“No,” I said. “After you.”
He shook his head. “I don’t like window seats. Let me sit on the aisle.”
“I don’t like them either. You take it.”
“No. I’ll get claustrophobic.”
I scoffed so hard the woman in the seat behind us looked up.
“That’s bullshit,” I said. “You always need to be in control.”
“You always need snacks.”
“Do not.”
He grinned, and for some reason, I forgot why I didn’t want to sit by the window. “I’ll go first, but there’s a condition.”
“Of course there is. What?”
“No talking about stupid social media on the flight.”
“Best idea I’ve heard in a while.”
The flight attendant brought us glasses of juice, and after she left, Nico leaned over to dig in his bag. Without looking up, he asked, “You have a Switch?”
“Yeah,” I said.
We scooted toward each other as we settled in to play. Safety in numbers, I guess.
Two hours later, the plane touched down at Bush Intercontinental Airport. A driver in the baggage area had a sign with our names on it, and he helped us get our luggage to the car.
On our way to The Woodlands, a Houston suburb, Nico fell asleep. His soft, buzzing snore hadn’t changed over the years, and since he was more interesting than the highway, I studied him. Without a scowl or smirk on his face, he appeared innocent. For once, his hair was messy, and he reminded me of the kid I’d connected with all those years before.
As if on cue, he slumped sideways and leaned against me. When he put his hand on my chest, I almost shoved it off, but didn’t. I may not have liked having Nico Rossi all over me, but we were in this together. Since he was as upset as I was by our “lean into it” instructions, I was glad he could rest.
Arctic Ice was the home rink for The Woodlands’ youth hockey teams, and we were leading a workshop on hockey basics. The parking lot was packed with people, including way too many reporters. Cameras began flashing the moment our feet touched the pavement.
At the same time, the chanting started. “Packo! Packo! Packo!”
Nico and I froze. I considered diving back into the car and telling the driver to head for the airport. Before I could do it, he opened the trunk.
Nico leaned in, pulled out our skates, and held mine up like a trophy. “Got them, Pack.”
Two men introduced themselves as coaches and hurried us across the parking lot. Leaning close to Nico, I snapped, “I can carry my own skates.”
He jerked as if I’d hit him. “Jesus. What crawled up your ass?”
My voice had been harsher than I intended, so I exhaled and scrubbed a hand over my face. “Sorry. I’m… This is out of control.”
He bumped his shoulder against mine. “Try not to let it get to you. Nothing trends forever.”
I didn’t believe him.
One of the coaches opened the rink door, and we stepped inside. The chants from outside faded to scattered cheers. They were still loud, but manageable.
A grinning teenage boy wearing a Condors jersey led us to the locker room. The tension from outside still thick between us, Nico and I changed into practice gear without talking.
When we stood to head out to the ice, he met my eyes. “I’m not happy about this either, but we’re here. Let’s make the best of it.”
