Chapter 17
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Nico
Saturday’s game against Dallas was one of those nights where everything clicked.
After the game, I headed down the chute to the locker room, still riding the high of the win. I was halfway out of my gear when the PR manager caught me for media availability.
I pulled out my phone.
Nico
Media’s going to take a while. Meet you at Cap’s?
Evan
See you there.
I showered and changed, then spent twenty minutes answering the same questions about the game in three different ways for various reporters.
By the time I finally made it to Cap’s, the team and their guests had packed the private room, with music pounding and laughter echoing off the walls. Platters of wings, sliders, and nachos covered every surface.
I found Evan sitting in a booth with Naomi and Chloe, the three of them deep in conversation about something that had Naomi laughing so hard she was crying.
“What’d I miss?” I asked, sliding in next to Evan.
“Chloe was just telling us about the time Jonah got recognized at a drug store while buying hemorrhoid cream,” Naomi said, wiping her eyes.
“Oh God, not this story again,” Jonah groaned as he sat next to Chloe.
“It never gets old!” she said, giggling.
I put my arm around Evan’s shoulders, and he leaned into me naturally. Comfortably. Like we’d been doing this for years instead of weeks.
André appeared with a fresh beer and dropped into the booth across from us. “Good game tonight, Briggs. You’re on fire lately.”
“Thanks, Cap.”
“Wonder what’s got you so motivated.” He grinned at Evan. “Any theories?”
Evan flushed slightly, but he was smiling. “No idea.”
“Right. None at all.” André took a sip of his beer. “You coming to next Sunday’s game?”
“Wouldn’t miss it,” Evan said.
“Good. Naomi’s been talking about you nonstop. Something about needing more normal people in this group.”
“Hey,” I protested.
“Face it, Briggs. We’re all weird. Evan’s the only sane one here.”
We stayed until almost midnight, and when we finally left, I drove us back to Evan’s apartment with his hand resting on my thigh the whole way.
At a red light, I glanced over at him. “Want to do something tomorrow? My choice this time.”
He looked at me, curious. “What did you have in mind?”
“It’s a surprise.”
“Should I be worried?”
I grinned. “Probably.”
“Nico—”
“I’ll pick you up at two. Wear jeans and sneakers.” I hesitated for just a beat. “It’s a small place. Private. Not a lot of people.”
He went quiet for a moment, and I kept my eyes on the road, letting him sit with it.
“That’s not reassuring,” he said finally, but his voice had shifted—lighter, like something had loosened.
“The jeans and sneakers part or the surprise part?”
“Both.”
“Good.” The light turned green, and I accelerated. “Trust me. You’ll like it.”
He studied my face for a moment, then settled back in his seat. “Okay.” A pause. “I trust you.”
The words hit me hard. After weeks of vagueness, the confession, and all the slow, careful steps since, hearing him say that so simply, so certainly, made my chest expand.
“Good,” I managed. “Because I promise it’ll be fun.”
Sunday’s practice was light—mostly skating drills and recovery work after Saturday’s game. Coach Dufour was in a good mood, which was rare, and let us out fifteen minutes early.
I showered quickly and drove to Evan’s, arriving exactly at two.
“So, where are we going?” he asked as he climbed into my car.
“Rock climbing gym.”
He blinked. “Seriously?”
“You said you trusted my choice. Plus, it’s a good workout.”
“Nico, I’m not athletic like you.”
“You don’t have to be athletic. You just have to not die.”
“That’s comforting,” he deadpanned.
The climbing gym was in an industrial part of the city, a warehouse-style building with thirty-foot walls covered in colorful holds. We checked in, got fitted for harnesses and shoes, and I led Evan to the bouldering section to warm up.
“Okay, so the goal is to get from the bottom to the top using only the holds marked with the same color,” I explained. “Start with your hands and feet on these, then figure out the route as you go.”
Evan looked up at the wall dubiously. “This seems dangerous.”
“The mats are thick. You’ll be fine.”
“Easy for you to say. You’re basically indestructible.”
“I’m really not.”
He attempted the easiest route, making it about six feet up before his arms started shaking. “How are you supposed to hold on? My hands are cramping.”
“You’re gripping too hard. Relax.”
“Relaxing seems counterproductive when you’re dangling from a wall.”
I laughed and showed him the route, climbing it easily to show the holds and body positions. When I dropped back to the mat, Evan was shaking his head.
“You made that look so easy.”
“I’ve been doing this for years. Come on, try again. I’ll coach you through it.”
