCKEY AND THE INTERNET BY STORM
Join us at 4:00 this afternoon at the Brown Palace Hotel for an exclusive reception hosted by the Colorado Boulders. Kirby “Packy” Paquette of the Buffalo Warriors and Nico Rossi of the New York Condors will be our featured guests.
They’ve battled on the ice, trended online, and stolen the hearts of fans everywhere. Come see for yourself why everyone’s talking about their grouch-to-grin chemistry. Decide whether this is hockey’s hottest rivalry or its sweetest surprise.
Admission is FREE (because love, laughter, and hashtags should be shared).
#Packo #PackoForever #PowerPlayOfLove #EnemiesToLovers #TwoMinutesForFlirting #StickHandlingAndFeelings #ProHockeyButMakeItGay
Don’t forget to tag your pics and reactions.
Before I knew it, I was slamming the phone against the seat and shouting curses that would have made my grandmother disown me.
Packy stared at me with wide eyes. “That’s my phone, Nix.”
Hearing the nickname snapped me out of my anger. He hadn’t used it in years, and back then, he only said it when we were alone. Did he mean to call me that now? “Sorry,” I said, handing it back.
“What the hell is this ad, though?” he demanded. “Tell me it’s fake. Please say some intern made it up, and it’s not actually running in the paper.”
“I could tell you that, but we both know I’d be lying.”
He groaned and read aloud, “‘Grouch-to-grin chemistry.’ Damn it. We sound like a Hallmark movie with skates.”
“I’m sick of that name,” I said. “Packo? Why do you get the main part of it and not me? Why couldn’t it be Nipa? Or even if you are first, it could be Pacco with two Cs. Or even Paco with one C.”
He smirked. “Paco? Rhyming with ‘taco’?”
“Fuck off. Nipa then.”
“I didn’t pick the name, you know.”
“Whatever.” I gave a big huff. “Those hashtags. PowerPlayOfLove? Who approved that?”
“You know exactly who, and I’m calling her now.” Pack dialed and hit speaker.
“This is Marissa Helms. Your call is very important to me. Please leave—”
Pack stabbed the disconnect button and bounced the phone off the seat like a basketball. Something about the sheer ridiculousness of it cracked me up. “Easy,” I said, biting back a laugh. “Your phone’s already suffered enough.”
He glared at me. “You’re enjoying this.”
“No.” It was a half-lie because I’d always enjoyed seeing Packy go over the top when he got riled up. “I’m weirdly impressed. The HFNA has officially lost its mind.”
He groaned. “They’re turning us into a rom-com franchise. Next week it’ll be Packo 2: Power Play Proposal.”
I cackled, and once I started, I couldn’t stop.
Packy held out for a few beats before he broke too.
We were both howling, the sound so loud that the limo driver looked back like we were lunatics.
Maybe we were, but for a few minutes, it was Pack and me against the world. That made it easier to take.
By the time the car pulled up to the Brown Palace, we were wiping tears from our eyes. We’d spent the last few minutes inventing increasingly unhinged hashtags, and Packy had capped it with, “Power play of dicks. I swear to God, if anyone says that, I’m retiring. After I punch their lights out.”
We were still laughing when an attendant opened the car door. As we headed inside, the echo of our merriment stayed with me. Something had loosened between us, and for the first time since this started, it seemed like old times instead of barely restrained dislike.
The reception was crowded, and as we walked in, applause washed over us. Banners from every team hung on the walls, the lights were bright, and voices echoed through the room. It seemed like half the crowd wore Boulders jerseys.
The host came over and led us to the front while we tried to ignore chanted hashtags. She introduced us, and we gave our usual speech before moving into the crowd. It was the same as always with small talk, pictures, and autographs. My cheeks got sore from smiling.
Every time someone yelled “Packo,” Packy tensed beside me, then smoothed it over with another grin. At least he laughed when a woman asked if we had two minutes for flirting.
I put a hand on his back and said, “Sure, but my buddy will need the full two just to think of something clever to say.”
Packy rolled his eyes. “Ten seconds and a ref’s whistle. I’ll have him in the box.”
She laughed, giving us an opportunity to escape.
“You’re enjoying this way too much,” Pack whispered.
“I’m enjoying you being mad about it.” I couldn’t hold back a grin when he snorted.
The host’s voice cut through the room. “If you’ll take your seats, ladies and gentlemen, it’s time for the press conference.”
Packy turned, all wide eyes and red cheeks. “I thought the thing with the press was private. We’re doing it in front of an audience?”
I kept my hand on his back. “Smile. They’re still watching.”
We sat behind a long table. Reporters and cameras faced us, and behind them, fans pressed together, already holding up their phones.
At first, the reporters took it easy, asking about the tour and our rivalry. We replied with the same jokes and jabs we’d used before.
After someone asked how we liked traveling together, Packy leaned close to his mic. “It’s great. I get to spend every waking minute reminding Nico that the Warriors beat the Condors twice last fall.”
I squinted at him. “Living in the past is a sign of cognitive decline.”
