Chapter 22
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Nico
Wednesday morning, I texted Evan before practice.
Nico
No pressure about tonight. Just let me know.
He responded forty minutes later.
Evan
I can’t. I’m sorry.
I stared at the message. Two games now. The arena had felt like something we were building toward together—his jersey, the family section, Chloe and Naomi, all of it. Now it was somewhere he couldn’t go. I put my phone in my bag and went to morning skate.
The ice helped, the way it always helped.
An hour of not thinking about anything except positioning, passes, and the problem of our power play, which had been leaking chances all week.
I worked the drills hard and let Coach’s corrections land without defensiveness. This was the part I could control.
In the locker room after, André sat down beside me while I unlaced my skates.
“You good?”
“Yeah.”
“You’ve been saying that a lot.”
“Because people keep asking.”
He let that sit for a moment. “Evan’s not coming tonight.”
Evan’s not coming tonight.
It wasn’t a question.
“No.”
André nodded. “How are you handling that?”
“I’m fine.”
André picked up his water bottle. “You’re carrying a lot right now. The statement, VortexStride, his situation. All of it landing at once.”
“I’m handling it.”
He gave me a look that said he’d heard that enough times to know what it covered. “The guys want to take you out after the game tonight. Show you they’re with you. Nothing big. Just Cap’s.”
“Yeah,” I said. “Okay.”
He nodded and moved on, and I sat there with my half-unlaced skates thinking about Evan alone in his apartment again, browser tabs open, and me agreeing to go out with the team like that was something I was allowed to do.
I was allowed to do it. I knew that. It didn’t feel like it, though.
The game against Nashville was the best I’d played since the photos.
I don’t know why Wednesday worked when Sunday hadn’t. Maybe it was the ice time that morning, or André’s quiet steadiness in the locker room, but something clicked. Whatever it was, I felt like myself from the opening faceoff—present, sharp, reading the play before it developed.
I scored in the second period. A power play goal from the left circle, clean and decisive. When the lamp lit and the horn sounded, I felt the uncomplicated joy of it—the one part of my life that didn’t require managing or explaining or worrying about who was watching.
The camera found me. I knew it would. I let it.
We won 4–2, and in the locker room after, the mood was easy and loud. Coach Dufour actually smiled. I showered and changed and let the commotion carry me for a while.
Then I checked my phone.
Evan
YOU SCORED. I was on my feet for the whole second period. That power play goal was clean!
My chest felt too full.
Evan
The way you celebrated, I could see how much it meant.
I sat there in the locker room with my phone in my hand, reading his texts, feeling the gap between what he’d seen on the screen and what it had actually felt like.
He’d watched. And he’d seen something real—the joy was real—and I wanted him to have been there for it in a way that a screen couldn’t replicate.
Nico
I wish you’d been here.
I sent it before I could decide whether I should.
His response took four minutes.
Evan
Me too.
I sat with that for a moment. Me too meant he wanted to be there. It also meant he wasn’t.
Nico
Guys are taking me to Cap’s after. Team thing.
Evan
You should go.
Three words. No warmth, no coldness. Just permission I hadn’t asked for, which told me he was still somewhere between fine and not fine and hadn’t decided which to admit to yet.
Cap’s was loud and warm, the private room packed with the usual post-win energy. I ordered a beer and let the noise wash over me.
It felt good. Genuinely, uncomplicatedly good in a way I hadn’t felt off the ice since before the photos.
Thompson was telling a story that had Fortin crying with laughter.
André’s hand was on Naomi’s knee, and he was half listening, half smiling at something she’d said.
The food was good and plentiful, and everyone was talking too loudly.
I ordered a second beer and realized I was smiling.
My phone was in my pocket. I didn’t check it.
Around ten, André dropped into the seat beside me.
“Good tonight,” he said.
“Yeah.”
“You looked like yourself out there.”
“Felt like it.” I took a sip. “First time in a while.”
