Chapter One August #4
When he stepped out onto the ice, all he heard was a bunch of teenagers laughing and pucks hitting the far glass.
The most embarrassing part was how they were dressed.
Nick had suited up in his full game gear complete with team jersey.
It’d never occurred to him to wear anything less; now he felt overdressed.
These kids maybe had one full set of gear between them.
Sure, they all had gloves and skates, but only half of them had helmets and most were in jeans or snow pants.
A few wore Caps jerseys, though there were clearly no pads underneath; the choice was more about the player they wore than the protective gear it held in place.
Guess I’m sticking to this half of the ice…
He turned his attention to the empty ice under the scoreboard, tested out his skates with a quick loop around the circles, and nearly tripped over himself when he caught a glimpse of familiar orange and blue.
He’d only seen the group of kids when he hit the ice, but there was another adult in full gear to match his own.
The Jagr Bombs jersey was welcoming enough; the large JENSEN 68 on the back was somehow way better.
Granted, there were players on the team who’d been friendlier toward Nick since he joined, but Brady had them all beat when it came to actual talent.
If he’d had to pick someone to practice with and learn from, it’d be Brady, and he hoped Brady would be open to working together now.
Nick made a beeline for Brady, who was patiently stick handling in front of the home bench.
“I’m glad I’m not the only one who dresses in full gear for these things.”
He’d come to associate “good players” with the kind of lackadaisical approach to gear he saw in gangly teenagers and even the older players who couldn’t be bothered to suit up for anything less than a real game (complete with bitching about how “in their day they didn’t need helmets”).
Nick already felt better knowing Brady did the same as him.
“I’m not fucking crazy,” Brady scoffed, glaring at the group of kids hanging out by the net. “People dick around, take slapshots without looking up, try to start pick-up games, make damn fools of themselves. If someone else is on the ice, I gear up.”
Nick bit back a grin. “Someone hit you with a puck at one of these things, didn’t they?”
“Like five pucks!” Brady said emphatically. “I ain’t getting bruises because some dumb guy can’t aim.”
Nick saw the look of righteous indignation on Brady’s face and tried not to laugh.
It’d probably come out as a high-pitched squeak, and he didn’t want to ruin his streak of actual coherent words now that they were having a real conversation.
He did, however, file the moment away with all the other moments when Brady showed a spark of personality. Something more than “hockey robot.”
“I’ll keep that in mind. No shooting the puck in your general direction.”
That earned him an honest-to-God smile.
“What brings you here, Nicki?” The way Brady said the nickname was downright sinful.
He shrugged to suppress a shiver. “Practice. I want to do better.” He frowned. That question went both ways. “Why are you here?”
“I want to do better,” Brady shot back, without even a hint of teasing.
“Seriously? You’re the best on the team. You skate circles around the rest of us and you outscore us, which is ridiculous since you play D. What’s left to practice?”
Brady shrugged, idly bouncing the puck off the blade of his stick. “Doesn’t mean I can’t do better.”
He tossed the puck to Nick; Nick barely caught it in his glove and most definitely did not almost fall over doing so. Which, no fair, Brady was using a stick and still Nick couldn’t keep up with his hand-eye coordination.
“Jens for Norris,” he said. It amused him to imagine Brady winning the coveted trophy for best defenseman, and he wondered if their league did anything similar. Probably not, which was a damn shame.
Brady twirled a finger in the air. “Send in your votes now. I’ll start booking flights to Vegas.”
Between the dry, deadpan delivery and the unimpressed look, it was so fucking hilarious Nick couldn’t help laughing this time.
“Why you here?” Brady asked again. He nudged Nick with the butt of his stick. “Just for fun? Or you got something specific you wanna work on?”
“Oh,” Nick said. He hadn’t actually come with a plan, at least not a plan that would incorporate another person, and he was a little embarrassed to admit it. “No, no plan. I was gonna work on carrying the puck. And some skating, I guess.”
“You carry the puck just fine.”
Was that a compliment? Fuck, his cheeks were burning so bad he wondered how the ice wasn’t melting. “I still lose it,” he mumbled.
“So? Even Crosby loses it sometimes.”
Nick blinked, completely thrown off to hear the name Crosby within the hallowed halls of the Wheaton Ice Arena, walls decked out in red Caps banners.
“Uhhh…” It took a second to recover. “But he probably doesn’t lose it once a shift, and he still practices on a regular basis.”
“Fair.” There was a definitive note of approval in Brady’s voice. “You wanna do some passing practice with me?”
“You pass just fine.”
Brady gave him A Look. Right. It wasn’t for Brady’s benefit.
“Yeah, okay.”
They fell into a simple but surprisingly rigorous practice. Passing while carrying the puck, stick handling, one timers, cross overs, and then Brady talked him into doing suicides right into the middle of the teenagers’ pick-up game.
