Chapter Nine March #2
It was a stupid stray thought, and he spent an entire shift trying not to think too hard on the comparison.
Three minutes left in the game, the score still a painful 3 to 5, they got a neutral zone draw. Benns was on the ice, and he quickly circled back to yell instructions to Guy.
“Oh shit,” GG said. “He’s gonna pull the goalie.”
The ref blew the whistle impatiently, and Benns didn’t have time to share his master plan with the rest of them.
“Who goes out?” Mags said.
“Is he even going to try it?” Lexi whispered, his eyes glued on Guy.
“They have to win it first anyway—”
Benns won the draw, and they entered the zone. Seconds later, Guy came sprinting to the bench.
Lexi opened the door for him, and on the other side of the bench, Brady opened the other one.
And shoved Nick out.
“Wha—?”
“Alternate Captain. Executive decision. Go fucking score a goal.”
Brady was the better choice. Brady scored goals like they were nothing, and Nick had struggled to get the few points he had.
He wanted to turn around and argue that this was a bad idea, but it clicked.
They’d already lost the game. This was Benns, this was the whole team, giving him the chance at the hat trick.
Nick’s feet cooperated, and he dashed over to the far end of the ice. He dipped in and tried to ignore the other team’s bench screaming EMPTY NET! at the top of their lungs.
Nick parked himself in front of the goal. The goalie barked an order to one of the defensemen, who did his best to keep Nick out of the crease. Every inch Nick gained, he had to fight for, or he risked falling flat on his ass.
Behind the goal line, Donno fought with an enormous defenseman.
They’d eaten up twenty seconds battling for the puck, all twenty seconds of which Nick had been pushed and shoved and harassed.
Miracle of miracles, Donno stripped the guy of the puck.
They made eye contact, then Donno sent him the pass.
It was a shitty angle. Nick had been forced so far to the blocker side that it was a stupid, greedy, reckless shot to take.
The goalie was pressed against the goal post, not even a speck of daylight visible.
If Nick took the shot, the most likely outcome was the puck bouncing harmlessly away and the other team stealing it to burn up the remainder of what precious little time was left.
Never in a million years would Nick think it was a good idea to take this shot.
None of this stopped Nick’s stupid body from swinging at the incoming puck.
He cringed internally when he made contact, assuming it would go right into the goalie’s chest or maybe go wide and cost them all of Donno’s hard work.
He’d screamed at his TV when professional NHL players had taken the same damn shot and missed. He’d sworn he would never do that.
And that was why he stood there, dumbfounded, when the puck squeezed through the goalie’s pads and went in.
The seconds leading up to the goal, he’d lived in slow motion. Every inch the puck had traveled, every muscle of his body reacting while his brain was blissfully empty, all of it had taken years to happen.
As soon as the goal hit the back of the net? Time sped up.
There was a whirlwind of motion. Screams, cheers, someone bodily tackling Nick to the ice, and then about six other people dogpiling on top of him.
His ears were ringing, and his face hurt from smiling (along with his back because ow, he’d fallen onto the ice).
In the distance, somewhere outside the mass of bodies pressed against him, he heard shouting.
“You haven’t even tied it! This goal doesn’t even matter!”
The person on the other team yelling did nothing to shut up the Jagr Bombs. If anything, they got louder.
It took the refs whistling and physically pulling them up to make them stop the celebration. There were helmets on the ice—the only “hats” available mid-game—and the Jagr Bombs picked them up as they were shooed back to their side of the rink.
The biggest surprises were Guy, out of net and among those who’d tossed a helmet in homage, and Brady, who shoved a puck into his hand.
When Nick looked at it hours later when he’d gotten home, the outside was taped and a hastily scrawled message was written in black marker.
Nick J. Porter / hat trick / Jagr Bombs v Toothless Wonders / March 4, 2020 / first team hat trick / first player hat trick
In that moment on the ice, though, Nick clutched it to his chest and allowed Donno to guide him back to the bench. There was still a game to play, after all, and they needed fresh players.
They didn’t win the game. It ended 4 to 5 despite their best efforts, but they couldn’t have been happier.