He nodded. Didn’t say anything for a moment. “You’re allowed to have this, you know.”
I looked at him.
“A good game. A night out with the team.” He said it simply, without weight. “You’re allowed.”
“I know that.”
“Do you? Because you’ve had that look all night. Like you’re waiting to feel bad about it.”
I didn’t have an answer for that.
“Evan’s going through something hard,” André said. “That’s real. But you going through something hard too doesn’t help him. Grinding yourself down doesn’t help him.” He picked up his drink. “Be useful to him. Don’t disappear into the guilt.”
I didn’t want to hear that. But he was right.
I thought about the week since the photos.
The careful texts. The managed conversations.
The way every interaction with Evan had been about fixing or containing or making a plan…
all of it framed as being there for him, all of it quietly also about guilt.
About feeling like I wasn’t allowed to be okay when he wasn’t.
That wasn’t being there for him. That was penance.
And it wasn’t helping either of us.
I checked my phone at ten thirty.
Nothing from Evan.
I thought about texting him. Decided against it.
Not because I didn’t want to, but because I’d been using check-ins as a way of managing my own guilt rather than actually connecting.
If I texted now, it would be for me, not for him.
I told myself that was enough contact for one night and didn’t look too closely at whether I was staying quiet for his sake or mine.
I put my phone away and ordered another round for the table. The rest of the night was easy in a way I hadn’t expected. Loud and uncomplicated, exactly what André had said I was allowed to have.
The flight to Colorado left early Thursday morning. I sat next to Fortin, who put his earbuds in and left me alone, which I appreciated.
I texted Evan when we landed.
Nico
In Denver. How’s your day?
Evan
Fine. Working.
Fine. That word again. I’d stopped pushing on it, which I’d told myself was respecting his pace. André’s voice came back—you’re allowed.
Maybe I’d stopped pushing because it was easier. Because fine let me file it and move on.
Nico
Tell me something honest.
A long pause. Long enough that I wondered if I’d miscalculated.
Evan
I checked the tabs 31 times today, and it’s only 2pm. Down from yesterday, though, so.
Evan
That’s the honest thing.
My chest ached. Thirty-one times.
Nico
Thank you for telling me.
Evan
You asked.
Nico
I’m going to keep asking.
He didn’t respond right away. When he did, it was just:
Evan
Okay.
From Evan, that was a lot.
Friday night we played Colorado, and I nodded to Morelli and Savard during warmups. That photo of the three of us had meant something. Seeing them in person confirmed that it hadn’t been a casual gesture, that they’d meant it. Like proof that this was survivable.
The game was close. We won 3–2, and I played okay. Not great, but okay.
After, in the hallway outside the locker room, Morelli found me.
“Briggs. Good game.”
“You too.” I shook his hand. “That goal in the second was a beauty.”
“Thanks.” He glanced around, lowering his voice slightly. “You holding up okay? I know the first few weeks are rough.”
“Getting there.”
“You want to grab a drink? étienne and I are heading somewhere low-key. No cameras.”
“Yeah,” I said. “That’d be good.”
We ended up at a quiet bar three blocks from our hotel, with Morelli, Savard, and me in a corner booth where nobody gave us a second look. Just three men having a beer after a game.
“How’s your guy handling it?” Savard asked.
“Not great. Clients dropping him. He’s barely leaving his apartment.” I turned my glass on the table. “He’s got a plan for rebuilding his professional presence. It’s a good plan. He’s executing it. And he’s still checking social media forty times a day and can’t stop.”
Morelli grimaced. “That part doesn’t respond to plans.”
“No.”
“It gets better,” Savard said. “But the first month is the worst. You can’t speed it up.”
“I’ve been trying to.”
“He’ll get there. Or he won’t.” Morelli shrugged. “Can’t force it. Can’t fix it for him.”
“I know.” I looked at my beer. “I keep forgetting.”
