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"You're never nervous."

"I'm nervous tonight."

He nods slowly. He shifts his weight on the crutches. I see him wince.

"Can I come in?" he asks. "I can say it out here, if you want. I can say all of it right here in the hall. But I've been standing on one leg for twenty minutes and Anand's going to kill me."

I step back. He comes in.

He sits on the orange couch. I help him get his leg up on the coffee table, because he can't do it himself. His whole leg is stiff as a board inside the brace. I put a puck pillow under his heel.

Then I sit on the other end of the couch. One cushion between us. The same gap as the first night in his gray apartment, when I made the list.

"Okay," I say. "Say it."

He takes a breath.

"I told Pruitt," he says. "This morning. In his office. With Nadia and Priya and Moretti there. I told them the picture was us. I told them I lied in the suite. I told them it wasn't a mistake. I said it's the only thing I've ever done that wasn't."

I don't move.

"I told them I'm bisexual," he says. "I told my mother yesterday. On the phone. Before game six. She asked if you were kind to me." His voice breaks, just a little, on the last word. "I told Webb in his minivan an hour ago. I told Anand, sort of. He guessed."

"Owen—"

"I'm not done." He's looking at his hands. "I told Pruitt I won't say anything about you. Not your name. Not what we are. Not how you feel. I told them if anybody asks me, I'll say it was me in that picture, and I'm bisexual, and I lied, and I'm sorry. But the rest of it's yours. If you ever want to say it. I'm not taking that from you too."

I can't say anything. My throat's closed.

"I also lied to you," he says. "In April."

I go still.

"The knee." He finally looks at me. "It wasn't wear and tear. The MRI in April. The meniscus was torn all the way through. The cartilage was gone. Anand told me if I kept playing, it could go all the way, and I'd need a whole new knee. At thirty-five. He told me to shut it down, and I didn't. I told Moretti it was managed. I told you it was nothing. You said rule two, and I looked you in the eye and lied."

"I know," I say. "Dana told me."

He closes his eyes.

"It's in the drawer," he says. "By my front door. The MRI report. Under the Thai menu. Right on top of your Frostline folder." He laughs, and it's not a laugh. "Two secrets in one drawer. That's what I thought, that night. His and mine. Like they were the same thing. Like I was the same as you."

"You weren't."

"No. You were hiding something you didn't want. I was hiding something I was scared of." He opens his eyes. "You threw yours out. I heard. Pruitt told me. The whole gay hockey player."

"I didn't wait for you," I say. "I'm sorry. I should have told you. I just⁠—"

"Don't you dare be sorry." His voice is fierce. "Don't you dare. It's the bravest thing I've ever heard. It's braver than anything I've done in seventeen years."

We look at each other across the cushion.

"I said after the Final," he says. "About the knee. I promised you. The morning after the last game, I'd tell you everything." He swallows. "I didn't want to wait. I didn't want there to be one more after. You were right. There's always going to be a next thing to wait for, if I let there be. So I'm not letting there be."

He reaches into the pocket of his T-shirt. He takes out a folded piece of paper. It's hotel notepaper. I can see the logo on the fold. Nashville. The glass hotel. The eighth floor.

He holds it out to me.

I take it. My hands are shaking. I unfold it.