Chapter 11
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Nico
The private terminal at SJC was quiet at six in the morning—just our group and the ground crew, the low hum of the catering cart, and the smell of jet fuel cutting through the cold morning air. I had my duffel over one shoulder and my coffee in my hand, and I was already thinking about Evan.
That was new.
Every other road trip of my career, I’d walked through this terminal thinking about hockey. Line combinations, the opposing team’s defensive pairings, whatever André and I had been arguing about in the group chat. The leaving had always been easy because there’d been nothing to leave behind.
That morning I’d woken up in my own bed, back at my house to pack and sleep, and the first thing I’d thought about was him. Whether he was still asleep. Whether I should send a text this early. Whether Thursday felt as far away to him as it did to me.
It felt very far away.
Thompson was already on the plane when I boarded, sprawled across two seats with his Nintendo Switch, the tinny sound of a game leaking from his earbuds.
Fortin was behind him, scrolling on his phone with the glazed expression of someone who’d gotten up too early.
I found André near the back and dropped into the seat beside him.
The jet was comfortable, with wide leather seats, cup holders, and enough legroom that I could stretch out. I’d stopped noticing the luxury years ago. Today it registered because I was thinking about what Evan would think of it.
André looked at me over his coffee. “You look different.”
“It’s six in the morning.”
“No, you look like someone who had a good week.” He studied me and cocked his head. “You told him.”
It wasn’t a question. André had always been able to read me better than I read myself, which was both useful and occasionally irritating.
“I told him.” I nodded.
André set his coffee down. The relief on his face was immediate and genuine. Not the reaction of someone who’d been waiting to say I told you so, but of someone who’d been genuinely worried. “How’d it go?”
“Better than I deserved.” I looked out the window at the tarmac. “He already knew something was off. He’d been watching, waiting. When I finally told him the truth, I understood he’d been waiting a long time for answers.” I paused. “He’s a smart guy. Noticed everything.”
“And he’s still there.”
“He’s still there.”
André was quiet for a moment. Then he reached over and gripped my shoulder once, hard, the way he did when words weren’t the right tool. “I’m proud of you. Took you long enough, but I’m proud of you.”
“Don’t make it a thing.”
“I’m not making it a thing. I’m just saying.” He let go. “How’d he take it? The whole thing. Who you are, the fame, all of it.”
“He’d heard of the Lasers. Didn’t know much beyond that.” I sipped my coffee. “He googled me. Called his friend Danny at two in the morning.”
André winced sympathetically. “The Instagram comments.”
“The Instagram comments.”
“But he’s still there,” André said again, like that was the only part that mattered. Because it was.
“He watched the game Saturday night,” I said. “We texted after. He said I was remarkable at what I do.” I heard how it sounded and didn’t care. “Nobody’s ever said that to me after a game. Not like that.”
André smiled, slow and warm, the smile he saved for things that actually mattered. “You’re going to see him Thursday.”
“The second we land.”
“Good.” He picked up his coffee. “Then let’s go win some hockey games so you can get back to him faster.”
I was quiet for a moment, looking out at the runway.
The engines were winding up, the ground crew finishing their checks.
In less than two hours we’d be in Portland and I’d be thinking about line combinations, Fortin’s tendency to pinch at the wrong moment, and whether our starting goalie had fully recovered from the hip flexor strain he’d been nursing for two weeks.
But right now I was thinking about Evan sitting on his couch last Thursday evening, cautious and still saying he was willing to try.
About the way he’d told me his real name, like it was something he hadn’t given anyone in a long time.
About the note I’d left against the coffee maker Saturday morning.
I’d almost not left it. Then I’d thought about him waking up alone and left it anyway.
“He’s been through something,” I said. “With someone famous, before me. It cost him a lot.” I told André the broad shape of it, just enough that he understood why Evan had built his life the way he had. Why everything was so private, so carefully constructed. Ryan Pierce’s name came up.
André was quiet for a moment. “I’m never watching a Ryan Pierce movie again.”
I laughed, the first real one of the morning. “That’s exactly what I said.”
“Great minds.” André’s lips curved.
The plane started moving.
I pulled out my phone.
Nico
Taxiing. Wheels up in five. Talk to you when we land.
The response came before we reached the runway.
Evan
Safe flight. I’ll be at my desk.
I read it twice. Such a small, ordinary thing. He’d be waiting. Then I put my phone on airplane mode and watched San Jose fall away beneath us.
Portland greeted us with gray skies and a drizzle that wasn’t quite rain, the kind of weather that made you want to get inside as fast as possible.
