Chapter 34 Nico
nico
It had been a perfect spring day: seventy degrees, clear blue sky, and a light breeze that made everything fresh. The temperature dropped in the evening, but after we went to a movie, we were still comfortable in our jackets.
With the playoffs looming, Pack had flown in for a quick visit. In two days, the Warriors would open our series against Pittsburgh; the same night, the Condors would start against Montreal. We were on the edge of professional hockey hell.
We’d spent the entire movie with our thighs pressed together, whispering snarky comments since I liked the movie, but Pack didn’t.
“It was not good,” he said, pulling the door of the corner bakery open.
I shot him a grin. “That’s because you have no taste. Cinematic excellence is clearly wasted on you.”
“Excellence?” He shook his head. “They spent most of the budget on one explosion and a raccoon with human teeth.”
“Artistic choice.”
“Nightmare fuel.”
Inside, it was warm, filled with the smell of coffee, pastries, and melted chocolate. The place was busy, and everyone had that Sunday-night look, bracing for the week ahead. Pack and I were the same, pretending we weren’t about to be separated again and worn down by playoff hockey.
He unzipped his jacket as we joined the line. “Okay. I’m getting three things.”
“You say that every time. You’ll get five.”
“You don’t know me.”
I dragged my eyes down his body and back up, and his face went bright red.
“Think I do,” I said. “You ordered two cannoli last time because you didn’t want them to be lonely.”
“They looked sad. And you ate half of one.”
“To support your emotional investment in pastries.”
He bumped me again, gentler this time, and my heart flipped.
“Packo?”
Pack’s face paled as we turned. Two young women were staring at us like we were on display.
“In the flesh,” Pack said. “You like hockey?”
“We like you,” one of them said.
“And we’re so happy for you,” the other added. “About… whatever you’re doing. Whether it’s burying the hatchet or something else, it’s good.”
“Thank you,” I said. “That means a lot.”
Fortunately, the barista asked for their order. As they turned away, I looked at Pack and raised an eyebrow. He nodded.
When it was our turn, he leaned on the glass. “I want a large, iced caramel macchiato, extra drizzle. Lemon tart. Almond croissant. Oh my God, is that a rainbow cookie cheesecake?”
The barista laughed. “It is.”
“I’ll need that. For science.”
“You’re a disgrace,” I said, then looked at the barista. “Cold brew and a butter cookie.”
“Only one?” Pack sounded shocked. “Playoffs are coming. Don’t you need comfort food?”
“We cope differently,” I said.
We claimed a table in the back corner, away from the windows. Before I took a sip of coffee, Pack was halfway through his croissant.
“You’ve got powdered sugar on your cheek,” I said.
He wiped the wrong one.
“Other cheek.”
He swiped his forehead.
Laughing, I leaned across and brushed the sugar away with my thumb. He froze, his eyes scanning the room.
We were good at being us. Laughing was part of that, and so was touching, as long as we weren’t in public. This was why the question I was burning to ask felt so dangerous.
He took a sip of coffee and grimaced. “Too sweet.”
“You always say that, and then you order it again the next time.”
He nudged my foot under the table. “Yet you like me anyway.”
“Yes, I do. A lot.”
He smiled into his cup, but the skin around his eyes tightened. When he raised his head, his expression was the same as that morning in Miami. He cleared his throat. “After the playoffs, I…” A cough this time. “I want to talk then.”
My pulse skipped a beat. This was supposed to be a date night, one last normal moment before we disappeared into the playoff wars. But he’d opened the door himself, and I wasn’t about to ignore it.
Before I could lose my nerve, I set my coffee down. “Pack, can I ask you something?”
His fingers tightened around his cup. “That sounds serious.”
“It’s not.” My voice was shaky. “It’s something I’ve been thinking about.”
“Nix, if this is about me moving—”
“Not moving.”
He nodded and sat very still.
I focused on the table. “Playoffs always suck, but this year will be worse because I’ll miss you so much.
We’ve barely seen each other these last few weeks, and when we did, it was rushed.
” I took a breath and looked up. “It’s made me think about the future, wonder what things will look like when the distance doesn’t control what we can do. ”
He held his coffee halfway between us. “Okay.”
“I’m not asking for answers that can’t be changed, but I can’t help wondering where we’re headed.”
A muscle in his jaw twitched. He stared at the wall behind me, then glanced at the window before meeting my eyes.
“Pack?”
He smiled, but it was the fake one he used with fans when he didn’t want to be bothered. “We should focus on the next few weeks, right? One thing at a time.”
I dug my nails into my palm so hard it hurt. “Focus how?”
“So we don’t jinx our series.” He set his cup down so hard coffee splashed over the sides. “We shouldn’t talk about next year before these playoffs even start. Hockey gods are vindictive assholes.”
“Hockey gods,” I echoed.
“They are.” The words rushed out. “And it’s not only that.
If we try to figure things out while we’re under a lot of pressure, we could fuck everything up.
Hockey and us. I told you I want to talk, and I meant it.
But it has to be when things aren’t so crazy.
We’re athletes, and our lives run on seasons. I’m scared to mess with that.”
He grabbed his fork and shoved cheesecake into his mouth.
I tried to understand what he’d said, going over every word. A lot of pressure? Fuck everything up?
Did he not know what he wanted yet, or did he know but wasn’t ready to say it? The fucking playoffs. Was this really about fear and superstition, or did it have more to do with avoidance?
Maybe. Or was I giving one stupid joke in a hotel bar much more attention than it deserved? The only thing I knew for sure was that if I pushed now and Pack pulled away, there wouldn’t be anything left to protect.
He set his fork down, leaving the cheesecake unfinished.
I forced a laugh. “Okay, Paquette, I get it. One shift at a time.”
He shrugged and seemed to relax. “Right.”
“We’ll talk when our seasons are over?” I asked. “Whenever that is?”
His smile was hesitant, then bloomed into a grateful one. “Absolutely.”
Outside, the city night enveloped us as taxis rushed by and sirens cut through the air. I brushed my hand against his, and he caught one finger, then another, and held on tight.
We walked side by side. Every time I looked at him, he was already watching me. I loved him, and in that moment, I believed he loved me too. What I didn’t know was what he planned to do with that love. Or with us.