“It’s hard to watch someone you love paying a price for something you were both part of,” Savard said. Not unkindly. Just directly. “Even when neither of you meant for it to go this way.”
The word landed. Love. I hadn’t said it yet—not to Evan, not to myself out loud. But sitting in a bar in Denver with two men who’d navigated their own version of this, it didn’t feel like a revelation. It felt like something I’d known for a while and kept not looking at directly.
“Yeah,” I said. “It is.”
We talked for another hour—the league, the season, the slow shift in hockey culture. It felt good. Normal. Like I was just a player talking shop, not someone whose life was reconfiguring itself around a relationship he didn’t know how to protect.
My phone chimed.
Evan
Glad you got the win tonight.
Nico
Thanks. I’m out with Morelli and Savard. Getting a drink.
The three dots appeared and disappeared twice.
Evan
That’s good. Have fun.
Too neutral. Too careful. The same register as fine.
Nico
Tell me something honest.
A pause.
Evan
I watched the whole game. Made myself not check the tabs during the third period. First time.
Evan
Counted it as a win.
Something loosened in my chest.
Nico
That is a win.
Evan
Don’t make it a big deal.
Nico
Too late.
He sent back a single emoji—the eye-roll face—which meant he was almost smiling.
I put my phone down and picked up my beer. Morelli was watching me.
“Better?” he said.
“Little bit.”
We finished our drinks and called it a night.
Sunday’s game against Utah was a disaster.
I was off from the opening faceoff. Passes I should have made, I didn’t.
Positioning wrong. Got caught flat-footed twice and nearly cost us goals both times.
Second period, I took a stupid penalty. I slashed a guy in frustration when he’d beaten me to the puck.
Two minutes in the box while my team killed it off.
Third period, Coach benched me.
I sat there watching the clock run down, watching us lose 3–1, and thought about what Morelli had said. It’s hard to watch someone you love paying a price. And what André had said. Be useful to him. Don’t disappear into the guilt.
I’d been doing better since Thursday. The tell me something honest texts had opened something small but real. Evan had told me about the tab count three times now. Each time the number was slightly lower. He hadn’t said that meant anything. I hadn’t made it a big deal.
But I’d been so focused on not fixing, on not managing, on learning to just be present that I’d stopped being present at the actual game I was paid to play. I’d been so in my head about Evan that I’d had nothing left for the game.
Coach pulled me aside after.
“What’s going on with you, Briggs?”
“I let the personal stuff bleed into my game. I know better than that.”
“Yeah, I saw.” He looked at me hard. “I know you’ve got stuff going on. But when you’re on the ice, you’re here. Understood?”
“Understood.”
I showered and changed in silence and got on the plane home, feeling gouged out.
My phone buzzed as we taxied.
Evan
Saw the game. Rough night.
I stared at the message. He’d seen it, and he wasn’t making it a thing. That was Evan.
Evan
Want me to come over after you land?
Yes, I wanted him there. Wanted the warmth of him, the way being with him made the noise quiet down.
But I’d just played like shit on national television because I couldn’t keep my head straight, and Evan coming over to take care of me felt like one more thing I was taking from him when he had so little left to give.
And underneath that—if I was honest—was something uglier. I didn’t want him to see me like this. Didn’t want him to have to manage my bad game on top of everything else he was managing. Didn’t want to need something from him tonight.
Which was exactly what André had warned me about.
Nico
I’m exhausted. Rain check?
I sent it and immediately knew it was wrong. Not because I didn’t need rest—I did. But because the exhaustion I was protecting him from was also the most honest thing I had to offer tonight, and I’d just filed it under rain check the same way he filed everything under fine.
I stared at the message I’d just sent, unable to unsend it.
Evan
Of course. Get some rest.
I put my phone on airplane mode and looked out the window at the runway lights sliding past.
I knew I’d just done exactly what André told me not to do. I couldn’t figure out how to undo it.
The plane lifted off.