Chapter Four November #3
“I just come in and sign my name,” Donno said with his hands up in surrender.
“Way more understandable than thinking ‘A’ was part of their names,” Mags said under his breath.
“They should have the letters on their jerseys!” Young Greg nearly shouted. “I’d get that!”
Brady exaggeratedly pulled his jersey over his shoulder pads. On the left shoulder was a patch that was nothing more than the letter “A.”
“Son of a bitch,” Young Greg mumbled. He looked like he was having a mental crisis.
“Anyway,” Brady said as he continued to smooth out his jersey, “I got a few strategies I thought we could work on if you don’t mind me taking over for the next few weeks.”
Benns beamed at him. “I’d be happy to let you share some tips. Or anyone else who thinks they’ve got some good ones.”
“I’m gonna send out a compilation video of the best cellys in hockey,” Lexi said.
“I’m gonna send out a video of goalies losing their shit to get Guy pumped up,” Gail said.
“I’m gonna send out videos of the best hockey fights so we can work on getting some Gordie Howe hat tricks,” added Nick.
“On second thought,” Benns said with as much authority as he could muster, “let’s just have captains and alternate captains sending out videos.”
“Cool,” Brady said. “I’ll send out some info on the neutral-zone trap—”
Loud boos cut him off.
“It works!” he protested. “That strategy wins games!”
“It’s boring, bro,” Young Greg said with an air of disapproval.
“I look forward to your analysis,” Benns said before Young Greg could continue. “Now Jagr Bombs, let’s get out there and play a solid game. Lots of scoring, a defensive second, and then we finish strong in the third.”
They clapped and cheered, Gail whistling loudly and Young Greg pounding on his helmet like a drum.
During the ruckus, Nick slid down the bench to Brady.
He leaned in close and waited for Brady to do the same.
“Have you really always had that patch?” He tapped the “A” with his glove (the only safe way to touch Brady was after several beers each or through layers of hockey gear) for emphasis.
He hadn’t mentioned it during the team meeting, but he’d never noticed it before, either.
Though admittedly, he’d never been particularly interested in Brady’s shoulders.
Brady side-eyed the room before he whispered, “Guy and I just got them this season. I only sewed mine on this week.”
Nick’s head swam as he imagined Brady bent over his jersey, carefully sewing on the patch. It wasn’t crooked or anything; it was perfectly positioned and neatly stitched like it’d come with the jersey.
He swallowed and asked, “You sew?”
Brady shrugged. “I took home ec in middle school, same as everyone.”
Nick accepted this answer and definitely did not imagine the little version of Brady from his profile picture learning to sew.
He also ignored the questions this information naturally brought up: What did he sew in home ec?
Did he sew often? Did this mean he had a little sewing kit at home or did he have to buy one for the patch?
“So,” he said instead, “this is like… your first time ever wearing it.”
“Yep.”
“And you’re not going to tell them that, are you?”
“Nope.”
“You’re awful, and I completely approve.”
“I try.” Brady slipped on his own gloves. “Stick-and-puck this weekend?”
They’d managed to go pretty consistently, almost always to that same Saturday morning one where they’d first run into each other by accident. They might add in a few extra sessions here and there, but Saturday was a guarantee 99% of the time.
Except…
“Uh, I can’t this weekend.”
Brady was halfway up from the bench and fell back down. “What?” He looked adorably befuddled. Betrayed, even.
“Busy on Saturday. I’m doing a 10k. It’s kind of a Turkey Trot even though it’s a bit early in the season for that but whatever. It’s up in Frederick so between the drive, the run, and the obligatory brewery stop, no way I’m back before evening.”
There was a pause as Brady took in this information.
“You run?”
Nick snorted. “Yeah. I actually do two miles before I meet you at the rink on the weekend. Sometimes five if I get up early enough.”
He was allowed to brag, right?
Brady stared at him. “Seriously?”
“Do I not look like I run?”
A firm hand patted him on the head from behind. “I’ve seen you gasping for air on the bench,” GG said as he passed by.
“Fuck off!” Nick called back. “I do distance, not sprints!” He turned to Brady. “Hockey is all sprints.”
His considering look made Nick nervous, though at least it didn’t feel like he was blushing under the scrutiny. He loved and hated these moments when he had Brady’s complete, undivided attention, no hockey or teammates to dilute the power of those blue eyes.
