Page 47

Keeping secrets from someone who reads people for a living requires the kind of acting skills they don’t teach in media training.

“The paperwork’s finalized,” Jerry says through my phone, sounding like he’s aged five years in the past month. “Seattle announced the trade this morning. You’re officially a Icehawks.”

I’m standing in my empty Boston apartment, surrounded by boxes and the ghost of a life I’m leaving behind. The walls look strange bare—no photos, no personality, just the sterile bones of corporate housing that never felt like home anyway.

“Good. Did you coordinate with their media team about the announcement timeline?”

“All handled. Press conference is scheduled for next week, after you’ve had time to settle in.” He pauses. “You sure about this, Nic? Boston was willing to match Seattle’s offer. Hell, they were willing to exceed it.”

“This isn’t about money.”

“I know. That’s what worries me.”

“Jerry—”

“I’m not saying it’s wrong. I’m saying it’s the kind of decision that either works out perfectly or destroys everything. No middle ground.”

He’s right. But Chelsea and I have never done middle ground well.

We’re either crashing into each other or running away—might as well crash toward something instead of away from it.

Moving across the country for a woman may not be a good call from a third person perspective, but it feels like every kind of right to me.

After I hang up, I finish packing the last of my things into the rental truck.

My life reduced to boxes that fit in a sixteen-footer.

Hockey gear, clothes, the few pieces of furniture worth keeping.

Evidence of a life lived mostly in transit, always ready to move when the next trade or opportunity demands it.

But this move feels different. Intentional instead of obligatory. Like I’m moving toward something instead of just away from something else.

The drive from Boston to Seattle takes four days, three stops, and approximately seventeen panic attacks disguised as coffee breaks. By the time I reach the city limits, I’m exhausted, caffeinated beyond human limits, and absolutely certain I’ve made either the best or worst decision of my life.

Seattle in December is exactly what you’d expect.

It’s gray, drizzly, the kind of weather that makes you understand why everyone here drinks coffee like it’s a survival mechanism.

I navigate through neighborhoods I don’t know yet, following GPS directions to an apartment I’ve never seen in a city I’ve never lived in.

My temporary housing is downtown, walking distance from the practice facility. Furnished corporate housing that looks exactly like the place I just left in Boston. Same beige walls, same generic art, same feeling of existing in a space designed for transition rather than living.

But out my window, I can see Elliott Bay and the Olympic Mountains, snow-capped and dramatic against the gray sky. It’s beautiful in a way Boston never was. Bigger somehow. Full of possibility.

I spend the afternoon getting oriented—grocery store, coffee shop, the practice facility where I’ll start working next week.

Normal tasks that feel surreal because I’m doing them in a place Chelsea will also be doing them.

Same city, same team, same chance to build something real instead of just sustainable.

That evening, I’m unpacking boxes when my phone buzzes. Text from Chelsea.

Chelsea: Driving through Oregon. Should hit Seattle tomorrow afternoon. This is really happening.

Me: Nervous?

Chelsea: Terrified. You?

Me: Same. Good terrified though.

Chelsea: Any updates on your situation?

I stare at the message, thumb hovering over the keyboard. This is where I should tell her I’m already here, that I’ve been planning this surprise for weeks, that tomorrow won’t be her first day in a new city alone.

Me: Still working on logistics. Should know more soon.

Not technically a lie. I am working on logistics—specifically, the logistics of surprising someone who hates surprises but loves grand gestures when they’re executed properly.

Chelsea: It must be complicated.

Me: Everything about us is complicated.

Chelsea: True. But we’re getting better at complicated.

Me: Practice makes perfect.

Chelsea: Or at least makes it interesting.

After we stop texting, I sit in my generic apartment and plan tomorrow’s surprise.

I have her new address. I have keys to her apartment—courtesy of a very understanding building manager who was impressed by my “romantic gesture” story and my willingness to provide multiple forms of ID and photo confirmations, along with displays of our text messages. After I begged and pleaded, of course.

The next morning, I drive to her building with a gift that took me three weeks to orchestrate.

Her apartment is in Capitol Hill, all exposed brick and tall windows, the kind of place that screams “aspiring creative professional with decent income.” Much better than the beige box she left behind in Phoenix.

The building manager—Teddy, mid-fifties, divorced, apparently a sucker for love stories—meets me in the lobby with keys and a conspiratorial grin.

