Pack’s face crumpled. “Shit. I ordered breakfast last night.”
I checked the clock and sat up. “The event’s in two hours.”
He groaned. “Fuck me.”
“Want to,” I said, “but apparently it’s not happening right now.”
He sat up and rubbed his face. “If we don’t eat now, we’ll pass out halfway through. Whoever planned an event at eleven in the morning should’ve had the decency to serve lunch.”
Before he could get up, I caught his wrist. He turned and lifted his eyebrows.
I almost said it. Not everything, maybe something like, “I want a future with you.” But another knock cut the moment short.
“Room service,” the voice called again.
Pack stood, looked around, and finally pulled on my boxers. “Coming.”
“That’ll be later,” I sing-songed.
He laughed and headed for the door. I stayed tangled in the messy sheets, staring at the ceiling. I’d missed this moment, but there was still hope for another before the weekend was over.
28/
packy
The noise hitthe moment Nix and I entered the ballroom. Cheers, screams, and whistles rang out as thousands of people surged to their feet. Phones flew up like flares, and applause rolled through the room in waves. I froze.
The ballroom was packed, bodies shoulder to shoulder, even on the balcony.
Someone screamed, “Packo!” A group of teenage girls took it up, chanting in unison. Within seconds, the entire room joined in, clapping along like we were at a playoff game.
My stomach dipped. I wasn’t used to this kind of attention off the ice. I glanced at Nix, worried about his reaction.
Please don’t let this freak him out.
Marissa had warned us San Francisco would go all in. The city wanted a franchise, and apparently, Nix and I were supposed to be part of making that happen. Instead of a hockey demo, today was supposed to be a simple Q and A with plenty of time for mingling and smiles afterward.
With thousands of eyes locked on us and a chant bouncing off the walls, it was anything but simple.
Nix shot me a quick look, lifting an eyebrow:you okay?I nodded, even though I wasn’t sure. Mostly, I didn’t want him to worry.
Two older women approached, both polished and elegant, one in a purple cocktail dress dripping with diamonds, the other in a blue one. The woman wearing purple smiled. “Welcome, Mr. Paquette and Mr. Rossi. You’ve drawn quite a crowd.”
“Call me Packy,” I said, holding out my hand. “And if you say Mr. Rossi, he probably won’t know who you mean. Better stick with Nico.”
“True,” Nico said with a grin. “Packy here can’t manage ‘Paquette,’ so we keep expectations low.”
They giggled like teenagers as the woman in purple touched Nix’s arm. “You two are even more charming in person.”
I glanced at Nix. His eyes were bright and warm, and a smile was playing on his lips. My heart kicked hard.
The women led us to the stage. There was a small table with two microphones and chairs, backed by a huge, colorful banner that said, “San Francisco Deserves Hockey!” After we sat, the woman in blue used a standing mic to welcome everyone and give a quick overview of the city’s bid for a franchise.
Then the woman in purple took her turn. “And now,” she said, grinning at the crowd, “the men you’ve all been dying to meet: Kirby Paquette of the Buffalo Warriors, and Nico Rossi of the New York Condors.”
The room erupted again with deafening shouts of “Packo.” I tried to keep a neutral expression and gave Nix a sideways look. He winked and flashed a devastating grin.
The first question was a softball about the league’s outreach initiative, and I gave our standard answer: “It’s about hockey, sure. But more than that, it’s about building community, increasing youth access, and helping the sport grow.”
