Chapter 17 #2
He kissed me back just as fiercely, his hands fisting in my jacket, and for a minute we just stood there wrapped around each other like we were the only two people in the world.
His mouth was warm, and he tasted like anticipation.
I kissed him again when we broke apart, because I wanted to, because being with him felt natural, because somewhere over the last few weeks I’d stopped treating every public moment like a threat.
“We should probably go inside,” Evan said.
“Probably.”
I kissed him once more anyway.
We spent hours over dinner at a corner table with good pasta, better wine, and two hours of easy conversation.
By the time we paid the check and pushed back from the table, I was more relaxed than I’d been all week—the road trip’s tension finally dissolved, the distance between us closed.
Outside, we walked back through the cold night air to our cars, and I pulled Evan close one more time, stepped back from the streetlight’s glow, and kissed him again.
“Come back to my place?” I asked.
“I’ll follow you.”
The drive home felt long, even though I could see his headlights in my rearview mirror the whole way.
When we finally pulled into my driveway, I was out of my car in a flash, and Evan met me halfway across the driveway.
I pulled him into a kiss that was probably too desperate for a four-day separation, but I didn’t care.
We stumbled through my front door, still kissing, shedding jackets and shoes. Four days wasn’t that long—I’d been on longer road trips—but it felt like forever since I’d had him like this.
When we fell into bed, there was a franticness to it, the four days collapsing into hands and mouths and the urgent need to reconnect, to prove we were still real, still solid, still us.
I pulled him closer, and he came willingly.
When I finally pushed inside him, the sound he made undid me completely.
We came together with an urgency that left us both breathless, and in the quiet after, the desperation gave way to something softer. Relief. Contentment. The satisfaction of being exactly where we were supposed to be.
“Next time I’m coming with you,” Evan said, settling into my side.
I laughed. “To Winnipeg in February? You’d freeze.”
“Don’t care. Worth it to be with you.”
I kissed the top of his head and held him closer. He went quiet and still against my chest, and I lay there in the dark knowing exactly what I felt and exactly what I wanted to do about it. I’d say it. Not tonight—he was already breathing deeply in sleep—but soon.
Then I closed my eyes. The night was quiet, and I slept better than I had in four days.
I woke to my phone buzzing incessantly on the nightstand.
It was barely light outside, the gray winter dawn filtering through my bedroom blinds. Evan was still asleep beside me, his breathing soft and even.
My phone buzzed again. And again.
Frowning, I reached for it, squinting at the screen.
Seventeen missed calls. Forty-three texts. Hundreds of notifications on social media.
I opened Instagram.
The first post had over fifty thousand likes.
A photo. Us. Last night. In the restaurant’s parking lot.
Kissing.
The image was clear, shot from across the parking lot on someone’s phone, the two of us lit by headlights. My hands on Evan’s face, his fingers gripping my jacket, our mouths fused together in a way that left absolutely no room for interpretation.
I kept scrolling. Another post: us leaving, my arm around Evan’s waist. A second kiss. A third, taken from a different angle—someone else’s phone.
Sports blogs were already running it.
San Jose Lasers’ Nicolás Briggs photographed in an intimate encounter with an unidentified man.
My hands shook. Not from surprise—not entirely. I’d been in that parking lot. I’d known it wasn’t private enough, and I’d kissed him anyway. Two, three, four times. I’d chosen this. I’d stopped treating every public moment like a threat, and now the photos existed because of exactly that.
I’d done this.
“Nico?”
I found Evan awake, propped up on one elbow, concern in his eyes. “What’s wrong?” he asked.
I couldn’t speak. Just turned the phone toward him.
The color drained from his face. “Oh God,” he whispered. “Where?”
“It’s everywhere. Social media, sports blogs…”
His eyes moved across the screen—the headline, the photos, the comments already multiplying below them.
My phone rang. André.
I answered on speakerphone. “Yeah.”
“You’ve seen it.”
“Yeah.”
“Nico, it went viral overnight. Management’s going to call you. The media…” His voice gentled. “Are you okay?”
I looked at Evan. He hadn’t moved since I’d shown him the phone.
“No,” I said.
“Whatever you need, Naomi and I are here. The team’s got your back.”
“Okay. Thanks, Cap.”
I hung up.
For a moment neither of us spoke. The phone kept buzzing in my hand.
“They don’t know who I am yet,” Evan said. His voice was flat, careful. “The caption says unidentified.”
“Yet,” I said.
He met my eyes, and I could see him understanding the same thing I was—yet was doing a lot of work in that sentence. It was only a matter of time before our controlled circle became irrelevant.
The version of this relationship that had existed twelve hours ago—private, protected, ours—was already gone. Whatever came next would be different. Every choice we made from this moment would be made in public, whether we wanted it to be or not.
“Nico—” he started.
“I know,” I said. “I’m sorry. I knew the parking lot wasn’t… I made a choice, and I…”
“Don’t.” He held up a hand, not angry, just exhausted. “I kissed you back. Every time. I’m not putting this all on you.” He dropped his hand. “But I can’t talk about it right now.”
He was already out of bed, reaching for his clothes.
“Evan—”
“I need to go home.” The words came out flat. “I need my own space. I need to think.”
“Stay. We’ll figure it out together.”
“I can’t think here.” He pulled on his jeans and his shirt. “I’ll call you.”
He wouldn’t meet my eyes. I stood there—helpless, guilty, watching him gather his things.
“Call me,” I said. “Please. Don’t shut me out.”
He nodded but didn’t promise anything. And then he was gone, the front door closing quietly behind him. I was alone with seventeen missed calls and a phone that wouldn’t stop buzzing.
I sat on the edge of the bed and stared at the floor.
He’d kissed me back. Every time, in that parking lot, he’d kissed me back—and I knew that, and it didn’t change anything.
I was the one who’d stopped being careful.
I was the one who’d decided the parking lot was private enough, who’d kissed him once and then again and then a third and fourth time because I’d wanted to and I’d stopped treating every public moment like a threat.
Whatever share of this belonged to both of us, I’d been the one to start it.
Our quiet, private world was over. We were the ones who had ended it—but I’d handed us both the opportunity, and that was on me.