Snow fell in thick,unapologetic flakes over the outdoor rink at Canalside Park, covering the boards and bleachers. Volunteers worked to keep it off the long folding tables piled high with donated winter coats. Buffalo didn’t fool around when it came to winter. It was cold, bright, and loud, and it suited Pack perfectly.
We laced up our skates as soon as we arrived. Pack headed for the ice while a group of reporters pulled me aside to ask about the Condors’ shootout loss to Montreal the night before. When they finished, I spotted Pack crouched near the boards, helping a kid tighten his skates.
Pack wore a Warriors beanie that didn’t quite keep his messy brown hair in place, and his cheeks were flushed from the cold. Every few seconds, he looked up and scanned the crowd like he was searching for someone.
For me.
When the kid skated off, Pack straightened and found me immediately. His face lit up, and he pushed off, skating toward me without a shred of self-consciousness. He stopped so close that snow dusted my jacket from the brim of his hat.
Grinning like an idiot, he said, “You light up this whole damn place.”
I laughed softly. “I think that’s the glow from your cheeks.”
His grin widened, and I couldn’t resist brushing my knuckles across his wrist. Everyone else was too busy to notice.
The league had sent us to help at Warm Hearts in Warm Coats: Skate with the Pros, a charity coat drive with us as the main attraction. The rink was packed with families, couples, kids in oversized helmets, and reporters clustered around the edges. We paused to listen to a high school choir warming up at one end of the ice.
A Pride table near the entrance added a bright splash of color to the snowy scene. I stopped for a moment, and the volunteers gave me a warm welcome. They told me how much it meant to have an openly gay player at the event.
A college-aged guy leaned forward. “Is it true about you and Paquette?”
Before I could answer, Pack skated by, flashing me a grin so big it was almost reckless.
“Looks like it,” the guy said with a wink. “Don’t worry, your secret’s safe with me.”
I laughed it off and skated away, wishing I knew how to do an Axel.
Pack waved me over and introduced me to the event organizer, who made a quick announcement over the loudspeaker and told us to enjoy ourselves. We helped kids onto the ice, skated slow laps with beginners holding on to our arms, and signed autographs. Some Warriors fans even asked for mine.
It wasn’t long before chants of “Packo, Packo, Packo!” broke out. Teenagers waved signs saying things like#PackoForever,#PackoStares, and even#LoveOnTheIce. We acknowledged them with casual waves.
A group of youth players arrived in full gear, and we spent a few minutes talking with them. Making them feel special brought back great childhood memories. The pros I’d met when I was starstruck treated me well, and it was an honor to carry on that tradition.
Through it all, I couldn’t keep my eyes off Pack. He worked with a little girl who was struggling to skate backward, beaming more than she was. When he caught me watching, he flashed a crooked grin that made my stomach flutter.
The PA system crackled again. “If everyone would gather near the stage, it’s time for Ask the Players.”
Pack and I joined the organizer on a portable platform beside the rink. Fans crowded closer, holding steaming cups of hot chocolate and spiced tea. An umbrella heater hummed overhead.
I leaned close to Pack’s ear. “Ready for this?”
“Not even a little,” he whispered. “But let’s fake it.”
We sat on tall stools as the organizer reintroduced us. The crowd couldn’t have cheered any louder if we’d just won the Laurentian Cup.
The early questions were easy. A teenage guy asked, “Packy, what do you eat before a game?”
“Usually something beige,” Pack said, drawing laughter from the fans. “Seriously, it’s always pasta with marinara, grilled chicken, and a big salad.”
I shook my head at the crowd. “Biglie. He hates vegetables. If someone puts them on his plate, he hides them in his napkin.”
Pack grinned at me as more laughter rang out, and then a young woman asked, “Is Nico really as fast as he looks?”
“No,” I said before Pack could answer. “Faster.”
Pack snorted so hard he nearly fell off his stool, which made us both crack up.
“Nico skates like the wind,” he said. “Mostly because he doesn’t remember how to stop.”
