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A pang hit Eli in the chest, and he nodded. “You weren’t comfortable being vulnerable with her. I get that.” It meant he’d have to make sure Nolan felt safe enough to be vulnerable with him.

He figured this conversation was a good start.

“Okay.” Nolan slapped Eli’s knee. “My turn with the scary semi-serious question.”

Eli blew on his hands like he was preparing to get into the boxing ring. “Hit me.”

“What’s going on this season?” Nolan asked gently. “You killed it last year, but this year you seem to be a little lost.”

“Ugh.” Eli buried his face in his hands. “You know about my sophomore slump?”

“Was I not supposed to?”

“No, of course you do. It’s not like it’s a secret.” Grabbing the empty chip bowl, Eli rose and headed for the kitchen. The ground floor was open-concept, so he could still see Nolan in the living room. “Honestly, I don’t know what’s going on. My rookie season was great. Actually, no, it wasn’t great.” He was out of all-dressed chips, so he grabbed the Doritos. “It was really fucking hard. No one prepares you for going from the AHL to the NHL, and I’m not gonna lie—it’s a fucking culture shock.” He brought the bowl back to the couch and sat. “In the AHL, you can more or less coast on your talent. In the NHL, they want you to make appearances and headline charity events and attend meet and greets and fan events and film funny social media reels and just generally be . . .” Out of breath, Eli sucked in air.

“On,” Nolan finished. “You have to constantly be on.”

“And it’s not even just at the arena or at practice or at games. It’s out on the street, too, or when I’m at a restaurant or grocery shopping—because what if I get recognized? It’s in the locker room because there are always cameras everywhere. It was an adjustment last year, but I still managed to score goals—even in the playoffs. But this year . . .” Eli shrugged, feeling the weight of his team’s expectations on his shoulders. “Maybe I peaked last year. Or maybe it was a fluke, and the way I’m playing this season is what the future has in store for me.”

Nolan rested his elbow on an upraised knee. “What goes through your head when you get on the ice for a game?”

Eli rolled his eyes. “What doesn’t? Will I score today? Will I suck as much as I did in the previous game? Why can’t I be as good as I was last year? What if I fail to meet everyone’s expectations? What if last season was as good as it’s going to get? What if I’m not actually talented enough to be here? What if my teammates think I’m dragging them down? What if everyone finally realizes I’m not the player they think I am?” Slumping, he blew out a breath and hung his head back. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to word-vomit.”

Nolan’s expression softened. “Sounds like classic impostor syndrome. But—and don’t hate me for pointing this out—none of those questions are actually about hockey.”

“Sure they are. Weren’t you listening?”

Nolan raised a very professor-like don’t question me eyebrow. “Yes. I was. And what I heard is that you’re wondering if you’re good enough and whether you deserve to be here. If your questions were about hockey, you’d be asking Which opposing defenseman do I need to worry about tonight? Are my linemates in top form? Will I have to work harder to make up for one of my teammates who’s injured or under the weather? What I heard was What if I’ve already failed? What I didn’t hear . . .” Nolan moved the chips aside and scooted forward until their knees touched. “What I didn’t hear is How can I get better?”

Eli blinked once. “You . . . might have a point.”

Nolan booped his nose. “I usually do. Can I ask another semi-serious question?”

“Ugh, fine. Might as well.”

“You said that last year, after we had drinks, you went to Zanetti’s and you wanted to jerk off on his couch.”

“But I didn’t,” Eli reminded him. “I feel like that’s an important part of the story. Jerking off on someone else’s couch is just rude.”

“Right,” Nolan said, chuckling. “But you wanted to because . . .”

“Uh, because I wanted to jump your bones. Duh.”

“Okay. But . . . weren’t you dating someone? You said you weren’t, but . . .”

“Last fall?” Eli frowned. “No, I wasn’t dating anyone. Why?”

Nolan matched his frown. “No? Then . . . who the fuck is Mr. Wiggles? And why do you call him Mr. Wiggles and not by his first name? Is it like a Dom-sub thing? Because no shade to that lifestyle, but it’s not really for me. And why the fuck are you laughing?”

Eli had fallen over, holding his stomach as he laughed his ass off. “You . . . you think Mr. Wiggles is . . .” He was laughing too hard to finish as he thought of Mr. Wiggles. “Oh my god. Oh my god. You’re jealous of—” He broke off to snicker some more.

“What? No. I’m not jealous.”

Eli grabbed his face and kissed him. “That wasn’t as convincing as you seem to think it was. What are you doing for Thanksgiving?”

“Uh . . .” Nolan shook his head, possibly to clear it at Eli’s abrupt change of topic. “I don’t know. Having dinner with my dad, probably. Why?”

“Okay.” Eli kissed him again, fast and hard. “Do that. But first come to Hughes Thanksgiving.”