Chapter Three October #3
There, in black-and-gold glory, was Brady Fucking Jensen in a damned Penguins jersey.
Brady frowned in confusion. He held out his arms and looked down at himself as if he couldn’t understand the problem with his outfit. “What’s wrong?”
“You’re wearing a Pens jersey,” Nick said with an exasperated sigh.
“Yeah…?”
“Why are you in a Pens jersey?”
“…because I’m from Pittsburgh?”
And suddenly Nick wished he could simultaneously set himself on fire and get swallowed up by a sinkhole. Stupidly cute, amazingly frustrating, inconvenient crush Brady was also apparently his mortal enemy, and he hadn’t even known it.
It makes sense, he thought as the pieces clicked into place. Odd accent that was vaguely midwestern with hints of something stronger. Disdain for how bad Marylanders handled snow. Obvious tolerance to cold weather. Randomly dropping Crosby’s name. Far too good at hockey and skating for a local boy.
Penguins fan, apparently.
Everybody’s got faults, he told himself. Nobody’s perfect.
You mean he’s still hot, a voice not unlike Jenna’s countered.
I mean… he is… He even looks hot in that ugly-ass jersey, so…
Nick shook his head to clear his racing thoughts. This was not a big deal. Except…
“You know we’re going to a Caps game, right?”
Brady crossed his hands in front of his chest defiantly. “Yeah, I’d figured that one out.”
“And they’re playing the Devils.”
“Also aware of that.”
He waited for a moment, hoping Brady would magically understand the point Nick was trying to make without him having to spell it out. Instead, he continued to stare at Nick like he questioned his sanity.
“You can’t wear… that.” He motioned toward Brady’s jersey.
Brady looked down again. “I don’t follow. I’m going to a hockey game, and I’m wearing a hockey jersey.”
“You’re going to a hockey game, yes, but you’re not going to a Pens game. You can’t wear some rando jersey for a team that’s not even going to be there!”
“Why not?”
“Why not!?” His voice rose an octave as he struggled to find the right words to convey how not okay this was. “You’re just asking for someone to spill beer on you. Possibly me.”
“Why would someone spill beer on me?”
“You know that our teams are rivals, right?”
“…all right, point taken.”
“Good, so you’ll take it off?”
Brady bit his lip. He buried his hands in his pockets and rocked back and forth on his heels. “I dunno, man. It just doesn’t feel right to go to a hockey game without a jersey on.”
“So let me get this straight: your concern here is that people might think you don’t know hockey, and it’s not getting beer poured over your head while being publicly shamed?”
“I feel like that’s an oversimplification—” He stopped when he caught Nick’s withering glare.
Although clearly amused by Nick’s reaction, he let it go with an eye roll.
“Yes, I am more concerned about people thinking I just randomly walked in off the street. I’m a hockey fan like everyone else there. ”
A glorious idea occurred to him.
“For real? So if I grabbed you another jersey, you’d wear it?”
“I’m not wearing a Caps jersey.” Eyes narrowed suspiciously, he added, “Or a Devils jersey.”
“Huh? Ew, no. Hang on.” He stepped back inside and motioned for Brady to follow. Brady did, though he looked out of his element.
Adorable, Nick’s brain helpfully supplied.
“Wait here,” Nick called as he took the stairs two at a time. His closet was still open, and the jersey he wanted was toward the front, a favorite despite him only getting the opportunity to wear it once every four years.
He found Brady hadn’t moved an inch out of the foyer. He stood there stiffly and was looking at the artwork hanging by the door, two pieces Terry had given him years ago.
“Here!” And then he chucked the jersey at Brady.
Brady caught it easily and held it out to inspect it.
Team USA was emblazoned on the front, two gold circles embroidered on the right sleeve next to the years 1960 and 1980.
“That okay?”
Brady’s face lit up. “Olympic jersey? Where’d you get this?” He was already pulling off his Pens one (and thankfully had a shirt on underneath, Nick could not handle anymore right now) and replacing it with the new one.