We glared at each other until we both broke. The room laughed with us.
Packy gave the audience a conspiratorial wink. “Honestly, it’s exhausting. Nico’s a lot.”
“Please,” I said. “I was about to say the same thing about you.”
Someone yelled, “PackoForever,” and everybody laughed again.
John Gabel from ESPN leaned forward, grinning from ear to ear. “Since it’s come up, tell us more about ‘Packo.’ Is it official, or are you still seeing where things go?”
“Packo is not official,” Packy said.
“Whatever he says,” I added. “He should be glad I let him put his name first.”
His eyes went cartoonishly wide, and he leaned close to my ear. “You know what they’re going to do with that.”
“Yes,” I said. “But we know the truth.”
He tapped my knee under the table, and I tapped his back. The crowd murmured as their phones rose higher.
The questioning returned to harmless matters like the playoffs, league direction, and upcoming player equipment changes.
Soon, June Plemmons from CSN stood. “I know you were close in college, but since then, you’ve been huge rivals.
Goals scored tit for tat, simultaneous penalties, legendary fights, and plenty of ejections.
It’s been riveting, honestly. So, tell us the truth: are you miserable being forced together for these events? ”
The room went quiet as Pack pointed at me.
“Packy and I have known each other since we were eighteen,” I said. “We were best friends within a week, and after college, playing on opposite sides hasn’t been easy. Hockey players are competitive by nature, and we both hate losing.”
The crowd remained silent.
I gestured between Pack and me. “But look at us. We’re here. No fists, and we’re laughing instead of fighting, so draw your own conclusions.”
Packy nodded. “Hockey’s family. You fight, and then you get over it.”
Everyone started cheering. “Packo! Packo! Packo!”
I smiled because I had to, but beneath all the talk, my chest got heavy. Pack and I had been enemies for so long, I had no idea what was happening. Were we thawing out?
Packy hardly spoke at dinner, pushing food around his plate and staring into space. When I asked about the next day’s schedule, he gave a one-word reply. The silence had weight, like he was thinking through something he didn’t want to talk about.
By the time we arrived on our floor, I couldn’t take it anymore. When we stepped out of the elevator, Packy stopped in the hallway instead of heading to his room.
“Gym?” I asked.
He hesitated, then nodded.
We changed and met downstairs in the empty fitness center. Packy stepped onto the treadmill without a word, and for the next half hour, I might as well have been working out alone.
After cardio, we moved through stretches and core work, going through the motions instead of pushing ourselves. When we started lifting weights, Packy broke the silence.
“Careful, Rossi.” He was watching me set up for chest flies. “Those dumbbells weigh more than your ego.”
I snorted. “Impossible. I lift with confidence.”
He made a big show of mocking my form, and when I finished my set, I gestured at the light plates he loaded onto the bench-press bar.
“Sure you can handle that much weight, grandpa?”
He sighed. “Buddy, I was benching this in high school.”
“Exactly. Nine years and zero progress.”
“Fuck you, Nix.”
“In your dreams.”
He met my eyes. “Pretty sure it’s the other way around.”
My stomach flipped, but I forced a laugh. “Keep dreaming.”
We called it after an hour. I grabbed my water bottle and headed for the towel rack. Packy got there at the same time, and we reached for the same towel. Heat shot through me when our hands touched. Before I could stop myself, I pressed my fingers against his. He started to pull away, then didn’t.
The room faded as our eyes locked. Warmth spread through my chest, making it hard to breathe.
He licked his lips, and like that long-ago night by the lake, I wondered if he would kiss me. But like before, he blinked and stepped back.
“Guess that’s your towel,” he said, his voice rougher than usual.
“Guess so.”
Had I imagined the whole thing? Impossible, since he seemed as disoriented as I was. We spent a moment looking anywhere except at each other, but as soon as our eyes met, he licked his lips again and leaned closer.
Fuck. Is he actually going to do it?
I closed the distance enough that, if he wanted a kiss, he could take it. Packy was straight. If this was going to happen, he had to make the first move.
The air seemed full of possibility until he let out a breath and moved away again. “Good workout.”
Goddammit. Disappointment hit so hard I had to force myself to say, “Yeah, it was.”
Once again, he looked away, then back at me. “So, we fly to Kansas City in the morning.”
I nodded, not wanting to let him dodge what had happened, but not knowing how to bring it up. “You’re getting better at this outreach stuff.”
“Maybe I’m just getting used to you.”
“Yeah?”
He broke eye contact and grabbed his towel. “It’s either that or kill you.”
We laughed, but my head was still spinning. He was joking, deflecting, and keeping it light. But what about the moment before, when our mouths had been inches apart, and neither of us moved? I had no clue what that was about.
Thank God he pulled away, though. Kissing Kirby Paquette would have been a disaster. We’d barely stopped fighting, and a kiss would have destroyed the fragile truce we’d built.
I should’ve made a joke or changed the subject, done anything but stand there wanting more. Instead, I licked my own lips. Take that, fucker. I headed for the door before he could ask what I was doing.