Page 137 of Melting the Ice

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Epilogue

Eighteen months later

“Did it feel like this when you got drafted?” Dean asked, glancing over at where Brody sat kitty corner to him on the other couch. He’d wanted Brody next to him, but the TV crew who’d set up in his house had insisted that he be in the shot by himself.

Annoyingly.

Dean knew there’d been plenty of draft night shots with girlfriends but apparently boyfriends was a step too far. So much for the NFL not giving a shit anymore. His anxiety spiked again, even though Ian had personally assured him that his sexuality being an open secret wouldn’t change a thing.

“Do you mean, was I a freaking mess? Barely able to sit still? Hopping up every five seconds to pace?” Brody raised an eyebrow. “No.”

Dean wiped his sweaty hands on his slacks. Even though he’d decided he didn’t want to do the whole going to draft night thing, climbing up on stage with the commissioner—because what if hedidn’tgo in the first round?—Ian and Brody had both insisted he be dressed in a suit for the occasion.

Even if the occasion was just a camera crew, standing by with thirty-two NFL hats in bins at their feet, filming in their tiny apartment, waiting for the call Dean was theoretically going to get.

Not theoretically,Ian would tell him firmly,it’s reality.

“I’m just nervous,” Dean explained, even though that was most definitely something Brody was already aware of.

“You did everything you could do. Set some records your last year. Set more at the combine. I think half the teams in the NFL are falling over themselves in their excitement at even thepossibilityyou might be on their roster next year.” Brody sounded so proud. He shifted over onto the couch next to Dean and gave a hot glare to anyone who might argue. Not surprisingly, nobody argued.

Brody pressed a kiss to Dean’s trembling mouth. “You’re gonna kill it, and whoever gets you is gonna be the luckiest team in the NFL.”

“You’re just saying that because you’re the luckiest guy,” Dean said weakly.

Normally, he’d say that andmeanit, but he felt a little like puking right now.

Brody seemed to understand though, tucking a hand into his and squeezing it, hard. “Iamthe luckiest guy,” he said. “And you know what else? We’re gonna be lucky together. I just know it.”

“You ready?” Ian said, walking in, tucking his phone into his pocket.

“We’re ready,” Brody said, and Dean agreed, nodding.

When the producers had asked him who he wanted to be there—if there’d be a big party they’d be capturing on camera if he went, as predicted, early in the first round of the draft, or if theirapartment would be crammed full of family and friends and well-wishers—but Dean had very firmly shaken his head.

Still, it wasn’t as empty as it might have been, once.

His momwashere, tucked away in the back, like she didn’t really want to be on camera, and he supposed he couldn’t blame her for that. The spotlight wasn’t something everyone wanted. Fuck, Dean wasn’t sure howhefelt about it, yet.

Brody’s parents were here, and since it felt sometimes like they’d actually adopted him into the family, that felt right.

Ian was here. Ian’s boyfriend, Carter Maxwell, too. Dean could hear his big booming laugh echoing in the walls of their small place.

Brody’s hockey teammates had come too. Elliott and Malcom. Finn. Even Ramsey had flown in. They were gathered around the edges of the living room, spilling into their tiny kitchen.

This last year he and Brody had finally converted their second bedroom into an office of sorts, a study lounge they went to when theyactuallyneeded to focus on their homework.

Wes and Marcus weren’t here because they’d gone to the big draft party in Miami, even though there was a lot of talk the quarterback wouldn’t get drafted in the firstorsecond round.

“Maybe it doesn’t happen, but at least I was there,” Wes had told him, the last time they’d seen each other, about a week ago. The next time they saw each other, everything would be different. They’d be professional football players.

Dean couldn’t say this life was what he’d expected. He’d planned on being head-down, singularly focused on this one goal. The goal he was about to achieve.

But life had gotten in the way, like he was beginning to understand it always did, and that was okay too.

Whatever happened tonight was how things were meant to go.

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