I dug my nails into my palm so hard it hurt. “Focus how?”
“So we don’t jinx our series.” He set his cup down so hard coffee splashed over the sides. “We shouldn’t talk about next year before these playoffs even start. Hockey gods are vindictive assholes.”
“Hockey gods,” I echoed.
“They are.” The words rushed out. “And it’s not only that. If we try to figure things out while we’re under a lot of pressure, we could fuck everything up. Hockeyandus. I told you I want to talk, and I meant it. But it has to be when things aren’t so crazy. We’re athletes, and our lives run on seasons. I’m scared to mess with that.”
He grabbed his fork and shoved cheesecake into his mouth.
I tried to understand what he’d said, going over every word.A lot of pressure? Fuck everything up?
Did he not know what he wanted yet, or did he know but wasn’t ready to say it?The fucking playoffs.Was this really about fear and superstition, or did it have more to do with avoidance?
Maybe. Or was I giving one stupid joke in a hotel bar much more attention than it deserved? The only thing I knew for sure was that if I pushed now and Pack pulled away, there wouldn’t be anything left to protect.
He set his fork down, leaving the cheesecake unfinished.
I forced a laugh. “Okay, Paquette, I get it. One shift at a time.”
He shrugged and seemed to relax. “Right.”
“We’ll talk when our seasons are over?” I asked. “Whenever that is?”
His smile was hesitant, then bloomed into a grateful one. “Absolutely.”
Outside, the city night enveloped us as taxis rushed by and sirens cut through the air. I brushed my hand against his, and he caught one finger, then another, and held on tight.
We walked side by side. Every time I looked at him, he was already watching me. I loved him, and in that moment, I believed he loved me too. What I didn’t know was what he planned to do with that love. Or with us.
35/
packy
HoldingNix’s fingers felt safer than taking his hand, which should’ve told me something. We walked back to his place without saying much. That was fine, but when we got inside and closed the door behind us, the quiet seemed colder.
After taking turns in the bathroom, we sat on the sofa. I kept remembering what we’d said: talk after the playoffs. It made sense to table things now, focus on hockey, and do our jobs. But if it made so much sense, why did it feel like taping over a crack and hoping no one noticed?
Nix had asked about a future, not demanded one. The question hit as hard as it had in Miami, scrambling my thoughts. My contract, Buffalo, trades, moves… it all swirled through my mind. For some reason, the moving part wouldn’t let go. Would he say “move if you can,” or “move or this is over”?
He sat hunched forward, staring at his hands as the lamplight smoothed his face. It softened the tension lines without erasing them.
I loved him so much it hurt, and the idea of losing him was inconceivable. Trying not to think about that, I glanced out the window at the Manhattan skyline. Nix was still quiet, not evenlooking at me, and I couldn’t stand the distance. I reached for him.
When our fingers laced together, he raised his head. His eyes looked tired and anxious, like he needed the same reassurance I did. I leaned in and kissed him. His lips moved against mine, making me feel a little better.
We’re here. We’re still us.
Even after we broke the kiss to catch our breath, we kept our foreheads nearly touching. Outside, a siren screamed down Ninth Avenue and blended into the city’s noise. I took it as a sign of how fast time moved, and how soon I’d be somewhere else.
Nix pulled back, and his lips brushed mine when he spoke. “You hungry?”
“For food?”
The corner of his mouth twitched, and some of the tension in his jaw eased. “Yeah. I’ve got leftover lo mein and half a pizza.”
“Perfect.”
We held hands on our way to the kitchen. Signs of Nix’s daily life were all around, like the chipped Condors mug by the coffeemaker. Nearby, a stack of mail sat unopened, and a grocery list in his neat block letters hung on the fridge. Eggs, bread, and chicken.
