Chapter 3 #2
It matched something I’d caught at the club—the way he’d deflected when conversation turned personal, the careful composure that felt like a wall rather than just reserve. I didn’t know what to make of it.
It was the complete opposite of my house, where you could learn most of what there was to know about me from a single walk through the family room.
“Nice place,” I said, and meant it. Everything was intentional. Nothing was accidental.
“Thanks.” Evan moved into the kitchen. “Want something to drink? I have beer, wine, water…”
“Beer’s good.”
He pulled two bottles from the fridge and handed me one. Our fingers brushed, and I felt that same electric jolt from Friday night. The chemistry was still there—obvious, crackling in the air between us.
“I wasn’t sure you were going to text,” Evan said quietly, leaning against the counter.
Guilt twisted in my gut. “Sorry. Work’s been crazy. But I wanted to see you.”
His expression softened. “I’m glad you did.”
We stood there for a moment, just looking at each other, and I felt that pull again, the same one that had made me walk across the club to him, the one that had me text him today.
“You hungry?” Evan asked, breaking the tension. “We could order something.”
“Starving,” I admitted. I was a pro athlete, and I burned a lot of calories for a living.
He pulled out his phone and opened a delivery app. “What are you in the mood for?”
I glanced over his shoulder at the screen and spotted a place I recognized. “Mexican?”
“Yeah, that works.”
We stood close together while we looked at the menu, his shoulder brushing mine, and he smelled good—clean, like soap and something woodsy. I ordered a carne asada burrito with chips and guac, and Evan got chicken tacos with rice and beans.
“I’ve got it,” he said when I reached for my wallet. “You’re my guest.”
I didn’t argue, but letting him pay felt wrong. Not because of the money. Because I liked being the one who took care of things. Who showed up. Who made sure the other person felt looked after.
“Thirty minutes.” Evan set his phone down. “Want to sit?”
We moved to the couch, beers in hand, and I noticed the books on his shelves as I sat—nonfiction mostly, some business books, a few thrillers, all organized by topic. Of course they were.
“So,” Evan said, settling into the corner of the couch and turning to face me. “How was your weekend?”
“Good. Busy.” I took a sip of beer. “Had a—” Shit. I almost slipped and said “game.” “Had to work Saturday night.”
His eyebrows rose slightly. “You work Saturday nights?”
“Sometimes. Depends on the schedule.”
“That’s rough.”
I shrugged. “It’s the job. What about you? What’d you do?”
“Worked a little. Caught up on some reading.” He gestured to the books. “Pretty boring compared to your weekend, probably.”
I thought about Friday night and the club, the hotel, the way he’d felt in my arms, and grinned. “Friday was definitely the highlight.”
His cheeks flushed, and I loved that I could make him blush. Loved that underneath all that careful composure, he was just as affected as I was.
“Yeah,” he said softly. “It was.”
We talked while we waited for the food. I also loved that I was just Nico to him.
No expectations, no public persona. I could just be myself.
He hadn’t shifted the way people shifted when they found out I was a famous hockey player, with that subtle recalibration, like they were suddenly talking to a different person.
Guilt flickered, but I pushed it down. I’d tell him eventually, just… not yet.
When the food arrived, we ate at his small dining table, and I discovered Evan was apparently incapable of eating without using his napkin approximately every thirty seconds. It was kind of endearing.
I swallowed a mouthful of burrito. “This restaurant is good.” I scooped up guac with a chip. “But my mom makes better Mexican. She’d probably be offended I’m eating this.”
“Your mom’s a good cook?”
“Yeah. She’s Mexican American and grew up with all the traditional recipes. My dad can’t cook to save his life, but my mom…” I shook my head. “She could open a restaurant if she wanted to.”
“That’s cool. My parents are more the ‘throw ingredients in a casserole dish and hope for the best’ types.”
I laughed. “Where are they?”
“LA area. We’re not super close.” He shrugged and said it casually, but I caught something underneath—not resentment exactly, but distance. “What about yours?”
“San Diego. I see them pretty regularly, whenever I’m in Southern California for work.” True enough. “I have a younger brother too. Miguel. He’s also in sports.”
“Oh yeah? What’s he do?”
I hesitated. “Similar to me. We’re… competitive.”
Evan smiled. “I can imagine. Do you get along?”