He attempted it three more times, each time getting a little higher, and by the fourth attempt he completed the route. When he dropped back to the mat, breathing hard but grinning, I pulled him into a hug.
“See? You did it.”
“My arms are going to be so sore tomorrow.”
“Worth it, though, right?”
“Maybe.”
We moved to the roped climbing section, and I showed him how to belay—how to hold the rope, how to take up slack, how to catch me if I fell.
“This is a lot of responsibility,” Evan said, looking nervous as I clipped into the rope.
“I trust you.”
“That seems unwise.”
“Evan. I trust you with my life. Literally.”
Something shifted in his expression, and he nodded. “Okay. I’ve got you.”
I climbed a moderate route, testing his belaying, and he handled it perfectly. When I rappelled back down, he was smiling.
“That was actually kind of fun,” he admitted.
“Your turn.”
“Oh no. I’m not climbing thirty feet into the air.”
“Yes you are. I’ll be right here.”
I talked him through clipping in, checking his harness, and starting the climb. He made it about fifteen feet before he froze.
“Nico, I can’t do this.”
“Yes you can. Don’t look down. Look at the next hold.”
“I’m going to fall.”
“Then fall. I’ve got you. I promise.”
He took a shaky breath and reached for the next hold. Missed. Tried again. Got it.
“Good! Now your feet.”
Slowly, carefully, he made it to the top. When he touched the last hold and looked down at me, the smile on his face was brilliant.
“I did it!”
“You did it! Now just lean back and I’ll lower you down.”
“Lean back? Off the wall?”
“Trust me.”
He did, and I lowered him slowly to the ground. The moment his feet hit the mat, he unclipped and threw his arms around me.
“That was amazing and I never want to do it again.”
I laughed and held him close. “Liar. You loved it.”
“Maybe a little.”
We climbed for another hour, trading belaying duties and attempting progressively harder routes. By the time we left, we were both exhausted, and my shoulders were burning in the best way.
“Where to now?” Evan asked as we walked to my car.
“Dinner?”
“God yes. I’m starving.”
I smiled, and not just because I was hungry too. A few weeks ago, he would have redirected to takeout. Now he just said yes.
Over souvlaki and moussaka at a Greek place nearby, our conversation drifted to the week ahead—the road trip, the four days apart, all the small anxieties Evan was trying not to name out loud. I reached across the table and took his hand.
“I’m not Ryan.”
He let out a breath, something releasing in his shoulders. “I know. And you keep proving it.” He squeezed my hand. “I just wish my brain would catch up to what my heart already knows.”
Something in my chest went tight. I wanted to tell him. The words were right there, hovering on the edge of my tongue.
I’m falling for you.
But he’d just said his brain hadn’t caught up yet. It wasn’t the right time. So instead, I pressed my knee against his under the table and left it there.
“Give it time. We’ll get there.”
“Yeah. We will.”
I drove home feeling the warmth of a good evening—the climbing gym, the souvlaki, Evan’s hand in mine across the table, the words I’d almost said and hadn’t yet. They’d keep. We had time.
The road trip was brutal.
We won in Winnipeg on Wednesday, 4–3 in overtime, and I had an assist on the game-winner. But we lost in Calgary on Thursday, 2–1, and the flight home Friday afternoon felt longer than it should have.
I texted Evan the moment we landed.
Nico: Just touched down. I’m home.
Evan: About time.
Nico: Did you just say you missed me?
Evan: I said about time.
Nico: Same thing. Dinner tonight?
Evan: Nonna’s. 7.
Nico: See you there.
I drove home, showered off four days of travel, hotel rooms, and stress, and changed into dark jeans and a fitted navy sweater. By the time I parked at the restaurant at five minutes to seven, I was practically vibrating with anticipation.
I texted Evan that I was there and waited in my car, watching the restaurant entrance. Five minutes later, I saw him walking across the parking lot, and everything in me settled.
He’d dressed for the cold February night—jeans, an insulated jacket, hands buried in his pockets. When he spotted my car, his face broke into a smile.
I got out and met him halfway. The moment he was close, I pulled him into my arms.
“Hi,” I said into his hair. “Missed you.”
“Missed you too.”
Four days of texting from hotel rooms, and now Evan was beside me in the parking lot, real and present after days of only his voice and his name on a screen.
We’d been doing this for weeks and it had worked.
The team knew. A handful of friends knew.
We’d been to Cap’s, to the climbing gym, to dinner. We’d managed it.
Standing there in the dark, the restaurant behind us and the nearest streetlight far enough away, I told myself this was the same. Private enough. Dark enough. Just us.
I kissed him.