Page 93 of Scoring Position

He felt Ryan’s eyes on him as he started the engine.

“What?”

In his peripheral vision, Ryan shook his head. “Nothing, just… I didn’t, uh, really expect this.”

Nico made the turn out of the parking garage, on edge. “What did you expect?”

“Honestly?” Ryan blew out a breath. “I have no idea. Call this uncharted territory or whatever. I don’t exactly have a frame of reference. But, like… aren’t you mad at me?”

Nico had been angry—angry at Ryan, at himself, and at the Fuel’s front office. But now he felt…. He didn’t know. Sad and confused. Heartbroken, disappointed, hurt, betrayed. But the tension between them lacked a note of finality that kept him stubbornly clinging to hope.

Unless Nico had completely misjudged him, Ryan didn’t have a cruel bone in his body. He was obviously aware he had hurt Nico, but he hadn’t meant to. And the word he used—mad. Nico might only speak English as a second language, butmadseemed like such a small word for all the things he felt.

Ryan’s voice, though—he sounded so small and unsure. There was definitely more at play than Nico knew about.

“So mad I should avoid my own house?” Nico asked, buying time. “You said you wanted to apologize in person.”

To the window, fogged with his own breath, Ryan said, “I thought maybe you wouldn’t want to see me.”

Nico didn’t know ifwantwas the right word. Since he’d left Indianapolis, he’d been dreading seeing Ryan again.

But he knew he needed to.

The strategic part of his brain had whirled suddenly into motion the way it did with chess, and now that he could see the board, he could see the mating pattern.

If Ryan truly didn’t have feelings for him, Nico would find out tonight, and he could move on with his life. And if he did—

If he did, things still might not work out. But it wasn’t going to be because Nico didn’t ask for what he wanted.

“Can we talk more at home?” Though it wasn’t really home anymore, was it?

“Sure,” Ryan said quickly.

It felt strange to pull Ryan’s car into its spot in Nico’s garage. Inside, Nico traded his shoes for a pair of slippers from the bag he kept for guests. “Put the kettle on, would you?”

Ryan nodded wordlessly and took out Nico’s favorite mug while the kettle boiled.

A couple minutes of steeping time would be good for Ryan too, and Nico didn’t want to have this conversation in his game-day suit. He went back to his room to find something to change into.

“Nico, wait—”

And stopped in the doorway.

The bed had been slept in, the covers still a nest the way Ryan tended to leave them. His phone charger was plugged into the lamp on Nico’s bedside table, the white noise machine next to it.

The stitches ripped.

If Ryan missed him so much he was sleeping in his bed, why had he pushed Nico away in the first place? Why didn’t he come home when Nico got traded? Why hadn’t he let Nico know how he felt before that horrible day at the arena?

A pained, strangled sound escaped him, and he turned around. Ryan’s cheeks were scarlet with shame or embarrassment, and he didn’t meet Nico’s eyes.

“Whatisthis?” Nico rasped.

Ryan made a noise that sounded like it was torn straight from his spleen. “I—” He closed his eyes, bit his lips. His shoulders rolled forward in defeat. Finally he blinked his eyes open again and said, honest and heavy, “I missed you.”

That stung like antiseptic. “Thenwhy did you push me away?”

Ryan flinched, but he didn’t back down. “Can we talk in the kitchen?”

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