“Yeah. We’re close.” As close as we could be when I’d spent fourteen years keeping him at arm’s length, hiding who I was. Miguel probably didn’t see it that way. He’d never given me a reason to think he would judge me. But I’d built the wall anyway.
I changed the subject before he could ask more questions. “So, consulting. How did you get into that?”
“Was working corporate in LA for a while. Had a nasty breakup and needed to start over somewhere new.” He said it matter-of-factly, like he was reciting a resume. “San Jose seemed far enough away.”
Far enough from what, he didn’t say, and I knew better than to push. I was hardly in a position to demand full transparency.
He relaxed as he talked about his work, the guardedness easing from his shoulders, his hands moving to emphasize points, the intelligence sharp in his eyes.
He was hot, and he was smart. I wanted him so badly that my skin felt too tight.
When we finished eating, we cleaned up together, with him rinsing plates and me loading the dishwasher. Our hands brushed when we transferred a plate, and the contact sent a spark up my arm.
I turned to face him, and he let me back him against the counter. “I’ve been thinking about you.” My voice came out husky.
“Have you?” He looked up at me through his lashes. Jesus Christ.
I leaned in and kissed him, slower than Friday night, deeper, more intentional. He tasted spicy, and when I slid my tongue past his lips, he made a small sound that went straight through me.
His hands came up to grip my shoulders, pulling me closer, and I went willingly, pressing him back against the counter with my full weight.
Our hips met, and I ground against him, slow and deliberate.
He was already hard, and so was I. The friction through our jeans made us both groan into the kiss.
When I finally pulled back, we were both panting.
“Bedroom?” I asked, my voice rough.
“Definitely.”
He took my hand and led me to the living room. Two doors opened off the space—one led to a home office with a desk and dual monitors, and the other led to the bedroom.
The bedroom was just as organized as the rest of the apartment. Bed made neatly with a stuffed duvet, nightstand with a lamp and a couple of books, abstract art on the walls. A closed door concealed what I assumed was a walk-in closet, and a short hallway led to the attached bathroom.
Everything was intentional. Everything in its place. And still, no photographs. Not on the nightstand, not on the dresser, not anywhere. Whoever Evan had been before San Jose, he’d built this space to contain none of it.
I wondered what he’d think of my perpetually unmade bed and the hockey equipment I never managed to put away. And then I stopped wondering, kissed him again, and stopped thinking about anything except the way he responded to every touch.
We broke apart and undressed each other slowly, no frantic tearing at clothes like in the hotel. I pulled his sweater over his head and took a moment to just look at him, his lean muscle and smooth skin, the light from the window casting shadows across his chest.
“What?” He sounded self-conscious.
“Nothing. You’re just…” I ran my hands up his sides. “You’re beautiful.”
His cheeks flushed, and I loved it. Loved that I could make him color with just words.
He reached for my shirt, and I let him pull it off. His hands immediately went to my chest, fingers tracing the lines of my tattoo.
“What does this mean?” he asked. “One life to live, one life to love.”
“Got it a few years ago,” I said, which wasn’t exactly an answer. “It’s a reminder to live fully, to live without regrets.”
He tilted his head to look up at me, his expression open, curious, and for a second I almost said it. Almost let the whole thing out right there: who I was, what I’d been hiding, why I’d been circling it since Friday. The words were right on the tip of my tongue.
I kissed him instead.
It was the wrong choice, and I knew it even as I made it.
We fell onto the bed together, and this time was different from Friday night. Less frantic. We had time now, time to explore, to learn what made each other come apart.
I kissed down his neck, breathing in the scent of his skin, with a hint of body wash and something underneath that was just Evan. Musk and warmth. When I reached his collarbone, his pulse hammered beneath my lips.
Lower. His chest rose and fell faster as I worked my way down, paying attention to every reaction. The catch in his breath when I dragged my teeth across his hip. The way his fingers tightened in my hair when I took him into my mouth. Small sounds escaped him, quiet gasps I had to earn.
He tasted clean and slightly salty, and the weight of him on my tongue made me ache. I worked him slowly, hollowing my cheeks, and his back arched off the bed. His lips parted in a silent moan, head tipping back against the pillow.
“Nico,” he gasped, voice wrecked. “I’m gonna—”
I pulled off and kissed my way back up his body, feeling the tremor running through him. “Not yet.”