Nick just managed to stop himself from licking his lips. Brady wearing his clothes? Yum. “I, uh…” He swallowed when he noticed how dry his mouth was. “I got it for my birthday back during Sochi. Not as pretty as some of the other jerseys, but still the good ol’ red, white, and blue.”
With more care than he spent on his game jerseys, Brady carefully pulled it into place and smoothed out the material.
Gorgeous.
“Nah man, it’s awesome. Wait, there’s no Caps player on the back, is there?”
“No, it’s blank.”
“Then thanks.”
“No problem.”
They stood there, too close together in the too-small space. The tension in his gut ratcheted up a notch, and Nick wanted to explode or puke or do anything to relieve it before he did something stupid. He couldn’t turn away; he was trapped in Brady’s icy blue gaze and soft smile.
Luckily, Brady blinked first and turned away to check his phone. “We should head out, right? Drinks in thirty.”
“Yeah, let’s go. You sure that’s an acceptable alternative to…” Nick picked up the discarded Pens jersey to read the back. The number 68 almost made him laugh. “Jagr? For real?”
Brady’s cheeks flushed red as he snatched the jersey, then carefully folded it.
“He’s one of the all-time greatest,” he said defensively.
“Maybe in Pittsburgh, but not when he played for the Caps.”
“That’s some revisionist history there. He scored seventy-nine points with the Caps—”
“And how many with the Pens?”
“More, but how many of your boys are scoring you that many points?”
“Now?” Nick asked incredulously. “It’s a different era, as Jagr himself has said. The goalies are better. It takes a Kucherov or a McDavid to get in the hundreds—”
“I’m not hearing an answer to how many of your boys are getting you 70-plus.”
“Because it’s a loaded question that you’re trying to use to misrepresent the huge drop in production!”
Brady’s eyes flashed, unreadable but expressive, and then he took a step back. “Yinz Caps fans and your excuses. You got a place I can put this or…?” He held up the jersey.
“Did you just yinz in my house?” Nick dramatically gagged. “I mean, I haven’t cleaned out the fireplace for the winter, but trash is in the kitchen.”
“Har fucking har. I’ll put it back on if you want—”
“Ugh, fine. I’ll put it in my hockey bag and get it back to you next game.”
“Thank you,” Brady said smugly and handed it over. Nick held it by two fingers at arm’s length and hoped some sort of Pittsburgh-ness wouldn’t rub off on him.
*
On the Metro, Nick’s heart finally settled down. The cool air on the walk had cleared his head enough that he was back in control and wouldn’t make a damn fool of himself.
Well… he still might, but the odds were improving in his favor.
“So what came first, the Jagr fan or the Jagr Bombs?”
Brady snorted a laugh. “The Jagr Bombs. I was undecided about which division or team to join, so I looked over the list of teams. Saw the name and logo, fell in love, and told the commish I wouldn’t play for any other team.”
“Aww, and you and Jagr lived happily ever after,” Nick teased. “Did you really not know about the jersey thing?”
“This unwritten rule that restricts which jerseys you can wear to an NHL game?” Brady shrugged. “I did not, no.”
“How, though? I assume you’ve been to games before.”
“Yeah, but… I’ve never been to a game outside of Pittsburgh.”
“Really? How long have you lived here?”
Brady made a face as he did some quick mental math. “Like three and a half years, I think.”
“Three—years!?” he said incredulously. “Jesus fucking Christ, dude, how have you not seen a game here? Not even the Pens?”
Brady stared at the passing scenery out the window, most of it obscured into complete darkness, and didn’t answer right away.
“I didn’t have anyone to go to games with,” Brady said eventually.
“Oh.” There was more to it than that, Nick was sure; there was a somberness underneath the confession, something that spoke to a deeper truth than the one he was actually sharing. “Well, now you’re stuck with a whole team of weirdos who will go with you to pretty much any game you want.”
