Chapter 3
CHAPTER THREE
Nico
I stood under the shower spray in the locker room. The hot water pounded against my shoulders, and I tried to convince myself I wasn’t being a complete idiot.
Monday morning. Two days since I’d left Evan at that hotel elevator and promised to text him. I’d spent every one of those hours staring at my phone like a teenager and doing absolutely nothing about it.
Saturday’s game against the Tampa Bay Tempest had gone well. We’d won 4–2, and I’d scored one goal and assisted on another.
I’d had Sunday afternoon off after a light practice, with hours of free time I could’ve used to reach out.
Instead, I’d spent them staring at Evan’s number in my phone.
I wanted to text him. The problem was figuring out what to say that didn’t involve lying about my job, my schedule, or basically my entire life.
That was the part I hadn’t thought through. How was I supposed to date someone in my own city while still being San Jose Lasers star Nicolás Briggs? And how was I supposed to tell Evan who Nicolás Briggs was before Evan knew who Nico was first?
I turned off the water and grabbed my towel, trying to shake off the restless energy that had been crawling under my skin all morning. Practice had been fine, but I’d been distracted, my timing off just enough that Coach Dufour had noticed.
“Briggs! Where’s your head today?” he’d barked during drills.
Definitely not on hockey.
I dried off, pulled on jeans and a T-shirt, and shoved my feet into the VortexStride sneakers I endorsed. The locker room was mostly empty, just a few guys left finishing up. I was heading for the door when André caught me.
“Hey, you good?” He fell into step beside me. “You’ve been weird all practice.”
“I’m fine,” I said automatically. “Just tired.”
André gave me a look that said he wasn’t buying it. We’d been friends for five years, teammates for longer. He knew when I was full of shit.
“Uh-huh. How’d Friday go?” He grinned. “You bail on me for a girl?”
My stomach dropped.
This was it. I could lie and make up some story about a friend’s emergency or last-minute plans, keep hiding like I’d been hiding my entire career.
Or I could tell him the truth.
“It was a guy, actually,” I said before I could overthink it.
André stopped walking. I forced myself to meet his eyes, bracing for whatever came next. Surprise, definitely—that was written all over his face—but underneath it…
“Oh,” he said after a beat. “Okay. Awesome.”
Just like that. Awesome.
Relief flooded through me so fast that my head spun.
“He treating you right?” André asked, like this was the most natural conversation in the world.
“Yeah,” I said, and couldn’t help the smile that pulled at my mouth. “Yeah, he is.”
“Good.” André studied me. “Look, you were distracted as hell at practice, but you also played one of your best games last night, so whatever’s going on with this guy, it’s good for you.”
“Even though I’m distracted?”
“You’re allowed to have a life outside hockey, Nico. And if that life makes you play better? I’m not complaining.”
We walked to the parking lot together, and he didn’t make it uncomfortable, didn’t ask a million questions. Just treated me like he always had. By the time we’d said goodbye and I’d climbed into my Range Rover, I felt like I could take a full breath.
I sat in the driver’s seat and stared at my phone.
One person knew now. That was something. That was a start.
And if André had handled it that easily, maybe the fear of rejection wasn’t actually why I’d been waiting.
I sat with that for a moment. Because if it wasn’t rejection I was afraid of, I had to be honest about what it was, and the answer that came back wasn’t fear at all.
It was preference. I liked being just Nico to Evan.
Not Nicolás Briggs, the hockey player with a Wikipedia page and a VortexStride contract.
Just a guy Evan seemed to like for no other reason than Nico himself.
That was something I’d never had, and I wasn’t ready to give it up yet.
Which meant the delay wasn’t noble. It was selfish. And I knew it.
The practical problems were real enough, though.
If I texted Evan right now and said, “Actually, here’s who I am,” he’d google me before we even made plans.
He’d see the media coverage, the fan accounts, the profile pieces.
He’d form a picture of Nicolás Briggs, NHL star, before he ever got to see any more of just Nico.
And if I invited him to my place instead of defaulting to the hotel, the house would do the work before I opened my mouth—trophies on the shelves, jerseys framed on the walls, money visible in every room that obviously didn’t belong to someone who worked in sports in any vague, anonymous sense.
I could tell him in person. Control the context. Make sure he heard it from me rather than from a search result.
That was what I told myself.
It was a rationalization, and I knew that too.
