Chapter 15 #2
By the second period, I’d found my footing a little.
The hardest part wasn’t the rules—I knew enough of those—it was tracking the puck across the full ice without a camera doing it for me, and reading the play before it developed rather than watching a replay tell me what had just happened.
Chloe had stopped explaining the basics and started pointing out things I couldn’t see yet: where to look when the play was developing in the corner, how to read the referee’s body language before the whistle blew, which player to watch when San Jose had possession.
It was different from TV in ways I hadn’t expected. Louder, faster, more disorienting, and more immediate. When Nico took a hit in the first period, I’d felt it in my chest before I’d fully processed what had happened.
Midway through the second period, a San Jose player went down, and the referee’s arm shot up.
“Tripping,” Chloe said before I’d even looked for the signal. “Power play for San Jose. Montreal’s down a player. Watch—Coach is putting in the first line.”
Nico, André, and Jonah skated out for the faceoff.
André won it, passed to Jonah, who got it to Nico at the point.
Nico wound up and fired.
The puck flew past Montreal’s goalie so fast I almost didn’t see it, and the red light lit behind the net.
Goal.
The arena exploded. The goal horn blared, music thumped, and everyone around me jumped to their feet, screaming.
I was on my feet too, cheering so loudly my throat hurt, watching as Nico’s teammates mobbed him on the ice.
“He scored!” I shouted to Chloe over the noise.
“I know! That was beautiful!”
The game stayed close. Montreal tied it in the third period, and the tension in the arena was suffocating. Back and forth, both teams fought for the lead.
With three minutes left, Nico got the puck again.
I was on the edge of my seat, gripping the armrests as he skated toward Montreal’s net. A defenseman came at him hard, but Nico dodged around him and snapped a shot past the goalie.
Goal.
Game-winner.
The arena went absolutely insane. I was screaming, jumping with my hands in the air. Chloe hugged me, and we laughed like idiots.
On the ice, Nico’s entire line crashed into him, and through all the chaos and celebration, he looked up toward our section.
I knew he couldn’t really see me in the crowd, but I felt it anyway—that connection across the distance.
San Jose held on for the final three minutes, and when the buzzer sounded, they’d won 3–2.
As the crowd started filing out, Chloe turned to me. “First time at the family lounge?”
“I don’t even know what that is.”
“It’s where we wait for the guys after games. Come on, I’ll show you.”
She led me through the arena, past security checkpoints where I showed my all access pass, and down a hallway to a room with comfortable couches and a TV showing the post-game highlights.
A handful of other people were already there: other wives and girlfriends, some parents, all chatting and laughing. The energy was celebratory, with everyone riding the high of the win.
I stood awkwardly near the door, not sure what to do with myself.
“First time?” an older woman asked kindly.
“Yeah. Very first.”
“You’ll get used to it. The boys usually take about thirty minutes. They have to cool down, shower, and do media if they played well.”
Thirty minutes felt like an eternity.
I pulled out my phone and texted Danny.
Evan
He scored. Twice. Game-winning goal. It was incredible.
Danny
I’m so proud of you for going!! How are you feeling?
Evan
Overwhelmed. Happy. Waiting for him now.
Danny
Have fun. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.
Evan
That leaves me with a lot of options.
Danny
Exactly.
I was smiling at my phone when the door opened and players started trickling in, freshly showered, in street clothes, looking for their guests.
Jonah came in and went straight to Chloe, kissing her and asking how she liked the game. André appeared next, hugging his parents who’d apparently flown down from Quebec.
And then Nico walked through the door.
His gaze found me immediately, and his entire face lit up.
He crossed the room in a few long strides and pulled me into a hug. In my peripheral vision, I caught movement. Players exchanged glances, one guy nudged another, someone grinned. But I didn’t care that people were watching. I wrapped my arms around him and held on tight.
“You came,” he said into my ear.
“Of course I came.”
He pulled back and turned slightly. “There’s someone I want you to meet.”
André was already there. I recognized him from the announcer calling his name, and from interviews on TV.
He was taller than I’d expected, with the kind of steady presence that made sense for a captain.
He looked at me the way someone looks at a person they’ve heard a lot about and are finally seeing in person.
“André Cloutier,” he said, and stuck out his hand. “I’ve heard good things about you, Evan.”
I shook his hand. “I’m glad to finally meet you.”
Something warm moved across his face—not quite a smile, but close. “Good game to come to. He scored twice.” He glanced at Nico with an expression that was equal parts affection and satisfaction. “Finally.”
“Finally what?” I asked.
André smiled. “Finally someone in that section for him.” He clapped Nico once on the shoulder, the kind of gesture that meant more than it looked like, and moved away to give us privacy.
Nico turned back to me.
“What did you think of the game?”
“I thought you were incredible.”
He grinned. “Did you have fun?”
“So much fun. I was screaming so loud for that second goal.”
“I heard you.”
“Liar. You couldn’t possibly have heard me in that crowd.”
“I felt it, then.” He kissed my forehead. “Come on. Let’s get out of here.”
We said goodbye to Chloe and Jonah, and Chloe whispered, “See you next game!” with a knowing smile. We headed out to the parking lot.
“Where’s your car?” he asked.
“I took an Uber,” I said. “Didn’t want to deal with parking.”
“Smart. I’ll drive you home.”
As we drove to my apartment, Nico patiently explained plays, penalties, and the reasons behind certain calls while I bombarded him with questions about the game. By the time we pulled up to my building, I was still buzzing with adrenaline.
We barely made it through my front door before we were kissing. His mouth was hot and demanding, and I could feel the coiled energy in his body—hours on the ice translated into need. My back hit the wall, and he pressed against me, and I gasped into his mouth.
“You’re exhausted,” I said.
“Don’t care.” His hands slid down my sides. “Need you.”
We made it to the bedroom, barely. He was deliberate even through the urgency, like the game hadn’t quite left his body, all that controlled intensity looking for somewhere to go.
And underneath all of it was something else entirely.
I’d been in that arena tonight. I’d sat in his section, watched his name light up the scoreboard twice, met André, stood in the family lounge and been introduced as his.
This was what it looked like to be let into someone’s real life.
Not the careful, managed version, but the actual thing.
Afterward, we lay still for a long moment, both of us breathing hard.
He dealt with the condom, found the wet wipes in the nightstand drawer, and cleaned me up with the same steady attention he gave everything. I lay there and let him. This, too, was part of being let in. The after. The care. The way he moved through it like I mattered.
He settled beside me and turned to face me.
“You okay?” he asked.
“Yeah. More than okay.”
He brushed hair back from my forehead. “Tonight was big.”
“I know.”
“You were amazing. You came tonight. You sat in my seat, stayed for the lounge, met my teammates. I know that wasn’t easy.”
“It wasn’t.” I met his eyes. “But I’m glad I did it.”
He kissed me, soft and slow. “Good.”
“You mean so much to me,” I said quietly. “More every day.”
He pulled me close, and I let myself sink into his warmth, the safety of the bed, his arms around me.
Tonight had been good. Better than good.
But somewhere in the back of my mind, a quiet voice whispered: How many people had phones out tonight? How many photos was I in? How long before one of them ends up online?
Tomorrow’s problem. Not tonight’s.