Chapter 27 #3
I sat there for another twenty minutes, just a person drinking coffee by a window, and nothing happened. That felt like an answer to something.
Friday evening, I stood outside the arena at six thirty and tried to calm my shaking hands. I’d bought a ticket online, a decent seat, not right behind the bench but still close to the team. I walked through the concourse, trying not to make eye contact with anyone. Found my seat. Sat down.
The arena was filling up. Families, groups of friends, fans in Lasers jerseys.
I pulled out my phone and texted Nico.
Evan
I’m here. Section 128, Row 12.
Three dots appeared immediately.
Nico
You came.
Evan
Yeah. I came.
Nico
I’m glad. Meet you at the players’ entrance after.
I put my phone away and took in the excitement building around me.
The buzz of voices rising, echoing in the cavernous space.
That distinct smell of an ice rink, cold and sharp, mixed with the buttery aroma of popcorn.
The ice below gleamed clean and bright. A family settled into the row beside me, the dad explaining the goal crease to his daughter.
A woman in the row in front of me turned around. “Excuse me. Aren’t you Nicolás Briggs’s boyfriend?”
My heart started racing.
I could lie. Could say no, wrong person, turn away and ignore her.
Or I could do what Wesley said. Make it boring. Don’t react.
“Yeah,” I said.
She smiled. “That’s so cool. My son loves Briggs. He’s his favorite player.”
“He’s pretty great.”
“Are you guys still together? I saw some stuff online…”
“We are.” I said it firmly. Politely. But with a period at the end.
She got the message. “Well, enjoy the game.”
“Thanks.”
She turned back around.
I sat there with my heart pounding, waiting for the panic attack.
It didn’t come.
I’d just had a conversation with a stranger about being Nico’s boyfriend. In public. At the arena.
And I was okay.
The players came out for warmups. I spotted Nico immediately, skating fast laps, taking practice shots. He looked good. Strong. Focused.
Then he glanced up at the stands.
I didn’t know if he could see me from that distance, but I raised my hand anyway.
He raised his stick. Just for a moment.
I smiled.
The game started. Nico came alive on the ice—not distracted, not half present. He skated hard, made plays, and I watched the person I loved do the thing he was built for.
First period, he got an assist. Second period, he scored a beautiful shot from the slot that beat the goalie clean.
The arena erupted. I stood up and cheered with everyone else.
And when Nico skated past the bench, he looked up again.
This time I knew he’d seen me.
San Jose won 4–2.
After the game, I waited outside the players’ exit. Autograph seekers were waiting too.
I stood to the side, not trying to be invisible but not drawing attention either.
When Nico came out, he saw me immediately.
He walked straight over and kissed me. Right there. In front of everyone.
The reaction was instant. Phones lifted. A woman nearby gasped—not negatively, just surprised. Someone said, “Holy shit” loud enough for me to hear. A group of younger fans started cheering, and I heard one of them say, “I fucking knew it!”
My face heated. I was acutely aware of every camera pointed at us, every person watching, every witness to this moment that would probably be on social media before we even got to the car.
I pulled back, and Nico must have seen something in my expression because his hand settled on my waist, steadying.
“You good?” he asked quietly.
Around us, the crowd was definitely filming. I could see it in my peripheral vision—phones up, recording, capturing this.
“Yeah,” I managed. “Just… a lot of people.”
“We can go.”
“No. It’s fine.” I took a breath. “This is what we’re doing now, right? Not hiding.”
“Only if you’re ready.”
I looked at him. At the concern in his eyes, the way he was checking in even as people documented us.
“I’m ready,” I said.
And I was. Terrified, hyperaware, heart racing, but ready.
I’d put this man through hell for weeks. He’d stayed anyway. He’d finally asked for what he needed and given me space to figure out if I could give it.
“I talked to Wesley yesterday,” I said. “He helped me figure some things out.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. And I’ve been asking myself the wrong question.”
“What question?”
“I kept asking if I could do this. If I could survive it. If I could handle being visible.” I took his hand. “But the real question is if I want this. If I want you. If I want a life with you even when it’s hard.”
Nico stilled. “And?”
“And I do. I want you. I want us. I want all of it.” I squeezed his hand. “I’m sorry it took me so long to figure that out.”
He pulled me close and kissed me again. Longer this time. Someone said, “Ooh!” Someone else wolf-whistled.
I didn’t care.
“That… that means everything.”
We walked away together, hand in hand, while people took photos, posted them online, and made us part of the public record.
And for the first time since this whole thing started, I didn’t feel like I was drowning.
I felt like I was choosing.
Choosing him. Us. This life.
And that made all the difference.