The team demanded speeches from Benns and Nick, they agreed on an impromptu team outing at the bar a few blocks away (notably, to Nick, the same bar where Gail had accosted him a few days ago), and no one passing by would ever have guessed this was a team who’d lost. This was a team high on the euphoria of a comeback.
Granted, it wasn’t a complete comeback. Two beers and plenty of toasts in his honor later, Nick didn’t think the win mattered.
It wasn’t just a moment for the team, it was a moment for Brady and Nick to reconnect through hockey, the thing that had brought them together in the first place, and it was a complete success regardless of what went down in the scorebook.
“You did good,” Brady said drunkenly as he fell into his Uber later that night. “Score more, ’kay?”
“Sure,” Nick agreed. He was sober enough that he could drive, and he’d already helped three other people navigate the Uber app to get home safely. Brady was the most adorable. Not that Nick was biased. “Get some sleep, drink some water, and maybe take an aspirin?”
“Only if you score more.”
“I am ninety-five percent sure I will never score a hat trick again in my entire life, but I’ll work on that. Night, Jensie.”
“Night, Nick.” A pause. “Eee. Nicki.”
“You can call me Nick. It is in fact shorter than ‘Nicki.’ ”
Brady shook his head solemnly. “No, no, it’s okay. Nicki. Nick-eeee. Nick Nick Nicki Nick.”
“Uh huh.” Nick ducked down to talk to the driver. “Make sure he gets home okay, yeah?”
“Not my first rodeo,” the driver said. “I’ll make sure he gets inside.”
“Thanks. Jensie, you text me when you get home.”
“ ’Mkay.”
When Nick got home after another round with Gail, he put the puck on his mantle. He most certainly didn’t angle it so all he could see was Brady’s neat handwriting.
*
Brady (11:58 p.m.)
hoooome
Brady (9:09 a.m.)
[nickihattrick091232.jpg]
[Image description: a picture of the “most interesting man in the world” meme. It reads: “I don’t always score goals, but when I do it’s a hat trick.”]
Brady (9:11 a.m.)
I know you might not need it anymore but there’s a stick and puck in an hour
Nick (9:16 a.m.)
you’re right i already have an entry level contract with the caps after a scout saw the live barn footage of last night’s game
but hey as the guy with the first hat trick on the jagr bombs i’d be happy to give you some pointers
Brady (9:20 a.m.)
actually I take it back you definitely need it
your celly game is lacking
we gotta work on that so you don’t continue to embarrass us post goal
Nick (9:22 a.m.)
shit you’re right
guess i’ll be there
*
Nick nearly tripped as he transitioned from normal skating to riding his stick like a horse. He even did a mock lasso motion as he tried not to crash into the boards.
It earned some applause from the kids who’d crowded around to watch their slapshot exhibition.
While there was technically shooting involved in their practice, it was more about the celebration after.
They went through the motions of sending passes and taking shots, but it was all a buildup to see what celly Nick tried next.
Brady, however, looked unimpressed. “Nope.” He scooped up another puck with his stick, moving it back and forth. “Try again.”
Nick did a big arc back to the blue line, paused, then rushed into the zone. Brady sent the puck perfectly, an hour of practice making him an expert at where Nick needed it, and Nick ripped the shot.
It went bar-down, a real beauty of a goal that he wished had been in-game, or at least on video, and he transitioned into The Bird. Up on one leg and flapping his arms like wings, he felt two parts ridiculous and one part smug.
That got a mix of cheers from the gathered kids… and a loud boo from Brady.
“You fucking dare pull that shit in front of me?” Brady asked.
Nick flashed a shit-eating grin. “Bet that one’s real popular in Pittsburgh.”
“You’d get beaten up if you did that shit up there.”
They were dangerously close to talking about the tournament, so Nick immediately skated off. “All right, all right. I got another one for you. Queue up for me!” Nick called.
The goal wasn’t nearly as good this time—Nick would have been embarrassed if he’d actually missed—but it was good enough for him to celebrate. This time, he broke into the Mile-High Salute. He stood rigid as could be, expression carefully blank, and saluted the empty stands around them.
That earned him an amused look from Brady, though not an outright smile, which was disappointing.
“Are you Jagr-baiting me right now?” Brady asked.
