Chapter 26
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Nico
I didn’t sleep.
My phone was on my nightstand. I’d turned off the sound, but I could see it lighting up every twenty minutes.
Evan
I’m sorry. Can we talk?
Evan
Please. I know you’re angry. I just need to explain.
Evan
Nico. Please.
I didn’t respond. Didn’t know what to say.
Around four in the morning, I gave up on sleep and got up. Made coffee. Sat on my couch in the dark.
Game day. One o’clock against New York. I should have been resting, hydrating, and mentally preparing.
Instead, I was running on zero sleep, replaying the same moments on loop. The photo notification at the lunch table. The paparazzo in the parking garage. Evan’s face when he said I don’t know if being in love with you is enough. And the silence after, which was worse.
My phone lit up again.
Evan
I love you. I know I said it wrong yesterday, but I meant it. I love you.
I stared at that message for a long time.
Put my phone face down and went to take a shower.
I got to the arena at ten for pre-game prep.
André was already there, taping his stick. He looked up when I walked in. “You look like shit.”
“Thanks.”
“Didn’t sleep?”
“Not really.”
He studied my face. “You want to talk about it?”
“Not particularly.”
“Okay.” He went back to his stick. “But if you need to…”
We sat in silence for a few minutes. André taping, me with my elbows on my knees, staring at the floor.
“Seriously,” André said finally. “Where’s your head?”
I sat back. “Evan said he doesn’t know if being in love with me is enough.”
André was quiet for a moment. “Shit.”
“Yeah.”
“What did you say?”
“Nothing. I just left. I don’t know what to say to that.”
“Do you love him?”
I looked at André. My captain, my friend, the person who’d been checking in on me since before any of this started.
“Yeah. I do.”
“Does he know that?”
“I don’t know. I’ve never said it.”
“Maybe that’s your problem.” André clapped my shoulder. “Figure it out after the game. Right now, get your head in this.”
I nodded.
But my head wasn’t in it at all.
The game started poorly and got worse.
I’d had bad games before. Every player had bad games.
Nights where nothing connected, where your reads were half a second late, where you were physically present on the ice and mentally somewhere else entirely.
I knew how to manage a bad game. You took shorter shifts, you simplified your decisions, you did the small things right and waited for your game to come back.
I didn’t do any of that.
First shift, I missed an open pass to André on a two-on-one. The puck died on my stick, chance gone. Coach gave me a look from the bench.
Second shift, a lazy slashing penalty. Two minutes in the box watching our PK team scramble.
First period ended 1–0 New York.
Coach didn’t say much at the intermission, just, “Get it together, Briggs.”
Second period, Coach pulled me after my third shift. Just a look and a jerk of his head toward the bench. I sat there for three shifts before he put me back out.
That was when it hit me. I’d been telling myself my hockey was suffering because of circumstances outside my control. But Utah wasn’t outside my control. St. Louis wasn’t outside my control. Today wasn’t outside my control.
I was making choices. Bad ones.
I took another penalty in the second period—roughing after the whistle. Someone was there and I was frustrated, and it was stupid. I knew it was stupid while I was doing it.
Coach cut my ice time.
By the third period, we were down 4–1.
I sat on the bench and watched the clock.
Four minutes left. New York iced the puck. Faceoff in our zone.
I hopped the boards for the draw. Their center won it cleanly. Standard play. Their winger came across the blue line and bumped Thompson—clean hit, legal, just hockey.
And something in me snapped.
Not because of the hit. Because I was exhausted, losing, and had been avoiding every hard choice for two weeks. The winger was the first thing I’d seen all night that I could actually do something about. Even if it was the wrong thing.
I skated straight at him. Dropped my gloves.
“Come on,” I said.
He looked confused. “What?”
I shoved him.
The whistles blew. His teammates moved in. I heard André’s voice somewhere behind me. “Nico, don’t—”
Too late.
I threw a punch. He threw one back. We went down, both swinging, the refs trying to get between us. When they finally pulled us apart, I was breathing hard and my knuckles were throbbing. The crowd was booing or cheering; I couldn’t tell.
“Game misconduct,” the ref said. “You’re done.”
“For what?”
“Instigator in the final five. You know the rule.” He pointed toward the tunnel. “Get off the ice.”
I looked at the clock. Three minutes and forty-two seconds left.
I’d just gotten myself ejected from a game we were already losing, for a fight I’d started for no reason except that I’d run out of patience, for all of it, and because he’d been right there.
I skated to the tunnel without looking at the bench. Went straight to the locker room and sat there alone while the game finished. Heard the final buzzer. Heard the team come back in, quiet and pissed off.
