“To be continued?” I asked.
He grinned and brushed his thumb along my jaw. “Count on it.”
Downstairs, we found the reception room and looked inside. The space was full of people, the lights too bright. A string quartet played in a corner, competing with the clink of glasses. Banners for Quebec City Hockey were everywhere, and a gigantic mural of their long-gone team hung on a wall.
I looked at Pack and noticed his tie was crooked. Without a thought, I straightened it. When we stepped inside, the crowd seemed to sense our presence and turned to look. We hesitated as the applause began.
“Smooth,” I muttered.
Pack’s grin went full Paquette. “They’ll think we meant to make an entrance.”
An elegant gray-haired woman with a dazzling smile walked over. “I’m the chairperson of this event, and we’re so happy you’re here.” She gave us a look sharp enough to draw blood. “You had everyone wondering if you’d been kidnapped by Montreal fans.”
Pack took her hand between both of his. “Sorry, it was my fault. I got lost in the maze of hallways.”
“Uh-huh.” Her gaze flicked between us, clearly unconvinced. She introduced a man who’d joined us as her co-chair.
They escorted us down a receiving line, and then the crowd swallowed us. We met investors, reporters, local business leaders, and a slew of fans. Everyone wanted to talk hockey and civic pride.
Pack, a Quebec native, took the lead in handling the French speakers, and I talked with those who spoke English. He joked that Quebec needed a team again so they could finally crush the Montreal Lynx, making everyone nearby laugh. As we moved on, he explained that the last game against the Lynx before Quebec’s team left town had ended in a tie.
When people kidded us about the Warriors and Condors, we laughed. We gave each other stern looks when they made cracks about our on-ice fights. Constant questions about whether we were actually friends always came with an odd lean on the word “friends.”
Through it all, we stayed glued together. Every time we turned, our arms bumped, and when we spoke, we leaned close. Each touch was electric.
A waiter brought glasses of champagne, and after we toasted the group around us, Packy took a sip and coughed. “Not beer,” he said, thumping his chest.
I slid my hand low on his back. “He’s still learning how to behave like a grown-up.”
He turned to me, eyes sharp. “You’d know all about that, wouldn’t you?”
His look made my throat go dry, and I struggled to say, “Guess so.”
He draped an arm over my shoulders and pulled me closer. “Told you,” he said to the nearby group. “Nico’s the master.”
I chuckled, unable to keep my eyes off him. “We handle things together.”
A blond guy in a blue suit raised his eyebrows. “Are you two always this synchronized?”
“Occupational hazard,” Pack said. “Spend enough time around Rossi, and you start finishing his?—”
“Sentences,” I cut in.
“See?” he said. “Both ways.”
A camera shutter clicked behind us, followed by a male voice calling out, “Great shot, boys.”
We turned in time to see the photographer lowering his camera.
Pack leaned in. “Odd angle.”
“Probably wanted your hockey butt,” I whispered.
He nudged me. “Or yours.”
We laughed so hard we nearly walked past the next people waiting for us.
Between groups, Pack whispered, “If another guy pitches a podcast, pretend you’re sick and need me to take care of you.”
