Page 4 of Cross Ice

“Let me guess.” His eyes traveled over me, assessing, appreciating. “Personal trainer? You definitely look like you spend a lot of time in the gym.”

“Something like that.” Keeping the smirk off my face was impossible.

“Very mysterious.” Tilting his head, he studied me. “Is this a spy thing? Are you secretly CIA?”

“You got me. I’m undercover.”

“At a gay club?”

“Deep undercover,” I said deadpan.

Genuine laughter, the kind that made his whole face change, made him look younger, less guarded. “Okay, secret agent. What brings you here tonight?”

“Same thing as everyone else, I guess. Looking for a good time.”

“And have you found one?” Challenge in his voice, in the way he looked at me.

Leaning in closer, close enough to smell his body wash, something smooth and woodsy, I said, “I think I might have.”

His eyes dropped to my mouth for just a second before meeting mine again. “That’s a pretty confident answer for someone who’s been here all of twenty minutes.”

“I’m a confident guy.”

“I can see that.” Another sip of his drink, but he was smiling. Well, something close to it. “Though you also look like you’re about to jump out of your skin.”

“That obvious?”

“Little bit. First time doing… this?”

Nodding slowly, I admitted, “Yeah. First time.”

Something shifted in his expression—softer, more understanding. “How’s it going so far?”

“Better than I expected. Especially the last five minutes.”

“Smooth talker,” he said, but that almost-smile appeared again.

“I try.” Finishing my beer, I set it down on an empty table. “Want another drink, or would you like to hear more of my material?”

“You have more material?”

“I can probably come up with something.”

“Then yeah.” His blue eyes held mine. “I’ll take another drink.” He raised his glass. “Vodka tonic. Thanks.”

I made my way to the bar, hopes high. I liked that Evan didn’t recognize me. Liked that he looked at me like I was just some guy, not Nicolás Briggs, the hockey player with a Wikipedia page. When people knew, everything changed—the way they treated you, the way they touched you, what they wanted from you. I’d learned that the hard way. Tonight, for the first time in longer than I could remember, I was just Nico. Some guy who’d walked into a bar and made another guy laugh. That was enough. More than enough.

When I returned with fresh drinks, we fell into conversation. He was funny in a dry, understated way, though something guarded about him made me want to know more. Made me want to crack that careful exterior and see what was underneath.

“So, do you always interrogate guys you meet at bars?” I asked. “Or am I special?”

“You’re assuming I meet guys at bars regularly.”

“Don’t you?”

“Not really my scene.” Glancing around the club like he was cataloging all the reasons, he added, “Too loud. Too many people who think a smile means you want their life story.”

“And here I am, trying to get yours.”