“She’s not here yet?” he asks.

“Should be a few hours. You sure this is okay?”

“Kid, I’ve been managing buildings for twenty years. Trust me, this beats the hell out of dealing with noise complaints and broken toilets.” He hands me the keys. “Just don’t make me regret this.”

“I won’t.”

“Famous last words.”

Chelsea’s apartment is beautiful with its hardwood floors, exposed beams, windows that face west toward the Sound. It’s also completely empty.

I set my gift on the kitchen counter where she’ll definitely see it: my Boston Blizzards jersey from this season, cleaned and folded, with a note tucked into the sleeve.

Chelsea—

Surprise. Turns out I’m terrible at long-distance relationships, so I figured I’d try short-distance instead.

Welcome to Seattle. I’m already here if you want company unpacking. Or if you want to yell at me for not telling you I was coming.

Fair warning: I play dirty. Always have.

—N

PS: Apartment 412 is two blocks south. Take your time deciding if you want to kill me or kiss me.

I leave the jersey where she can’t miss it and let myself out, heart hammering against my ribs like it’s trying to escape. Either this is the romantic gesture of the century, or I’m about to discover that Chelsea’s tolerance for surprises has limits I just obliterated.

Back in my apartment, I pace and check my phone obsessively. No messages, no calls, no indication that she’s arrived yet. I make coffee I don’t drink and order takeout I don’t eat and generally behave like someone who’s wagered his entire future on a single grand gesture.

At 4:17 PM, my phone buzzes.

Chelsea: Found your gift.

That’s it. No follow-up, no indication of her emotional state, no clue whether I should be preparing for forgiveness or homicide.

Me: And?

Three dots appear and disappear for what feels like seventeen hours.

Chelsea: I want to kill.

Chelsea: You’re insane.

Me: Good insane or bad insane?

Chelsea: I haven’t decided yet.

Me: Take your time. I’ll be here.

Chelsea: That’s the problem.

Me: What’s the problem?

Chelsea: You’re here. In my new city. Making it impossible to pretend this isn’t real.

Me: Do you want to pretend it isn’t real?

Chelsea: No. But I wanted to be scared by myself for a few days before being scared with you.

Me: Want me to go back to Boston and pretend I never came?

Chelsea: Don’t you dare.

Me: So what do you want?

Chelsea: I want you to come help me unpack. But I also want to maintain plausible deniability about how happy I am that you’re here.

Me: Noted. I’ll try to contain my charm.

Chelsea: Your charm was never the problem.

Me: What was the problem?

Chelsea: That your charm makes me want to do stupid things like believe in happy endings.

Me: What if I told you I’m starting to believe in them too?

Chelsea: I’d say you’re probably concussed.

Me: Or in love.

Chelsea: Same thing, really.

Twenty minutes later, I’m standing outside her building with Chinese takeout and the kind of nervous energy that used to fuel my worst fights. But this feels different. Like energy directed toward building something instead of destroying it.

She opens the door before I can knock, wearing jeans and a Icehawks sweatshirt that makes me stupidly happy.

“Hi,” I say.

“Hi.” She studies my face like she doesn’t believe that I’m actually here. “You really did it. You really moved across the country.”

“For the record, I moved for the job opportunity. The fact that you’re here is just convenient.”

“Lies, Mr. Hendrix.”

“Complete lie. I moved for you. For us. For the possibility that maybe we can have both.”

“Both?”

“Everything. Career success and personal happiness. Individual growth and relationship growth. All of it.”

She steps aside to let me into her apartment, which looks exactly like I left it except for one addition: my jersey is now hanging on a hook by the door like it belongs there.

“Nice jersey,” I observe.

“Someone left it for me. Must be a fan.”

“Lucky you.”

“Yeah.” She moves closer, close enough that I can smell her perfume. “Lucky me.”

“Chelsea—”

“Thank you. For coming here. For taking the risk. For making this choice with me instead of for me.”

“You’re welcome.”

“But if you ever surprise me by moving cross-country again without telling me, I’m having you committed.”

“Noted.”

“Good.” She reaches up and kisses me, soft and sure and full of promise. “Now help me unpack. We’ve got a city to figure out.”

And just like that, the last piece falls into place. Not the end of our story, but the beginning of the version where we both get to win.

Where playing dirty finally pays off.