“You’re insane!” Nick shouted after him as he weaved in and out of the kids.
He was winded, his legs ached, but he was not going to call uncle and quit before Brady.
It was a pigheaded move that reminded him of his track days, but watching how easily Brady did everything made him want to step up and beat him.
Even if there was no way that was happening today or tomorrow or anytime soon, going 100% today was the first step.
Snow flew as he slammed to a stop a few feet short of the boards. The Zamboni was humming in the corner, a sure sign their time was up, and Brady stood there cool as a fucking cucumber, like he hadn’t put Nick through an intense workout.
“Not bad, Nicki,” he praised, and fuck him for not even being out of breath. “You don’t even look like a new skater anymore.”
“Fuck off.” Nick’s smile belied the anger of his words. “If I don’t score a goal after this, I’ll be pissed.”
“You want a goal? I’ll get you a goal.”
“Sure, Gretzky.”
The Zamboni door swung open and the goal horn sounded, an unsubtle get the fuck off the ice. Nick and Brady obediently skated off while the kids ignored the warning.
“I’m serious. I’ll get you a goal.”
“What, I crash the net and you bounce it off my face or something?” He wobbled on the carpet as he stepped off the ice. “I’m looking a little higher than garbage goals.”
“Big words from a guy with no goals.”
“Ouch.”
“Tell me I’m wrong.”
Nick gave him two middle fingers as he backed into the locker room. Or at least he tried to; he wasn’t sure the gloves adequately conveyed the gesture.
“Garbage goals win games,” Brady added. “Do not besmirch the good name of garbage goals.”
“First of all, ‘besmirch’? Fucking SATs are over. Second of all, it literally has ‘garbage’ in the name. There’s no ‘besmirching’ necessary.”
It was hard to tell as Brady pulled off his jersey, but it looked like he was smiling. Again. He’d seen Brady smile more in the past hour than he had in nearly four weeks of playing together.
It was a good look on him.
“You want a goal or not?” It was slightly unfair of Brady to expect an intelligible answer from Nick while he was essentially shirtless.
You’ve seen him in less clothing than that. You’re in the same locker room undressing like one or two times a week. Get over it.
…though usually the rest of the team is there. And I’m not talking to him. Normally there’s nothing to give away when my eyes slip.
“Yeah,” Nick grumbled. “I want a goal.”
“Good. Fuck that ‘garbage goal’ bull; you can get that from the Gregs. We’re going for top shelf.”
“But you said—”
“I didn’t say shit. You did. I’ll push up when I get a chance. You make sure you keep up; once they overcommit to covering me—”
“Full of yourself much?”
“Eat me. They’ll cover me. When they do, be ready for a pass and aim. You think you can handle that?”
A vivid image of himself lining up the shot and completely missing the puck came to his mind. “Uh… maybe?”
“Okay, then maybe you’ll get a goal. Keep in mind, we can only try this, like, once per game, or they’ll catch on, so maybe try to score the first time around?”
A warm feeling settled in Nick’s chest. This was the most he’d ever heard Brady talk to anyone, ever; Nick was seeing a whole new side of him.
Apparently, the way into Brady’s good graces was through actually caring about hockey.
He’d opened up into someone warm and almost playful, a glimpse at who he was underneath Tough Hockey Guy.
“Well, thanks. For the possible goal and for practicing with me today. Whatever I was going to do on my own, this was a million times better.”
“Ditto. Only so much you can do by yourself.”
“Right!?” An idea hit him, one that he wasn’t sure how to articulate without making a fool of himself. “You, uh… you come here a lot?” Well, that wasn’t it. Nick winced and immediately backtracked. “I mean—do you practice—?”
“Oh for fuck’s sake.” Brady reached over and snatched Nick’s phone out of his bag.
“What are you doing?” Nick asked dumbly. He went on his tiptoes to try and see the screen as Brady’s fingers flew across it.
“I’m giving you my fucking number. What does it look like I’m doing?” He handed the phone back. “I’ll text you when I skate. I live around here so I come every weekend and sometimes during the week.”
“Oh.” Nick clutched his phone to his chest. “Yeah, me too. Live around here I mean.”
“Good, then I’ll see you around. Also, you should probably put a password on that thing.” He pointed to Nick’s phone, and there was a glimmer of amusement in his eyes. “Not everyone’s as nice as me.”
“Right. I’ll get right on that,” he muttered through a mouth full of cotton and his ears buzzing slightly.
It wasn’t until later that he checked his phone. There was a new contact and a new text message.
Jensie From Hockey
Nick (10:01 a.m.)
Nicki’s number, text for hockey @ wheaton
Nice. Looked like he’d made a new friend.
A really hot, super-talented hockey friend.
What could go wrong?