Chapter Six January #3
There was an honest-to-God line to get drinks, and all anyone could talk about was the gifts.
“Beautiful sweater!”
“This is a limited-edition beer!”
“Do you even bake? When are you going to use those cookie cutters?”
“I can’t believe you guys think my gear stinks!”
Nick and Brady took it all in, talking more about their own holiday outings with family and friends rather than the gifts.
Their carefree attitude caught up with them moments later when they went back to the lounge and found every single reasonable spot already occupied by one, two, or, in some cases, three people.
“Floor?” Brady suggested after taking a swig of his beer.
“Guess so.”
They huddled together on the ground, elbows occasionally bumping, completely in each other’s space.
During the game, it was all safe talk—great move from a player, awesome save, bad reffing that resulted in a make-up call, the usual general hockey BS that kept Nick focused on things other than Brady’s lips or how unruly his hair was getting even under his hat—but it still managed to make his insides gooey.
Could be the hot chocolate… or the beer…
Then Brady practically leapt into the air with GG and Lexi at an amazing breakaway goal from Mitch Marner.
They enthusiastically high-fived each other, and it was adorable to see Brady happy about NHL hockey without annoying the people around him.
He’d sometimes earned them weird looks at the bar when the Pens scored and he enthusiastically whistled or cheered.
Now it was happy Brady with nothing holding him back.
Nope. Not the drinks, then.
But Nick already knew that, didn’t he?
*
Moving forward with Brady seemed to be a game of inches. A gift here, his familiar presence within reach there, time alone in the parking lot after games, but never too much at once.
But every time he thought about asking for more, he’d chicken out.
There were times when he felt they had something good going…
and then Brady would clam up. On the bench during games, he’d pull away from the friendly hand to his shoulder.
In the rink lobby, he’d turn down the offer to go to Krazy Dan’s.
One time it was in the locker room, the two of them sharing a beer and laughing at some stupid meme on Nick’s phone.
Donno had asked what was so funny, and Brady’s smile had disappeared, and he’d pretended it was nothing.
If it was the two of them, Brady didn’t seem to mind proximity. As soon as an audience appeared…
Brady was a private person, and the bobblehead was a little too public.
It was just in front of the team, but Nick figured that was enough to warrant taking a step back.
So despite how happy Brady had seemed about the gift, despite how well Nick thought things were going, Nick backed off after the Winter Classic.
He didn’t push to meet up for drinks or hockey, and he certainly didn’t text to ask where Brady had ended up putting his little Jagr. He let Brady be so he could readjust to his life away from Pittsburgh. If Brady needed a lifeline, he’d text to ask for one.
Besides, they had a game in a few days.
Not that he needed to wait that long, apparently.
Jensie from Hockey (2:17 p.m.)
our game tonight isn’t until midnight (lame)
wanna get dinner before the game? it’s Wheaton so we don’t have to rush or anything
Nick (2:39 p.m.)
yeah i could do dinner
meet @8 at krazy dan’s?
Jensie from Hockey (3:04 p.m.)
are you implying that we need three hours to eat dinner??
Nick (3:11 p.m.)
a.) the service is slooooow so yeah that is entirely possible
b.) we’ll have to leave with time to change etc so really it’s more like 2.5 hours
c.) driiiiinks (i owe you a pitcher remember?)
Jensie from Hockey (3:59 p.m.)
you make a valid argument
see you at eight
These non-dates were really a trip. There were plenty of times Nick had gone out with a group or a lone friend and not had an issue. There’d never been a situation where he was concerned about how romantic versus platonic every interaction was.
With Brady, he overanalyzed everything.
He left Nick the good seat that didn’t wobble: gentlemanly for sure, but that seemed to be Brady’s default.
He ordered wings: definitely not romantic. There was nothing even remotely hot about watching someone dig into wings and get sauce all over the place.
He ordered drinks for both of them, the kind of display of dominance that a lot of guys thought was romantic or chivalrous or whatever. It was also kind of sweet that he’d paid enough attention to know what type of beer Nick liked.
From the vast array of five beers the place had on tap.
Brady spent part of dinner on his phone with an adorable frown on his face. Ignoring your date wasn’t great manners it’s not a date it’s not a date, but he did make an effort to apologize about a “stupid work thing” that kept following him home.
Later, he sang along to “My Name is Jonas,” loud and offkey and completely uncaring. That wasn’t romantic or platonic, but damn if it didn’t give Nick goosebumps.