“Yeah,” Brady said slowly. “I get that. I can skate but can’t run for shit.”
“Then I’d like to cordially invite you on a run so I can beat you terribly and know how you feel whenever we’re on the ice together.”
“Uh, hard pass on that. I promise, you skate better than I run.”
“You must run backward.”
“It’d be more productive.” Brady stood up. This time he didn’t stumble. “You know there’s stick-and-puck Sunday afternoon, too.”
“So you want me to compete in a race one day, and then go play hockey with you the next?”
“You’re competing?” Brady gave him an appraising look, almost like he was seeing Nick for the first time. “Like, for best time?”
“That is generally how a race works, yes.”
“I thought you were just running for fun.”
“I mean… kind of?” Nick said. “I’m not gonna place or anything, so in that sense I’m not trying to win. But I’ll do decent, so that’s fun. It’s always nice to pass someone on the course and work your way toward the front.”
Years ago, the story would’ve been different.
He used to run to win, or to get as close to the top as he could.
Then he graduated and moved on to college and work, and it was impossible to keep up that level of training.
Now, he ran more for fun and fitness than with any expectation of winning, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t try, and it didn’t mean he wouldn’t look at his time.
If he didn’t finish within the top 10% of participants within his age bracket, he’d adjust and try harder the next time.
It wasn’t a sustainable way of training as a casual runner, but he still held onto the high expectations of his youth even though, year after year, his times slipped and his interest waned.
Brady nodded like he understood completely. Hell, maybe he did. Maybe it was the same with him and hockey, trying to maintain the high expectations of his youth despite his body and his priorities changing over time.
“Well, good luck I guess,” Brady said. “Don’t get injured, and if your legs aren’t gassed on Sunday, text me about stick-and-puck.”
“Will do.”
*
The drive home from Frederick made it abundantly clear he was not going skating the next day, or the day after.
The race had gone well, all things considered.
He’d met his self-imposed 10% goal, but he’d really had to push himself to do it, and he needed a few days to recover.
Maybe he really was getting too old to be a casual runner who still expected to beat his competition.
Maybe next time he should just run and let his time speak for itself without comparing it to others.
He wanted to break the bad news to Brady about no hockey this weekend, but he was still playing with the wording.
The whole drive, he’d been drafting the text message in his head and hadn’t settled on anything except “no hockey.” It was always a delicate thing, balancing his unrequited crush with his desire to be friends.
He liked Brady. Beyond the crush and the attraction stuff. Brady was a good guy, and a little lonely, if he was reading things right. They could definitely be friends, assuming Nick could get his shit together.
Thus his difficulty now. Texting Brady as soon as he got home sent the wrong message, right?
It wasn’t flirty, but not having the patience to wait until he’d at least showered was a bit much.
It definitely gave off more of a “I missed you today and am sad we can’t hang out tomorrow” vibe rather than a “We’re hockey buddies and oh well sorry no hockey” vibe.
Ugh.
Nick deleted his most recent attempt and put his phone down with more force than necessary.
A shower, dinner, and maybe a beer would help clear his head.
He didn’t bother dressing after his shower, the towel slung low on his hips while he went to grab his phone.
Should’ve charged it, he scolded himself.
He did a quick notification check before plugging it in.
Jenna and his dad would be checking in on his run, and sooner or later he’d get an update from his mom about Thanksgiving plans.
He was also fairly certain he owed Terry a beer for finishing up his practicum.
2 Messages from Jensie from Hockey
Oh.
There were times when he felt like maybe Brady was walking that same line. Trying not to act too forward but not able to fully hold back, either. Nick stared at his phone, dripping water onto the carpet and holding onto that little hope that maybe he and Brady were on the same page after all.
It was like they were playing a game of chicken, secretly hoping the other would blink first.
Or Nick was completely projecting his own situation onto Brady. That fear was the main reason he did his best not to blink.
Jensie from Hockey (8:47 p.m.)
[memegenerator8323a89.jpg]
[Image description: A picture of Forrest Gump with the text “Run Nicky Run” over it.]
Jensie from Hockey (8:48 p.m.)
hope your race went well
lemme know the verdict on hockey (assume you’ll take the day off but figured I’d ask anyway)
Nick smiled as he read (and reread) the messages. Ugh, the sweet bastard had checked up on him post-race, something even his family hadn’t gotten around to doing yet.
Nick (9:05 p.m.)
pretty well. met my personal goals so it’s a success