“Depends. Did it work?”
“…it didn’t not work. I can maybe forgive that Kuznetsov garbage.”
“Sweet. Next I can do the Ovi Burning Stick one—”
“It’s like you want me to murder you.”
“I gave you vintage Jagr!” Nick could barely contain his laughter.
It was unfortunate how adorable Brady looked when he was grumpy.
“You got any better? Lot of talk for a guy who hasn’t done a single celly today.
Don’t you just pretend you’re above noticing the goal went in?
Or that you knew it would, so why would you celebrate something so basic? ”
Brady rolled his eyes at the challenge, and Nick worried he wouldn’t rise to meet it. He was pleasantly disappointed when Brady skated out to the blueline. “You want to see a celly? Get one ready for me.”
Nick waited patiently for Brady to do that same arc where Nick’s blades had already carved a big groove into the ice. He considered being a dick and giving him a bad pass, but he was too curious what Brady was going to do, so he made sure the puck went exactly where it should.
Right into the back of the net, and then, of all things, Brady broke out into the Moonwalk.
“What the fuck?” Nick giggled. “That’s actually a good one, where’d you get it?”
“Kovalev. Did it in Pittsburgh. I remember watching him when I was a kid and thinking it was the coolest thing I’d ever seen.”
“It’s not bad. You should maybe show some emotion the next time you score and try it out.”
Brady considered. “Only if you do the one where you dive and pretend you’re swimming.”
“Those cellys are not equal, and you know it. I’ll give you the Jagr salute. Deal?” He held out his glove.
Brady fist-bumped him before grabbing some pucks and moving to the other side of the net.
“All right, kids, show’s over,” he called to the mass of teenagers and tweens hovering nearby.
“But if you’d like to show off your own sick moves, get in line and shout-out left to get a pass from me, right to get one from Nicki over there.
We’ll be rating your celly style on a ten-point scale, so make it good.
And of course, make sure you actually hit the back of the net or your bros will never let you live it down. ”
It was too bad they’d never figured out the whole “relationship” thing because Nick was 95% sure Brady was his perfect guy.
Oh well. They’d at least managed to work their way back into hockey. It was a safe zone for them, the thing that held their friendship together, and their best path forward.
Things were good. They could be better, but Nick could settle for good enough.
*
Nick didn’t get a goal for three more games. Brady did, though, and he dutifully did the Moonwalk. There was a pause, a moment between the goal and the celly where Brady’s minuscule smile slowly disappeared and grim realization hit him.
His grumpiness did nothing to diminish how exquisite the celly was, and the whole bench lost their collective shit.
And even if afterward he kept up the grumpy facade, Nick could tell he was pleased with the attention.
“You owe me,” Brady groused later on the walk to their cars.
“Now I’ll just look like I’m copying you. Maybe I shouldn’t—” Nick started.
“Don’t you dare. We shook on it, and now I want that salute.”
“That is completely dependent upon me scoring, and I suddenly feel a goal drought coming on. I may need to switch to defense.”
“I will careen every puck I get off of your body until one of them bounces into the net.”
“You wouldn’t,” Nick said with mock indignation.
“Don’t find out.”
They’d reached their cars, Brady’s Jeep only a few spots away from Nick’s Mazda. He could feel Brady’s usual charm settling in and trying to lock Nick in place, to make him linger a few extra minutes before he had to physically pull himself away.
Today, he broke the spell before it could take hold.
“Well, hopefully the dry spell doesn’t get that drastic. Wouldn’t want my own Alternate Captain bruising me with pucks. See ya in a few days.” And then, just to be sure, he turned away so he couldn’t fall into the trap of looking into Brady’s eyes.
See, he told himself as he got into his car. We can be friends without me losing it and making a fool of myself falling for a guy who’s not interested.
With determination and grit better saved for the ice, Nick did not glance Brady’s way as he pulled out of the spot.
He did not look when he passed Brady’s car and instead threw a no-look, totally suave wave.
It was a lot harder not to glance in the rearview mirror or to notice that Brady was stuck at the same red light as him, but he succeeded in pretending to be aloof.
The only person he might be fooling was Brady, but if he could manage that much, he’d count it a win.