Chapter Three October #2
Thirty seconds later, there was, in fact, an “incident.”
Little Dube stripped the puck off GG and went on a breakaway.
Or at least he would have, if Brady hadn’t caught up to him in a few strides.
It took seconds to run him down, cut him off, and then Brady ducked down in front of him and launched the guy into the air as he stood back up.
Little Dube went flying, legs in the air as he cartwheeled over Brady, then slammed onto the ice.
Both benches erupted: the Jagr Bombs in whoops and hollers, the Mother Puckers in protests about the non-call. For his part, Nick stood there, jaw agape and not at all turned on by the display of raw power Brady had casually pulled off for the whole crowd.
Nope. Not even a smidge.
The puck slid harmlessly toward the net, where their goalie Guy promptly dove on it.
The ref blew her whistle as soon as Guy had covered it. Nick watched her skate over to check on Little Dube, who hadn’t moved.
“You okay?” she demanded. Her voice echoed across the ice and made the crowd hush to listen.
A pause. “Uh… yeah?”
“You hurt?”
“N-no.”
“So you can move?”
He stared up at the rafters and sighed deeply. “Yeah. Just need a minute.”
Brady skated over and snowed him.
“Wha—?”
“Yikes, bro,” Brady deadpanned. He towered over where Dube lay dazed on the ice. “Looks like you’re not ready to play with the big boys here in D4. Maybe you should ask the commish about starting a D5 league for ya. Might be more your speed.”
“Jensen, box,” the ref ordered (though Nick noted she’d waited until after he’d said his piece). “Two minutes for checking.”
Brady shrugged and skated off. Usually when someone on the team took a penalty, Brady would talk to the ref about it, ask (politely) for a clarification, and make the team’s case.
It never resulted in the penalty being taken away, but it’d made him popular with the refs for not bitching and for making adjustments afterward to clean up his play and the play of the team.
This time, he didn’t bother. He knew why he’d gotten the penalty—they all did—and he was fine with it.
The rest of the game was surprisingly uneventful.
Little Dube played, but he stayed in line.
His team grumbled and chirped from the bench but didn’t follow up words with actions on the ice.
The Jagr Bombs, delighted that they’d come out looking better in the whole thing, didn’t have any reason to cause trouble.
Little Dube might have even apologized to Brady in the handshake line post-game. There were definite words exchanged, their fistbump to each other perfunctory. Sadly, Nick was too far away to hear a damn thing.
“Did you let him get that breakaway on purpose?” Nick whispered to Brady as they both bent down in the locker room to unlace their skates.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Brady said casually. “I would never let my duties as a defenseman slide like that.”
Nick tried not to grin. Brady’s voice sounded as even as always, but there was a playful spark in his eyes that Nick recognized from conversations over stick-and-puck.
“Uh huh.” He pulled off his right skate and then started to work on the left. “Either way, nice work. I’ve never seen someone go flying like that outside of the NHL.”
“I’ll be handing out autographs on my way to the car. Sign your stick if you want.”
“Fuck off.” Nick playfully shoved him with his shoulder.
“Or your jersey. Be worth big bucks on the D4 fan circuit.”
This time Nick cleaned the leftover ice off his skates and flicked it at Brady. “You’re an asshole.”
“Watch yourself, Nicki. You’re the next one to go flying. Won’t even take a penalty, doing it to a teammate.”
This time Nick choked a little. He would love to have Brady put any moves on him, never mind ones that landed him on his back, and he could feel his cheeks heating up as he thought about it.
“Yeah, no thanks,” he mumbled.
Brady mercifully let it go.
*
Curtis Bennet: I think we should try a team outing! We’ve done a great job finding chemistry on the ice, but I think we can improve that by getting to know each other outside of the rink.
Gregory Smegory: OMFG please tell me we’re gonna go curling or get Zamboni lessons yesss pls pls pls
Gail King: You even old enough to drive a car?? They gonna card you before you get on a Zamboni
Guy Prince: Curling is traditionally a drinking game and you are not old enough to drink, no?
Nick J. Porter: hey have you ever noticed that we’ve got a king AND a prince on the team??
Gail King: ??????
Guy Prince: ??
Gail King: Guy you are fabulous give yourself at least one more crown you deserve it for that shutout last week
Guy Prince: ??
Guy Prince: ??
Curtis Bennet: I will look into local curling and Zamboni lessons for future outings if this one is successful.
Curtis Bennet: As I’m sure you are all aware, the NHL season is underway.
I have a friend who works at Capital One Arena and can get us a good deal on group tickets if we’d like to see a Caps game!