We got off the team bus outside the hotel in downtown Portland, a place that looked like a hunting lodge and smelled like cedar and expensive coffee.
The equipment staff started unloading gear while Leah from travel handed out key cards.
I texted Evan as soon as I had mine.
Nico
Hotel’s nice. Lots of exposed wood and a coffee bar in the lobby that has seventeen types of oat milk.
Evan
That’s extremely Portland. How was the flight?
Nico
Thompson beat his high score on whatever game he’s been playing since October. He announced it to the whole plane. Fortin slow-clapped.
Evan
I already like Fortin.
Nico
Don’t tell him that. His ego doesn’t need it.
I was smiling at my phone in the middle of a hotel lobby while my teammates streamed past me. Fortin shoulder-checked me on his way to the elevator and gave me a look that said he absolutely knew what I was doing and found it hilarious.
I found my room, pulled out my phone, and opened my messages with Griffin.
Nico
You around this afternoon? Want to talk if you have time.
The response came within minutes.
Griffin
For you? Absolutely. Come to Beaverton? Coffee shop near our practice facility. Beaverton Beans. What time works?
I did some quick math.
Nico
2?
Griffin
Perfect. I’ll bring Wesley. See you then.
After a light skate, I let André know I’d be gone for a couple of hours, grabbed an Uber, and headed to Beaverton.
Beaverton Beans was small and tucked away, a local spot that probably didn’t see many tourists. I walked in and spotted Griffin and Wesley at a corner table in the loft.
Griffin stood when he saw me and squeezed my shoulder. “Good to see you, man.”
“You too. Thanks for meeting with me.”
“Of course.” He gestured to the man beside him. “This is Wesley. My boyfriend.”
“Nice to meet you.” Wesley shook my hand with a firm grip and a warm smile. He had the polished look of someone who worked in PR—crisp button-down, dark slacks, perfectly knotted tie, everything coordinated. A Pride watchband circled his wrist, the rainbow colors bright against his skin.
I ordered coffee and joined them at the table.
“So,” Griffin said, leaning forward. “Did you tell him?”
I nodded slowly. “Yeah. I told him everything. No more vague ‘I work in sports’ answers.”
“And?” Wesley asked.
“And he said he’s willing to try.”
Griffin’s shoulders relaxed. “That’s good.”
“That means he sees something worth the risk,” Wesley added.
“Maybe.” I stared down at my coffee. “Or maybe he just hasn’t fully processed what he’s getting into yet.”
Griffin tilted his head. “Why do you say that?”
“His ex was Ryan Pierce.”
Griffin’s eyebrows shot up. “The actor?”
“Yeah. They dated for years. The media destroyed their relationship—paparazzi, tabloids, constant invasion of privacy. When Pierce cheated on him, Evan found out from photos posted online.” My shoulders tensed. “He ended up leaving LA and moving to San Jose just to escape it all.”
Griffin let out a low whistle. “And now he’s dating another public figure.”
“Exactly. He’s terrified he’ll lose his privacy again. That dating me will wreck the life he’s built there.” I looked up at them. “How do I prove I’m not Ryan Pierce, that I won’t let that happen to him?”
Griffin and Wesley exchanged a glance.
“When I came out and Wesley posted that we were in a relationship,” Griffin said carefully. “Wesley’s life changed overnight. There was media attention, photographers at games, people recognizing us in public. It was a lot.”
“But you weren’t hounded by paparazzi,” I said to Wesley. “Were you?”
“Not hounded, no. But there were photographers sometimes. Articles online. Comments dissecting our relationship.” Wesley shrugged slightly. “It was invasive. But I’m a PR manager. Dealing with media is literally my job. I knew what I was getting into.”
“Your guy doesn’t have that advantage,” Griffin said. “He’s walking into this with trauma from his last relationship and no professional experience managing public attention.”
“I know.” I swallowed. “That’s what scares me. I can’t promise him it won’t happen. I can’t guarantee his privacy. What if I’m asking him to sacrifice too much?”
“You’re not asking him to sacrifice anything,” Wesley said firmly. “You told him the truth and let him choose. That’s the difference between you and Ryan Pierce. His ex controlled him. You’re giving Evan the information and letting him decide.”
The words settled into my chest, easing some of the guilt.
“He gets to decide if he can handle it,” Wesley continued. “And he said he’s willing to try.”
“What if he changes his mind?”
“Then you respect that,” Griffin said. “But if he stayed after that conversation, I doubt he’s planning to run.”
I took a sip of my coffee, letting their words sink in.