“You always serenade people before games?” Nick teased. It wasn’t like this was his favorite song or anything. And it certainly didn’t matter that, despite being an octave off, Brady’s voice did things to him.
Brady snorted. “Only when it’s Weezer. Or maybe Queen.”
They entered the locker room, giggly despite their best efforts.
They were, in fact, sober; Nick wouldn’t have let them drive if they weren’t, and Brady was too much of a stickler for the rules to let them attempt the two-mile trip if he’d felt impaired.
Still, even without alcohol as an excuse, Nick couldn’t help himself.
His cheeks were rosy, his mood far too good, and the buzz clouding his head was completely to do with the company and not the lingering alcohol.
“You guys look real chummy,” Mags said when they took the last free space in the locker room. “Grab a drink before the game?”
“Yeah, actually—” Nick started.
“I can tell,” he said with disapproval. “You better play top-notch, y’hear?”
“You can tell?” Brady mimicked. Nick’s and Mags’s jaws dropped at the uncharacteristic show of annoyance.
Nick watched in awe as Brady gave Mags a withering glare.
“We’re fine, dude. It’s a midnight game during the middle of the week, and you’re worried because we had a couple of beers with dinner?
I don’t hear you checking to make sure everyone took a damn nap after work. ”
To his credit, Mags only looked slightly intimidated.
“If we don’t make the playoffs ’cuz of y’all, I’m gonna be pissed,” Mags said, then looked Brady dead in the eye. They had a mini staring competition; Mags blinked first.
“Literally everyone makes the playoffs!” Brady shot back smugly. “It’s the seeding we have to worry about.”
Mags ignored him and left for the rink.
“You believe that shit?” Brady grumbled. He let his bag slip from his shoulder to the ground and angrily unzipped it. “Calling me out like I don’t get at least a point a game. He’s a minus five on the season, I’m fucking calling it.”
Not sure how to navigate a pissed-off Brady, Nicky offered a smile. “Don’t some teams actually drink on the bench?”
“Right!?” Brady pulled his hoodie off with more force than necessary, completely forgetting to remove his hat first; it got stuck inside. Digging it out only seemed to fire him up more.
Nick chuckled but didn’t say anything. He considered things as he changed into his hockey shorts, got his shin guards on, taped them up. When enough time had passed, he asked, “You ever been on a team that drinks on the bench?”
“Hmm?” Brady said. He’d calmed down as he’d fallen into the rhythm of changing. “Oh, uh, yeah back when I was in college. I did once and ended up getting a skate to my face under the visor ’cuz I fell. Probably not related, but it’s not like I’m doing it again to find out.”
“You took a skate blade to the face?” His jaw dropped. “Did it bleed a lot? Oh my God, do you have a hockey scar!?”
“It did bleed a lot. They made me leave the ice to get it cleaned up, and then they wouldn’t let me back on because there was blood all over my jersey. It washed out, though.”
“Are you serious?!” This was the most exciting hockey-related story he’d heard. How had he only stumbled into it by accident? Oh right. Because Brady wasn’t big on sharing. If Nick had a hockey scar, there would literally be no way to shut him up about it.
Brady gave a half shrug and a nonchalant, “Yeah.”
“You didn’t answer me about having a scar…”
“I got one. It’s small. And it’s under my beard, so you can’t see it.”
Nick really, really, wanted to ask if he’d be able to feel it if he ran his hand through Brady’s beard. Luckily, this conversation hadn’t happened at the bar, or he legit would have.
“Oh,” Nick said instead. “I only have a scar from running into a wall when I was seven.” Yeah, much better than asking to touch his beard.
That startled a laugh out of Brady. “You ran into a wall?”
“I was seven?”
“Not any better, dude. So you decided after being so coordinated that you ran into a wall, you’d become a runner?”
“Uhh… I mean… those aren’t related events…”
“Why’d you decide to start doing hockey? You fall flat on your ass during an open skate?” Brady teased. His eyes crinkled at the edges, the only evidence he spoke out of fond amusement instead of maliciousness.
And still Nick felt defensive, like Brady didn’t think he was any good and couldn’t understand why he bothered to put in the effort.
“I always wanted to play,” he said. “I love watching, and it didn’t really seem right that I’d never participated.
So I worked my butt off to learn, and here I am.
And yes, I’ve probably fallen on my ass a hundred times during open skates.
Isn’t there something to be said about always getting back up, though? ”