Final score: 5–1.
I was pulling my jersey over my head when Coach appeared in the doorway. “Briggs. My office.”
He barely waited for the door to close.
“That was embarrassing. For you, for this team, for everyone in that building.” He stepped closer. “Instigating a fight in the final five when we’re down by three—you know that’s a game misconduct. And now you’re looking at a suspension from the league.”
“I know.”
“Do you?” His voice rose. “Because I’ve been watching you for two weeks.
Utah. St. Louis. Today. Each one worse than the last. You’re not having a bad stretch, Briggs.
You’re unraveling.” He held my gaze. “Go home. Take tomorrow off. I don’t want to see you until Wednesday practice.
And if the league gives you games, that’s on you. ”
“Yes, Coach.”
“And Briggs.” He stopped me at the door. “Figure out what the hell is going on with you. Not just the hockey. All of it. Because this—” He shook his head. “This isn’t who you are. And I need you to remember that before you throw away everything you’ve worked for.”
Back in the locker room, every head turned away.
Not dramatically. But I felt it. Thompson checking his phone, Fortin suddenly interested in his skate laces, guys finding reasons to look elsewhere.
André glanced over once. Didn’t say anything. From André, that meant something. He always had something to say. Tonight he’d decided I needed the silence more than the words.
I stripped off my gear, showered, and dressed. By the time I was done, most of the locker room had cleared.
I grabbed my bag and walked to my car. Drove home through traffic I didn’t register. All I could hear was Coach’s voice.
This isn’t who you are.
I wanted to believe him. I wasn’t sure I did.
I pulled into my garage and sat there for a while before I could make myself go inside. When I finally did, I dropped my bag by the door and didn’t turn on the lights. Just stood there for a moment in the dark.
Then I sat on the couch and opened my phone.
Neil. My parents. Miguel. And underneath all of them, Evan.
Twelve texts from Evan. The most recent from an hour ago.
Evan
I saw the game. Are you okay?
No.
I looked at his messages. At I love you. I know I said it wrong, but I meant it.
Nico
I need some space. I can’t talk right now. I just need to think.
Three dots appeared immediately.
Evan
Okay. I understand.
Evan
I’m sorry. For all of it.
Nico
I know.
I stared at the conversation thread. Weeks of texts that had gone from easy and affectionate to careful and strained, the gap between us widening in increments so small I’d kept telling myself it wasn’t happening.
I typed one more message.
Nico
I love you. But I don’t know if that’s enough either.
Sent it before I could second-guess it. Put my phone face down on the coffee table.
My phone buzzed. I didn’t look at it.
I didn’t sleep much. When I did, it was the shallow kind that didn’t help.
Monday morning, the Department of Player Safety called at nine thirty. Hearing at eleven.
I called Neil. He conferenced in. Fifteen minutes of questions—why I’d dropped the gloves, whether I understood the instigator rule, whether I had anything to say in my defense.
I didn’t have much. I’d made a choice, it was a bad one, and we all knew it.
Neil stayed on after the hearing ended. “That could have gone better.”
“Yeah.”
“You want to tell me what happened yesterday?”
“Not particularly.”
“Nico.” His voice shifted into the direct tone he used when he was done being patient. “I’m your agent. I need to know what’s going on. Utah, St. Louis, yesterday… that’s a pattern. And the ejection is going to cost you games.”
“I know.”
“So what’s going on?”
I was quiet for a moment. “Evan and I are struggling. It’s been affecting my game.”
“I gathered. You lost VortexStride, you’ve got a suspension coming, and I’ve got two brands who were interested after the statement who are now in a wait-and-see. Every bad game, every penalty, every fight is another reason for them to keep waiting.”
“I know.”
“Do you? Because right now it looks like you’ve stopped making decisions and started just… reacting. To everything, Evan. The ice, all of it.”
He wasn’t wrong. That was exactly what I’d been doing.
“I’m taking a few days,” I said. “Getting my head right.”
“Make sure you do.” A pause. “I’ll call when I hear from the league.”
At noon, he called back.
“One game suspension. Tuesday. Five-thousand-dollar fine.”
I closed my eyes.
“Could’ve been two games,” Neil said. “Take Tuesday, get your head straight, and don’t give them a reason to revisit it.”
“I won’t.”
“And Nico? Figure out the personal stuff. Whatever’s going on with Evan, figure it out. Because the team isn’t going to be patient forever, and neither am I.”
I put my phone down and called Miguel.
He picked up on the second ring. “You okay?”
“Not really.”
“I saw the replay. That fight was bad, man.”
“Yeah.”
“You want to talk about it?”