There were other reasons, ones that had nothing to do with wanting to stay nameless.
A hotel room in Edmonton, eighteen months ago.
A guy who’d had his phone out the whole time, and I hadn’t thought anything of it until the text arrived three days later.
I didn’t let myself think about that too often, but it was there, underneath everything, whenever I stood at the edge of trusting someone new.
I pulled up my messages and found Evan’s number. Started typing.
Nico
Hey. Sorry I’ve been quiet. Work’s been crazy.
Deleted it. Too much explanation.
Nico
Want to get together tonight?
Too casual. Like I hadn’t been thinking about him for two days straight.
Nico
I can’t stop thinking about Friday night.
Too intense. Jesus.
I groaned and dropped my head back against the seat. This was ridiculous. I’d never had trouble talking to guys before. But those had been hookups—quick, anonymous, meaningless. This felt like something else entirely, and I had no fucking idea what I was doing.
Just send something. Stop being a coward.
Nico
Hey. Sorry I’ve been quiet. Work’s been crazy. Want to get together tonight?
I hit send before I could second-guess it and immediately wanted to throw my phone out the window.
Three dots appeared almost instantly. Evan was typing. My heart hammered against my ribs.
Evan
Tonight works. Where do you want to meet?
Nico
We could meet at the same hotel downtown.
A hotel. Same as Friday. Safe, neutral, impersonal.
Is that what I wanted? To keep this exactly the same as it had been? Not really, but I wanted Evan to feel at ease.
The dots appeared. Disappeared. Reappeared. Disappeared again.
I held my breath.
Evan
Or you could come to my apartment.
Satisfaction washed over me like the warm shower spray had earlier.
Another message came through with an address in Milpitas, a small city bordering San Jose.
Evan
Around 6?
Nico
Perfect. See you then.
I saved the address in his contact information and sat there grinning at my phone like an idiot. Evan had invited me to his apartment. That meant something, right? That he trusted me enough to let me into his space?
Also—and I was relieved about this, even though it made me feel guilty—he’d suggested his place, not mine. One more problem deferred.
I started the engine and headed home, already counting down the hours until six o’clock.
By five, I was showered and standing in my kitchen, eyeing my sparse wine rack.
Bring wine? Nah. That made it look like a date, and I still didn’t know what Evan wanted this to be. Better to keep it casual. Feel things out.
I grabbed my keys and wallet and checked my hair in the bathroom mirror one more time. Good enough.
My phone buzzed with André’s name. I ignored it. He’d been giving me shit all day about my “mystery guy,” and I wasn’t in the mood for more interrogation.
Twenty-five minutes to Evan’s place. I should probably leave now if I wanted to be on time.
Or I could show up five minutes early because I actually wanted to see him.
Yeah. That.
Evan’s building sat just off a busy street, a modern complex with clean lines. The parking garage entrance was tucked away, almost hidden from view. I pulled in and found a visitor spot on the first floor, then walked to the elevator.
I entered 205 into the keypad. “Come on up,” Evan’s voice said through the speaker, and the elevator unlocked.
The next floor up, I found his door and knocked twice. The door swung open, and there was Evan. A soft gray sweater brought out the silver flecks in his blue eyes. His styled hair was slightly damp, like he’d showered recently, and he was smiling a small, genuine smile that made my stomach flip.
“Hey.” I probably sounded like an idiot, but I couldn’t help it. He looked good. Relaxed in a way he hadn’t been at the club, comfortable in his own space.
“Come in.” He stepped back, and I walked past him into the apartment.
The small entry opened directly into the kitchen, which had sleek countertops and an island with two bar stools.
To the left was a small dining table with four chairs, and beyond that, the living room with a couch, a coffee table, bookshelves, and a TV mounted on the wall.
Large windows looked out onto a balcony, the blinds open to let in the light from the streetlamps.
The first thing I noticed was how clean everything was. Organized. Everything had a place. Books lined up neatly on the shelves. Throw pillows arranged just so on the couch. A single plant on the coffee table that actually looked healthy.
The second thing I noticed was what wasn’t there.
No photos. Not one. Most people’s apartments had at least something, with a framed snapshot on a shelf, a picture on the fridge, some evidence of a life lived with other people.
Evan’s walls held abstract art. His shelves held books, but nothing personal.
Nothing that would tell a visitor anything about where he’d come from or who he loved.