That earned him a small, shy smile. More importantly, Brady turned back to him instead of avoiding eye contact.
“Yeah? Think that applies to Pens games?”
“Seriously, any game. I will personally go with you if you can’t find someone else to tolerate your Jagr-loving ass when the Pens are in town. Just so long as you’re not one of those fans that sings on the Gallery steps after games.”
“I have no idea what that means.”
Nick tried to keep his expression neutral.
It was a long-standing tradition among Penguins fans in the DC area to sing on the Portrait Gallery steps after Pens/Caps games if the Pens won.
Nick had seen it firsthand, wearing the defeat like a brand and wanting nothing more than to shout at the gathered crowd to shut up.
“…then let’s pretend I didn’t bring it up.”
Brady narrowed his eyes and pulled out his phone. Nick pretended not to notice as Brady did a quick search, and then pretended it didn’t give him butterflies when Brady’s face lit up.
“Oh, I’m singing,” he said as he pocketed his phone. “On an unrelated topic, you mind showing me where the National Portrait Gallery is?”
“I’m gonna pretend I didn’t hear any of that.”
“So I just gotta ask someone else on the team. You did give me the perfect disguise. They’ll just think I’m a curious resident and not an incognito Pens fan.”
That startled a laugh out of Nick. “You’re a monster.”
*
By the time they got to their seats after drinks, they’d missed the anthem. Disappointing, since Nick had wanted to see Brady’s bafflement at the crowd gleefully screaming RED! and OH! with the lyrics. Their seats were amazing, though, and he soon fell into the rhythm of watching the game.
The Caps eked out a 2-to-1 win. Nick actually missed the game-winning goal while he was in the concourse with Brady grabbing another beer.
“Uh…” Brady said when the goal horn sounded and saw Nick looking longingly toward their seats. “Whoops?”
“Not a big deal,” Nick mumbled. “Rather it happen and I don’t see it than I see all the non-goals getting not-scored.”
It wasn’t a big deal, in no small part because Brady kept receiving compliments for his jersey. They couldn’t walk through the concourse without someone coming up to talk to him or chanting USA USA USA! loudly.
“Sick jersey,” a random stranger said as he held out a hand that Brady easily accepted in a handshake. “Think USA’ll take gold again soon?”
“Un-fucking-likely unless they get a good coach,” Brady said smoothly. It was the type of question Nick got all the time when he wore it, one he expected, yet Brady answered it as easily as if it really were his jersey.
“Fuck, ain’t that the truth,” the stranger said. Nick stepped back, biting his lip to keep from smiling, and got them a couple more beers while Brady and the guy talked Olympic woes.
Nick was thrilled to see Brady having fun despite having to “watch the stupid Caps and not a real team.” Every time there was a small pull at the corner of his lips when he got to talk hockey with an enthusiastic stranger, Nick would pat himself on the back, knowing he’d been the one to orchestrate a positive experience for Brady after years without attending a game.
Drinks post-game at a dive bar in Chinatown had the two of them pressed side to side in a small booth while Gail kept them all supplied with booze.
“Don’t spill on my jersey,” Nick warned after a boisterous group toast.
He’s in my clothes, he said to himself.
“You want me to take it home and wash it if it needs cleaned?” Brady offered. The words slurred together in a way that brought out the Pittsburgh in his accent.
Oh my fucking God, it’s going to smell like him, all drunk and sweaty…
“Nah, dude, it’s fine,” he said over his inconvenient thoughts. He might or might not have been hanging off Brady’s arm as he said it.
It was a wonderful disaster of a night, especially when Nick woke up with a headache the next morning, cuddling a musky, wrinkled Team USA jersey.
The next day, when he was too hungover to think better of it, he texted his cousins with the one irrefutable truth he’d learned from last night.
He didn’t have a crush on Brady Derek Jensen; he was completely fucking smitten.