He recommended the Devils game next Friday.
It would be around $50 a ticket if we can get at least ten people to go.
Gregory Smegory: 7-1-0 baaaabes
Gregory Smegory: Count me in for the game ??
Gail King: I’m in
Gail King: Should I expect nosebleed seats?
Alex Warner: I already have tickets but I could meet up before/during/after for beers
Nick J. Porter: in
Donnie Owen: IN let’s go boys!!!
Guy Prince: I am in if I can bring my wife
Curtis Bennet: Spouses, significant others, and other family/friends are welcome :) I just need a headcount by Tuesday morning. The tickets should be in the 200 level. I was hoping we could meet up before the game for drinks. You all have been working so hard that I owe you a round!
Curtis Bennet: And I would be happy to purchase you any non-alcoholic drink of your choice, Young Greg.
Gregory Smegory: Lame
Gregg Cox: I’m in. Would like to bring my son if I could.
Guy Prince: Is it terrible that I thought Young Greg was your son??
Gregg Cox: Yes
Gregory Smegory: …
Gail King: Omfg ??
Brady Derek Jensen: I’m in do we paypal you or you want cash?
Alex Warner: Guy you are single handedly the greatest member on the team holy shit
Curtis Bennet: Glad you can make it Brady! PayPal like for league fees would be preferable, but I can take cash or even a personal check if that works better for people.
Nick J. Porter: i would like to nominate jens as the second greatest for launching little douche into orbit the other night ??
Gail King: Seconded ????
Gregory Smegory: ?????????????????? Jensie for MVP
Nick J. Porter: #jensfornorris
Gail King: Jens for Conn Smythe
Alex Warner: Jensie for President 2020
Brady Derek Jensen: I fucking hate all of you
*
Nearly the whole team agreed to come to the game, and somehow Benns had managed to get their tickets in the same section.
They all planned to meet at a bar outside the arena for a quick drink, and Nick had the impression that people planned on hanging out in DC afterward.
Basically, he was ready for a long night in the city, and he couldn’t be happier about it.
The real development, though, was that Brady and Nick were heading to the game together.
They knew that they lived near each other, and it made sense to take the Metro to the arena.
Why not go together, right? This was the logic Nick had laid out for Brady during their last stick-and-puck.
He was pleased that Brady hadn’t taken much convincing, and he looked forward to seeing Brady in a jersey that wasn’t the Jagr Bombs’ bright blue and orange.
They’d traded addresses and decided that, because Nick was closer to the Metro, Brady would come to his place, and they’d walk down together.
Nick was lowkey freaking the fuck out about it.
This was Brady, and this was Nick’s house. There’d been plenty of times when the boundaries between “hockey” and “personal” blurred. Him stopping by Nick’s house made those boundaries completely nonexistent.
“You’re acting like this is a date,” he said to his reflection.
He had spent the last twenty minutes trying to fix his hair, which didn’t quite line up with this non-date pep talk, and he was almost satisfied that he’d reached the right balance of perfectly coiffed and naturally amazing.
“He’s not even gonna come inside. He’s going to knock, I’m gonna grab my stuff, and we’re going to head out. ”
His reflection didn’t seem to believe a damn word of it.
“Judgy bastard,” he grumbled to himself… about himself.
All he had left was put on his jersey—his lucky, well-worn and still-stained-with-beer-on-one-shoulder Oshie one—and grab his wallet and keys from the table by the door.
He checked his phone to make sure he wasn’t too far behind schedule (honestly, fuck his stupid hair), only to be interrupted by the doorbell ringing.
“Oh, fuck.” He grabbed the first jersey he could find from his closet and pulled it on as he rushed down the stairs of his townhouse. Hopefully it was Oshie, but he’d make do with whatever.
He was still straightening out the sleeves (it was in fact Oshie) when he unlocked the door, swung it open, and—
“Oh my fucking God, what the actual fuck are you wearing?”
There on his doormat stood stupid Brady Derek Jensen with his stupid perfect hair sticking out from a stupid backward baseball cap. He was wearing a pair of tight khakis that looked amazing on his hockey thighs and actual tennis shoes that didn’t look like they’d ever seen a hint of a rainy day.
All of that was fine. Nick could have survived that easily, even if it was outside of the gym clothes he usually saw Brady in.
No, it was the jersey that threw him for a loop.
It wasn’t Oshie or Backstrom or Ovechkin or a defenseman like Carlson or Orlov. It wasn’t one of the less common jerseys like Eller or Orpik. It wasn’t even red. No, it was the epitome of not the Washington Capitals in one jersey.